Chapter Text
The dormeuse progressed smoothly up the winding countryside lane that traversed the rolling fields and woodland that led away from the ancestral Sancerre House.
It was early evening in the outer provinces of the Sheol Kingdom, the sun setting in shades of bruise purple and faded tangerine up into the vault of the sky. Green grasses rustled in breezes still warm from a long day of dancing through wheat fields baking in the late summer sun. Zephyrs slithered in through the open windows of the carriage like sly cats, wafting the scent of new wheat past Alastor’s nose.
The Deerfolk was seated across from his godmother on one of the finely upholstered bench seats, one unguligrade leg folded primly over the other.
Alastor Hartfelt of Sancerre House was dressed in the most refined outfit his beloved godmother had ever gifted him, a finely tailored suit in stunning shades of red all meant to compliment his tall, willowy frame. He was wrapped in a sanguine satin waistcoat in the double-breasted style with a notch lapel. It was elegantly embroidered in nightshade blossoms (a joke of his godmother’s) and nipped in tight at his slim waist. Atop it, he wore a tailcoat several shades brighter in a distinct arterial hue, the hem of which brushed his knees and the lapels of which were, in contrast, several shades darker than the waistcoat. His slim trousers (cuffed at the knee to give his legs freedom), kidskin gloves, and cravat were all in deepest black.
It was too lurid by half, but it beautifully accented the man’s toffee-coloured skin and fur, as well as his deep scarlet eyes. His godmother had discouraged him from taming his curls tonight, claiming that leaving them unslicked lent him a rather roguish air that she much appreciated. Instead, He’d left his fringe free over his brow and tied the remainder into a black velvet ribbon, leaving it loose enough to allow his ears room to twitch and twist as they willed.
He had one elbow propped up on the sill of the dormeuse, chin resting in the palm of his hand while he watched a young family of quail run through the underbrush before vanishing once more.
“Little fawn, little fawn,” his godmother sing-songed, drawing his attention away from the world outside, “Goodness, so pensive this evening! Where’s that handsome smile, Alastor?”
Alastor sighed and settled back into his seat, fully facing his godmother with his back straight as an arrow.
Lady Rosalind Sullivan, Mistress of Sancerre House, was just as well turned-out as her adopted son in similar shades of red, though with more maroon present. She wore a long empire gown with a fitted spencer jacket designed to match her son’s waistcoat, embroidery and all, over the top. Alastor knew that beneath her high-necked chemisette and fine gown were all the petticoats, stays, and stockings expected of a woman of her age and station. Rosie was a precise woman in all things.
Alastor hummed and looked fondly at his godmother, a bit of breeze tugging at his garnet curls, “I am merely considering the future, Aunt Rosie.”
It had always felt too complicated to call Rosie his godmother and she had never demanded he call her his mother outright. They both respected the dearly departed Delphine Hartfelt too much for that.
Rosie tittered and tucked her mouth behind her hand, “Oh, little fawn, you worry too much! Nothing is going to happen tonight. Nothing for you to fret about at any rate.”
“He’d be a fool not to choose you,” Alastor informed Rosie, letting his hoof sway with the movement of the carriage, “You’ve forgotten more about the affairs of the kingdom than some of his own courtiers ever care to learn. If the king is selecting a royal consort tonight then the odds are high his cabinet will direct him to you for a shortlist at the very least if you’re not already on one.”
His godmother waved him off, pish-posh, “Dearie, I’m no spring chicken. There will be a bevy of beautiful things at the ball tonight.”
Alastor snorted at that, “Choosing for looks alone is a fool’s game. I shall be greatly concerned for the state of the kingdom if His Majesty is only in pursuit of a pretty face.”
Rosie considered her adopted son before giving him a light smack on the knee, her voice teasing, “You know, it’s entirely likely that there might be a lovely creature in attendance who also possesses a keen mind. You’re so sour tonight!”
“Aunt Rosie, I have met every eligible socialite currently attending court and they are, to a soul, the most vapid pack of shallow dandies I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet…and you will recall that Lord Vox of House Potentia extended a marriage proposal to me last season, so I daresay I have basis for comparison,” Alastor huffed, rolling his eyes and waving his godmother off with the back of his gloved hand.
She gave him a pointed look, “My sweet little fawn… you’ll be in attendance tonight. Need I remind you that you have court standing?”
Alastor snorted this time and covered his mouth with the back of his own hand as he let out an ungentlemanly bark of laughter, “Ha! Ah, Auntie, you’re such a card. Could you even imagine? You know well my reputation at court.”
