Splitting at the Seams (RadioApple)

Part 18 (1/2)

In the lobby of the Happy Hotel, Alastor stood in silence. Bereft of anything to do but wait, his hands fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves, adjusting them relentlessly no matter which way they rested on his wrists.

There was a tension in the air, palpable like humidity though it ran him cold instead of hot. Swallowing did nothing to dispel the lump in his throat.

What was he so nervous about? Why was there this trepidation, like the ground was about to come out from beneath him?

...where was Husker?

('Okay, so. Hear me out. What I've got in mind isn't any spy movie level stuff, but it's all I can think of. We gotta act fast. Angel's been in that trashheap since yesterday afternoon, and I know Val's been running him nonstop. We're going in today.')

The hotel was supposed to be more occupied than this. Perhaps the level of activity had been Charlie's influence entirely, and without her pestering the residents into socialisation the lot of them were perfectly happy to hole up in their designated rooms in silence. Alastor couldn't tell if he appreciated or resented it.

Twirling Lucifer's staff in his hands, Alastor mourned their lost opportunity to convene.

('I'm all ready. That bastard don't know my face, and neither do any of his damn employees or lackeys. I don't have the power to just run in guns blazing, so I'll stealth it, pretend I'm some John looking for a chance and slip away when they ain't lookin'. That'll get me inside.')

At least he was now in clean clothes, granted the blessed opportunity to change after his previous attire had been soiled. Blood and muck and miniscule shards of glass had rendered that look... unflattering.

Now, he stood in a brocade waistcoat the colour of wine, its raised patterns a dark gold that blended into invisibility beneath the dim yellow-tinted bulbs of the entryway. Beneath it was a high-collared silk black button-up, brought in at the base of his palm by shining golden cufflinks in the shape of an apple and a drop of blood respectively. His black oxford shoes were shined to perfection.

However. One element of his previous outfit remained, though it had little reason to.

Turning it over in his hand, Alastor looked morosely apon the cross-shaped bolo he had worn, the one that had hung right over his heart. The one he had ripped as he'd clawed at that same pace.

For whatever reason, he couldn't bring himself to discard it as he had the rest.

('You won't need to do much, really. You'd be... insurance, in case something goes wrong. I'm no match for Valentino or Vox and I know it.'

Alastor remembered chuckling, far gentler than he'd ever been around Husker before. 'Indeed. I myself am in no hurry to tussle with them, much as it may be gratifying to do.'

Husk cracked a small smile before it melted back into severity. 'I hope it doesn't come to that.')

Threading the string around his left wrist, Alastor pulled it taut in a knot before letting go, allowing it to rest there as a sort of odd bracelet or charm. It took a moment to realize he had placed it exactly over where Lucifer had put his blessing, the one that would summon him hither, to his word.

Alastor was tempted. But Alastor could never be so needy. He pressed the flat of his right palm against the ruby material of his makeshift ornament and let the sensation ground him before straightening back.

('I wondered where you were, you little f'n coward!")

A shiver rocked up his spine, and Alastor felt his ears pull back against his skull. His blood turned to ice. Why? Why had it been him?-