cupid clearly hates me.

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☆ Alastor's POV, present tense

I used to hate Purebloods.

That is, until I met (Y/N).

There are very few demons in hell who are able to tell the difference between Purebloods and True Demons. Evidently enough, I am one of those few who can decipher which of us belong and which do not. The sorting process is a complicated one, and when it goes wrong, I'm able to tell who's the outcast in a group full of sinners.

(Y/N) is an outcast. She is a Pureblood. Her soul, mind and heart are all as pure as hell's sky is red. That much is obvious to me. (Another thing that is obvious to me: I love her. And that is really saying something, because with the exception of my mother, I have never felt love before.) With this information—and all of the commotion about Lucifer coming after the Purebloods—I will have to protect (Y/N) from whoever wants to send her away, or worse, kill her.

Keeping her out of harm's way will be more difficult than it sounds. Purebloods are everything but a joking matter in hell, especially with how dramatically political tensions have been rising.

From the beginning, I have known (Y/N) was pure. One look into her purple eyes and I could tell that much, and more. I could tell what she did was an accident. I could tell that there wasn't a speck of evil—or malicious intent—behind any of the things she did while she was alive.

"Alastor, am I a Pureblood?" (Y/N) whispers, looking up at me with a look that resembles placid confusion. I can faintly see the fear hidden behind the forced frown that creases her forehead. I'm not quite sure how to answer her question. Of course, the answer is yes. But telling her might make her panic. I, myself, am on the brink of panicking.

Before I can think of a reasonable answer, the hotel's front door swings open from behind me.

☆ Second person POV, past tense

The hotel lobby was quiet for a very long time.

You could remember Alastor explaining how you were pure. Rosie had mentioned it, too. The memories were fresh and recent, and thinking back on them was like breathing. It was easy.

Alastor's eyes were unfocused and distant, and even though he was smiling, you knew that his expression didn't mean he was feeling any emotion even remotely close to happiness. By now, he was probably already neck-deep in some dark tunnel of thought. You briefly considered staying quiet, but you had a burning question that just had to come out. "Alastor, am I a Pureblood?"

Before Alastor could answer (not that you needed him to answer, for you already knew that the answer was yes), Vaggie burst through the front door of the hotel, eyes wide, breath uncaught. "Charlie, your dad is—"

She saw you. She stopped talking.

"(Y/N)? What are you doing here?"

Alastor grabbed your forearm. "My love, we must go back home. Now. It isn't safe here."

"Why not?" you asked. Again, you knew the answer to that question. You could tell by the urgency in Alastor's tone that Lucifer would be coming after you.

"Wait," Vaggie started.  "Not that I care or anything, but..." she looked right at you, and her eyes held some sort of emotion that resembled, well, something caring. "If you go back out there, it might be over for you."

"I... uh..." Did Vaggie know you were a Pureblood, too? And, if yes, how?

Alastor turned around to face Vaggie, who was still standing in the doorway. "What are you suggesting?" Alastor asked her, but the way he said it made it sound like it was more of a demand than a question; a statement made by someone who was tired of talking and tired of listening. "That we stay here? Because, considering the fact that Charlie's father is Lucifer himself, that would be the less preferable of our two options."