In a word, Alastor was ‘unpopular’ amongst his agemates in the upper crust of society, and that was putting it mildly.
It was perhaps the worst kept secret amongst the nobility that Alastor’s place amongst the peerage was questionable at best. His mother, Delphine, had been a Deerfolk woman working as a lady’s maid in Gloamdown House. The Master of the house had taken a clandestine shine to her and had, in the way of many men, used his position to coerce what never should have been his. Alastor’s poor mother had quickened after their less-than-even affair and quickly been cast out. The blood of the Gloamdown Beaumonts flowed strong in Alastor’s veins and he was in fact the only child ever sired by the Master, but he went unacknowledged to this day.
Instead, Rosie had taken his mother in after her precipitous fall from what little grace society had granted her and the two had been fast friends. They had been so close in fact that there had been whispers about just how close their association had been, especially after Rosie adopted Alastor formally at the time of his mother’s death.
That very adoption had made Alastor the acknowledged heir of the Sullivan line of Sancerre House. With the bloodline of one noble lineage in his veins and a legitimate claim to another, the young man should have been one of the most eligible bachelors among his agemates. However his deerfolk bloodline, his status as a bastard, and the scandalous nature of his birth and rearing had left him as little more than a tolerated outcast.
The only marriage prospect he’d ever received was from Lord Vox, a member of the peerage quite a few years his senior.
Alastor had been the talk of court for at least a month after refusing what many had seen as his only marriage prospect. To this day he could still hear the occasional snatch of gossip about the ‘arrogant mongrel boy’ who would be the ruination of the Sullivan Line.
All of this was to say, of course, that the very idea that King Lucifer Morningstar would ever select him for anything was utterly risible.
Hell, very few of the younger cohort in court had ever even seen the man.
He’d gone into seclusion like a nun shortly after his last queen left him at least a decade ago and it was only at the urging of his cabinet that he was selecting another. Why would he ever even look in Alastor’s direction? As if Alastor would even want him to! The king was at least fifteen years the young man’s senior and he’d already been through that sort of predatory interest with Vox. He was in no hurry to repeat the experience.
As the winding dirt road from their country home slowly wended its way towards the palace, Rosie raised a brow at her adopted son, “Very well then, I won’t push the issue if you stop fussing about the idea of me leaving the manor and smile , sweetheart!”
After a moment, the corner of Alastor’s mouth tucked up and he shook his head in fond amusement, “You know I could never refuse you, Auntie.”
Grinning like a shark, Rosie leaned forward to pinch his cheek, “Just remember that, young man.”
~*~
Just as Lucifer suspected it would be, this soiree was just…overwhelming.
When his chief advisor had laid the full weight of the situation at his feet a month ago, Lucifer had been forced to confront the reality that his kingdom was being watched. Allies and adversaries both had been keeping a close eye on the lands he was meant to protect for the last decade since his queen had abdicated. Things had held steady for longer than any of them had anticipated, but when it had become apparent to all involved that Lucifer had no intention of strengthening his own realm with a new royal consort his cabinet had begun to report tales of dissent and unrest.
It was asinine, but the simple fact of the matter was that there was a general expectation that Lucifer should remarry.
Needless to say his chief advisor had been pleased when he’d finally seen sense and acquiesced to the exhortations of his cabinet. If Lucifer found a new consort, then it was proof that he was finding center again and stepping back into court life. If he was stepping back into court life, then he was ready to take an active role in ruling again. If he was actively taking part in the ruling of the kingdom, then the vultures would stop circling. Lucifer’s people deserved at least that much security. Of course, Oz argued that Lucifer deserved the same.
It was a sweet sentiment, but a misguided one. What security was there in finding another consort who would grow tired of him? Second verse, same as the first.
In return for putting himself through all of this again, Lucifer had requested only two things: That this fete be a masquerade ball and that he not be formally announced.
Lucifer knew there was no way he’d make it through the entire evening if he was known for who he actually was, and he’d never get a true measure of anyone else either. If the point of this whole mess was for the king to select a new spouse and he was open about his identity, he’d be swarmed the entire night by those looking to curry favour. They’d speak sweet words and say whatever they thought he wanted to hear just to get their hands on the crown his regard would win them. Lucifer didn’t want that.
Yes, this whole thing was doomed as far as he was concerned, but he wanted just the slimmest chance of wedding someone he could at least tolerate…or who could tolerate him.
So, he wandered the hall with a drink in his hand, dressed in shades of rose pink and cream with his usual gold embroidery abandoned. His aid in anonymity for the evening was a finely crafted decoupage half-mask depicting a serpent looping in eternal figure eights around where his eyes were half hidden. There was no hiding his identity entirely from the more august members of court who would recall him from ten years ago (his height and flaxen blonde hair gave him away every time), but hopefully it would muddy the waters enough to give him some peace.
No one had caught Lucifer’s eye just yet (not that he’d expected them to) and listening in on conversations had been disheartening. He’d forgotten just how shallow these events could be…how callow the younger members of court were with so few years under their belts. Their entire existence seemed to be balls and parties and fashion at this stage of life and it just made Lucifer feel all that much older. How could anyone expect him to pluck fresh flowers like these just to watch them wilt in his hands?
He had half an ear on a conversation going on behind his left shoulder, idly sipping his port while a small knot of gaily dressed gentleladies spoke behind their fans.
“Do you think he’ll actually show his face tonight after last season?” Said one voice.
The second woman gasped on the heels of the question, “With Lord Vox in attendance? He’d be a fool.”
“Don’t be so simple,” sighed the third woman, “You know as well as I do that Mister Hartfelt is as brazen and contrarian as they come. He’ll attend simply to torment Lord Vox. Petty cruelties amuse him.”
“Dreadful,” the second speaker said, though she sounded more thrilled at the prospect of a bit of excitement rather than properly upset with this Mister Hartfelt fellow, “How ungrateful he is, committing such open social suicide after everything that’s been done on his behalf.”
The first woman’s voice lowered in a mockery of discretion, “I’ve heard tell that Lord Vox hasn’t abandoned his suit. There may yet be a chance for Mister Hartfelt if he can abandon that stubborn pride of his. The Potentia estate is hardly a thing to turn one’s nose up at.”
Lucifer restrained himself from snorting. Someone else actively resisting a marriage? He could relate.
His attention was drawn away from the court gossip when two figures appeared at the top of the stairs and the Lord Steward proclaimed, “Lady Sullivan and Mister Hartfelt of Sancerre House!”
The small flock of ladies behind Lucifer whispered hurriedly behind their fans and it seemed to him that a small hurricane of gossip took up around the room. Whatever this Mister Hartfelt had done, he certainly seemed to have chummed the waters of society and now his various failings were all the assembly could talk about. Lucifer felt on some level he owed the man a hearty thank you. After all, it got the attention off of him for a few precious moments.
Curious now, Lucifer looked to the figures at the top of the staircase and blinked the vision of towering crimson ghosts from his eyes.
Mister Hartfelt was sleek as a cat in his suit of black and scarlet, one arm held out at a gentlemanly angle to escort Lady Sullivan. Both of them wore expertly wrought masks crafted in the shape of fox faces. They looked sly and dangerous where they stood at the head of the stairs, a perfect pair of perfect predators ready to sweep down onto the dance floor. Lucifer had to applaud the theatricality of it all.
As they descended, Lucifer was surprised to note that Mister Hartfelt was at least part Deerfolk - his polished hooves clicking against the marble stairs and the tines of his antlers sparking beneath the lights. Two perfectly groomed ears stood up from a fall of red curls, held alert and still as he escorted the Lady Rosalind Sullivan into the throng below. He wasn’t full-blooded…couldn’t be. His face beneath the mask was far too human for that.
Lucifer also noted the way the crowd parted around Mister Hartfelt and Lady Sullivan as if social pariah was a disease and it was catching.
How very interesting. Lucifer might have just found something to keep him entertained this evening.
~*~
“Now, remember our deal, little fawn. I expect you to go and have at least a little bit of fun tonight,” Rosie chided, taking a glass of wine graciously as her godson handed it over, “Go and collect some good gossip for me for the carriage ride home, at least!”
Alastor smiled wryly at his godmother and shook his head, “As you say, Auntie. And what will you be doing?”
“Why! Avoiding Susan, of course. That woman’s going to try and twist my ear until moonrise if I let her find me,” Rosie tittered and raised her glass to punctuate her declaration, “Ta ta, Little Fawn. I’ll see you later!”
Then she was off in a swirl of skirts, gliding through the crowd like the belle of the ball.
Rosie, much like himself, was considered an ‘odd duck’ in society circles. However, unlike him, his godmother was pureblooded and every drop of that blood came from generations of excellent breeding. It was the sort of genetic currency that forced others to treat her with the utmost respect no matter what they actually thought of her. That currency bought Alastor only the barest hint of tangential goodwill as her adopted heir.
She proceeded out of his sight, greeting other noble ladies as she went as if they were old friends and not people she’d joked about poisoning over supper.
Alastor chuckled as she vanished into the throng of taffeta and satin.
“A fox. Quite an interesting choice for a masquerade ball,” said a deep voice behind him, full of amusement.
The young nobleman turned sharply on his hoof…and then promptly had to look down.
Standing there at his shoulder was a blonde man that Alastor had never seen before at a single court event in his life. He was pearly pale with a delicately pointed chin and a slim neck. The newcomer’s shoulders were surprisingly broad given his overall slight build and he was dressed in a single-breasted waistcoat striped in ivory and antique rose. His tailcoat was likewise ivory, as were his trousers, and he wore tall black riding boots polished to a high shine.
A circular snake cameo adorned his starched cravat and Alastor was…intrigued.
However, he simply couldn’t be seen on the back foot so he merely took a sip of his wine and tilted his head at the man, “I do endeavour to be interesting at all times.”
“I’ve gathered,” the smaller man chuckled, lifting his glass of fine port in a salute.
Alastor rolled his sparkling ruby eyes and folded his free arm behind his back, affecting an unbothered air, “Ah, I see the rumor mill is churning this evening.”
He wasn’t surprised that he’d been a topic of discussion before ever arriving. After all, the snub of a purebred noble was hardly something the court would forget. Yet…Alastor didn’t recall this particular member of the gentry. That meant this newcomer already knew quite a bit about about him, but he knew nothing of the stranger.
Smiling like a crocodile, Alastor gestured to the other man with his wine glass, “Well! If that’s the case, then I fear you have me at a disadvantage. I’ve never seen you at court before and that is quite an oddity.”
The man gave him a close-lipped smile that could best be described as indulgent, “Ah, where are my manners? Viscount Samael Magne at your service, lately of the Enochian Empire.”
Alastor lofted a single eyebrow beneath his mask. The Enochian Empire? What on earth would bring a Viscount of perhaps the greatest territory outside of Sheol to a ball like this one…and with zero fanfare no less? It was hardly the first time the Kingdom of Sheol had entertained guests from Enoch, but it would have been the talk of high society for at least two months beforehand. Not even his Aunt Rosie had breathed a word of something like this.
Taking another sip of his wine to give himself time to think, Alastor finally said, “Well! His Majesty is truly blessed to find a member of your distinguished aristocracy gracing his little soiree.”
It was a careful lure and one that Rosie had trained him well to use when he was probing for information. People, you see, rarely enjoyed or responded well to being asked direct questions and doing so could cost one a valuable opening. What people loved, however, was being given an opening to talk about themselves - to brag and to preen over their own importance without feeling too keenly observed. People longed to be fawned over, not dissected, so all Alastor usually had to do was drop a few well-placed compliments and wait.
Alastor both loved and loathed masquerade balls. On the one hand, it was easier for him to conceal his own expressions no matter what they were. Of course, the turnabout of it was it became that much more difficult to read others.
Case in point, he was relatively sure Samael’s face had done something particularly complicated under his mask even though his smile stayed in place.
The Viscount simply laughed after a moment and raised his drink to his lips, “I’m sure the king has more pressing matters to concern himself with.”
“I doubt it,” Alastor drawled, keeping an eye on his fellow nobleman, “As I understand, he’s yet to even make an appearance.”
Pointedly, Alastor inclined his head up to the receiving dais where the king would normally be seated for major events. The throne was notably empty despite the fact that the king’s future marriage hinged upon his presence at this farce. There was no hiding the sharp twist to the young man’s smile as he digested the disrespect of it all. It was remarkable the things a pureblood could get away with on nothing more than a whim.
“Eager to see the king, huh?” Samael asked.
Without looking back at him, it was Alastor’s turn to bark a laugh, “Gracious me, no. I’d be just as content if he continued to sulk wherever he’s holed himself up. It isn’t as though his absence has changed much.”
~*~
Lucifer’s knee-jerk instinct was to be deeply offended by the pure gall of Mister Hartfelt’s words.
No one spoke about the king in such a way whether he was in attendance to hear it or no.
Not even his ex-wife and former queen had ever spoken so brazenly to him or even about him for that matter and it was somewhat shocking to hear his perceived faults laid out so plainly by this mere slip of a boy. Who did this upstart think he was? Barely a member of the peerage and he still felt he had the right to speak so freely on matters that were, frankly, above him?
It made the back of Lucifer’s neck heat in embarrassment.
“Hm,” he sniffed, propping his free hand on his hip and looking to Alastor to track his reactions, “That’s a rather bold statement. I’d imagine the king would be less than pleased to know one of his subjects was taking such liberties.”
Mister Hartfelt didn’t so much as twitch, his smile a flat thing against the angular planes of his handsome face, “I do not exist to please the king.”
There was so much righteous assurance in the young man’s tone that it took Lucifer by surprise.
He blinked, some of his pique fading when he caught the defiant glitter in Alastor’s bright scarlet eyes from behind the vulpine facade of his mask. This was no mere show of bravado in front of a foreign dignitary. This was a deeply held conviction.
Tilting his head to better study his conversation partner, Lucifer inquired a little more softly than before, “Then what do you exist to do?”
Mister Hartfelt opened his mouth to reply before his eyes widened and he turned carefully to face Lucifer fully again. His spine had gone rigid even though the rest of his face was carefully relaxed. Something had spooked the young man, but he was doing a very good job of hiding the lion’s share of it. If anything, he looked more soul-suffering than properly frightened - like a man preparing to face the greatest irritation of his life rather than any true horror.
“Pardon me,” he said with forced levity that wasn’t helped by the tension at the corners of his still-smiling mouth, “I fear I have detained you too long and it will do your reputation no favours to be seen with me this evening.”
“Wait,” Lucifer said quickly, reaching out to snatch the man’s wrist without thinking, feeling how very fine and slender it was, “We’ve only just started talking.”
“Be that as it may…” Mister Hartfelt hissed, his smile threatening to tick downwards.
“Alastor?”
The voice was commanding and masculine, chesty and deep in a way that demanded respect. The wrist in Lucifer’s grip spasmed as Mister Hartfelt…as Alastor… tried to pull away again.
Lucifer looked into the crowd in time to see a man very near to Alastor’s height but far less slim stalking through the assembled nobles. There was no other word for the way he moved, predatory and unheeding of those around him as if he knew by his will alone they would make way for him. He wasn’t too far off the mark either, lords and ladies stepping aside on instinct when he passed.
The man had glossy hair the colour of a raven’s wing all coiffed back tidily with a single streak of grey beginning just above his left eye. He was dressed in an impeccable suit of black, sapphire accents standing vivid beneath the warm lights of the ballroom. His cutting eyes were focused purely on Alastor and in an instant Lucifer had an inkling that this was none other than Lord Vox, the very man who still held a candle for the young man.
His interest seemed to be laughably one-sided if the stiffness in Alastor’s arm was any indication.
Lucifer realized his error too late.
In holding Alastor back, he’d allowed the very man the youth was trying to escape to catch sight of him. Now if Alastor fled, it would be either an incredible social snub the likes of which the young man would truly never recover from, or it would be a mark of weakness. Besides, there was no guarantee that this man wouldn’t pursue. He certainly looked the type after all.
Thinking quickly, Lucifer reeled Alastor in and whispered, “Make a deal with me.”
Alastor scoffed openly, tugging at his wrist again, “Are you mad?”
“Listen. I’m not ready for our conversation to be over yet and you’re the least dull person in this room by far. Follow my lead so I can get rid of Lord Vox for you, and in return you’ll be my companion for the evening. Sound fair?” Lucifer wheedled.
There was no reason he shouldn’t get a little something out of this, was there?
Fury-bright ruby eyes flicked to him and then back to Vox (who was growing closer to them by the second) before finally Alastor conceded through gritted teeth, “Very well , but if you bore me I will be exceedingly cross.”
Triumph flickered in Lucifer’s breast and he winked, “Oh, I’m never boring, Mister Hartfelt. Now remember…follow my lead.”
With that he released Alastor’s wrist and gently settled the top of his hand beneath the taller man’s palm, feeling the heat radiating through their gloves. It would have been improper in the extreme to interlace their hands palm to palm, but this was a plain enough declaration for high society. Lucifer didn’t even look at the approaching nobleman, his whole focus on Alastor as he inclined his head discreetly, indicating that Alastor should sip his drink.
Alastor obeyed, though his eyes were suspicious, and once Vox had drawn near enough to them Lucifer spoke at a much more audible level, “Dearest, really, you shouldn’t be so embarrassed when I say untoward things! After all, your chaperone is away and the opportunity is simply too good to pass up. Don’t be shy , my love!”
Lucifer saw the instant Mister Hartfelt’s sharp cheeks when cherry red beneath the cover of his mask, blending fetchingly with the toffee hue of his skin and…oh! He had freckles !
“Imbecile,” Alastor spat under his breath before forcing an (admittedly pained) smile onto his face, “Forgive me… darling …but I am unused to hearing men address me in such a way.”
“I know it’s new, pet, but this is simply what you do to me,” Lucifer volleyed back, tracking the movement Vox paused beside them.
For a drawn-out moment, the man studied them, his too-keen eyes taking in the picture the two of them painted as they stood there with their hands politely joined and Alastor’s face aflame. He did not look best pleased, but his voice was full of false pleasantry when he spoke again.
“Well, so lovely to see you out amongst the peerage again, Alastor, though I’m quite surprised to see you with a…companion.”
Lucifer turned his most toothy smile onto the other man, a clear challenge written there.
Alastor set his wine down on a nearby table and brought his newly freed hand up to clear his throat, rallying himself for the grand farce he was being made to put on, “Ah, Lord Vox. Yes. This is my…”
“Fiancé,” Lucifer cut in smoothly, raising their hands so that he could brush his lips against Alastor’s gloved knuckles, “It’s alright to say it out loud, you know. I won’t vanish if you acknowledge your joy, dear.”
Delight doubled delight as Alastor made a soft, strangled noise and Vox’s eyes narrowed at the word. This was the most fun Lucifer had had in years . Mister Hartfelt was proving absolutely delightful to tease and he flushed so prettily when he was angry. Not to mention, there was something freeing about stirring up a little bit of trouble amongst the gentry, especially when his reward for doing so was the continued companionship of the prickly youth at his side.
“Forgive me,” Alastor said, watching him like a hawk preparing to gut a mouse, “It’s simply so new…”
“Fiancé, is it?” Vox asked, his voice lazy but his face intent, “This is quite a change. When last we spoke you made it exceedingly clear you were in no hurry to wed. What changed your notoriously obstinate mind?”
Oh, the man was truly angry and wasn’t that just a bit of fun?
Lucifer decided to fan the flames a little higher, “Oh, he truly was very uninterested. I suppose I just charmed him. Go on, dearest, tell him the story.”
Alastor’s eye twitched beneath his mask and it was all Lucifer could do not to smile like a shark as the younger man said, “Ah, yes, that. Well…”
Vox held up a hand to stop him, “One moment. I don’t believe I’m acquainted with you, sir.”
The ‘sir’ had a firm bite to it that spoke volumes of displeasure and Lucifer pretended he heard none of it. He was somewhat surprised, however, when Alastor stepped in, clearly unhappy with having been silenced and hiding it behind a vicious smile, “Oh, how rude of me, Lord Vox. This is the Viscount Samael Magne of Enoch. Sam, allow me to introduce you to Lord Vox, Master of the Potentia Estate.”
“You…Alastor Hartfelt…are affianced to a man from Enoch ?” Vox blurted.
“So it would seem,” Alastor informed him with a sniff, “He came into the city for the ball tonight a week or so ago and his previous lodgings became unavailable rather suddenly. He was directed to the Sancerre Estate, likely on the knowledge that Lady Sullivan does entertain on occasion.”
Ahhh, so Alastor could think on his hooves. Delightful.
“Indeed, and imagine my surprise when I find a young beauty strolling the gardens with the sun shining in the most lovely curls I’d ever seen. I determined then and there that I needed more than lodging,” Lucifer added, if only to watch the flush of thinly contained rage peeking out of Lord Vox’s collar grow, “And then our eyes met and…oh, Alastor, you carry on. You tell the next part best.”
“Naturally, I was aware of being watched,” Alastor began before promptly losing steam as any hint of romance entered the story he was weaving, “And I turned and there was…a man. He was a small man. Blonde. He ah…wore an alarming amount of pink.”
“No, no,” Lucifer teased, very sure that Alastor would make him pay for this later, “You told me the most beautiful things you were thinking when you first saw me. Remember? The night I proposed?”
Alastor’s ears flickered atop his head, “Ah yes, thank you for the reminder , beloved. I do recall I said you…” he searched his thoughts for anything affectionate that would do before stating very flatly, “Resembled a daisy.”
It was so pathetic that Lucifer wanted to weep for laughing. It was actually charming how bad Mister Hartfelt was at this.
“You just said he was wearing pink. How did he resemble a daisy?” Vox asked with clear exasperation.
In response, Alastor lifted his free hand to squeeze Lucifer’s cheeks, “His skin is pale and his hair is yellow. Like a daisy.”
Simply dreadful .
To get revenge for squeezing him like subpar market produce, Lucifer captured that hand as well and brought them both to his lips before smirking mischievously at his ‘fiancé’, “Your little daisy, yes. It was so sweet.”
“Alastor Hartfelt? Sweet ?” Lord Vox said and there was doubt in his voice now. His piercing eyes narrowed behind the stylized shark mask he wore across the bridge of his nose.
“As a lamb!” Lucifer said as if he really couldn’t understand Vox’s incredulity about the night in question.
Vox eased closer to them then, closing their conversation off from the rest of the ballroom and Lucifer felt the way Alastor bristled at his approach. The dark-haired man leaned in towards Lucifer’s partner for the evening and his prior frustration had been replaced with a knowing grin with an air of cruelty about it.
“You don’t need an elaborate story with me, Alastor. Let me guess…Lady Sullivan was finally fed up with your inability to uphold the family name after you refused my proposal last season. She found you a match, didn’t she?” Vox purred.
Alastor’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Vox’s eyes slid to Lucifer next and he chuckled, “No hard feelings, of course, but I’ve been courting Alastor for the better part of a year and he’s a venomous little thing. Forgive me if I don’t buy your tale of star-crossed romance.”
“Well,” Alastor said snidely and Lucifer detected wounded pride in his words, “For once we’ve found something you’re not inclined to purchase. How novel.”
The Master of Potentia smirked a little wider and gestured at Alastor, “You see? The sweet wears off rather quickly. Don’t take it personally, friend. I just think it’s fair for you to know what you’re getting into before you’re stuck with him. Caveat emptor.”
Suddenly the game didn’t feel quite so entertaining to Lucifer as it had only moments ago.
One look out of the corner of his eye and he could see the stern detachment creeping in around the edges of Alastor’s expression. It was a well-worn look, something he clearly fell back on when he was the topic of discussion like this. It had been great fun teasing him, but now it was clear that the jest had begun to sting.
Softly, Lucifer nudged the underside of Alastor’s gloved hand with his own and said, “I think I should lead my little lamb out for some fresh air. It’s grown rather stuffy in here. Excuse me.”
Vox stepped back with that wretched smirk still stretched wide across his features, apparently pleased to have wounded Alastor. Ignoring him, Lucifer guided the young lord through the crowded ballroom and towards the ornate french doors that led out to the palace rose garden. As soon as they were out of sight, Alastor snatched his hand back and folded both fastidiously behind his back. He waited to speak until Lucifer had them both outside, shutting the doors in their wake.
“Well. I shall be the talk of society for the next year at this rate, thank you ever so much,” Alastor said tightly.
He walked away from Lucifer out under the moonlight, soft green grass crunching under his hooves.
Lucifer winced and trailed after him, “It was just a bit of fun.”
Alastor shot him an unimpressed look, reaching back to untie his mask and slide it off, clearly done with the festivities for now, “A bit of fun. A bit of fun . It’s always a bit of fun to you pure-blooded types, and it’s always men like me who pay the price. Tell me, Samael, do you imagine this will all go away by dawn? No. Suddenly, I am a man with a fiancé and when you return to wherever it is you came from, what do you imagine they’ll say about me then ?”
Sighing, Lucifer strolled over to a bench and sat heavily, giving Alastor his space as he asked, “If I’ve ruined your reputation, why follow me?”
“We made a deal,” Alastor said tightly, “And after the story you spun in there, it would reflect terribly on Aunt Rosie if I separated from you.”
“I suppose it really isn't a fair deal in the end,” Lucifer admitted, stretching his legs out in front of him, “I just wasn’t ready for our conversation to end and that Vox fellow seemed to put you off quite badly. I assumed you’d spend the rest of the night avoiding him if I didn’t intercede.”
“And you chose to intercede with that ?” Alastor spat, whirling to face him.
Lucifer shrugged, “I overheard that you’d rejected his proposal and that he was still keen on you. It seemed like the fastest thing to get him to leave you alone.”
“I can’t fathom what was so interesting about me you’d need to utterly obliterate the tatters of my reputation to keep my company,” Alastor said, setting his mask on the edge of a sweeping fountain that dominated the central clearing of the rose garden.
“...I find parties like this boring and stressful,” Lucifer admitted, feeling like he owed the young man some honesty, “Everyone is the same as everyone else, just wearing a different face. It’s exhausting. You were different and I was entertained.”
“Well! So pleased that I was here to entertain you then!” Alastor chirped sardonically, sketching a bow.
“That isn’t what I meant!” the king protested and covered his masked face with one hand, “Let me start somewhere else. You seemed more real than anyone else in there…more like an actual person than an empty balloon in party clothes.”
It was Alastor’s turn to sigh and he tucked his hands back behind him once more, shoulders straight and proud, “...Be that as it may, the lie you made tonight casts my godmother in a very poor light. I should like an apology for that much at least.”
“How so?” Lucifer inquired.
“Vox will spread his interpretation of that little performance you forced me to play. My godmother would never force me to wed, no matter how my social standing plummets.”
“...You care for her very much,” the king guessed, feeling just a little bit awful about the game now, “and for her reputation.”
“I owe her everything,” Alastor said plainly.
Lucifer took a deep breath and let it out in a puff, “...Well then I apologize for putting you both in a tight spot.”
Alastor’s love for Lady Sullivan was so sincere that Lucifer hated having put him in an unenviable position tonight. Hell, there was so much that was sincere about him (even hidden beneath fake smiles) that Lucifer hated having done it for the man’s own sake. Yes, Alastor seemed to have learned quite a bit of deceptive social affectation, but there was a passion deep beneath it that was profoundly appealing.
“Really. I wasn’t thinking,” Lucifer added.
The angry perk of Alastor’s ears relaxed ever so slightly and the young man rubbed his brow, mussing his curls, “That much is obvious.”
“You really don’t pull your punches, do you?” Lucifer asked, bemused and leaning back on his hands.
“I see no need to,” Alastor said crisply, “The world has done me no courtesies and I believe in equivalence."
Lucifer studied the young man standing at the fountain, desperately trying to keep himself above everything happening around him.
His earlier assessment had been correct…Alastor was quite handsome - graceful and elegant in both form and comportment. He spoke eloquently, but with an unswerving bluntness that baffled and delighted Lucifer in turns. He understood his place in society quite well without having much respect for it…or for anyone else’s place for that matter. He was refreshing, if mildly infuriating.
The king found that while he delighted in teasing Alastor, having the youth actually angry with him was unpalatable.
Running a hand through his hair, Lucifer tried to change the topic, “...You know, you never answered me before. About what you exist for.”
Alastor turned to him, one eyebrow raised and his mouth unsmiling for once, “And you demand an answer now?”
“I mean…I’d like one.”
The Deerfolk hummed and looked back to the fountain, speaking in a voice with the quality of a shrug, “Nothing.”
The answer surprised Lucifer and he sat up, “What do you mean ‘nothing’?!”
“Simply that. I exist for nothing. All living beings are the same, some simply choose to ignore it,” Alastor said unapologetically.
Lucifer rose, “Well that’s a piss poor outlook on life! What’s the point of everyone going around with no purpose?”
“You misunderstand,” Alastor replied as if he were speaking to a very small child, “I didn’t say I had no purpose, simply that I don’t exist for one. Purpose isn’t granted to one by the grace of birth. That is the only true piss poor notion here. A purpose must be found and earned through determination and action. The idea that we are born with one is the very reason that pack of self-satisfied cattle inside the palace go about their days as they do…they believe that greatness is in their genetics by default.”
That stopped Lucifer in his tracks and he found himself staring at Alastor Hartfelt once more, struck to the core with humility. That…that was a good point.
“Very well…so in that case, what purpose did you make for yourself?”
This time Alastor actually shrugged and tilted his head, “Whatever I please.”
Lucifer laughed softly, truly bewildered by the lovely young man standing before him like the emperor of his own little hermit nation, “It’s a pretty notion, but not even kings get to decide their own purpose.”
“Because they are convinced they were born with one,” Alastor reiterated, “And that is the truly pathetic part…that we as a society are ruled by men who lack even the ability to self-govern.”
Ouch.
The disguised king rubbed the back of his neck, feeling thoroughly dressed down, “Must be why you dislike King Lucifer so much.”
“If it soothes you, he’s no more or less special than any other. I dislike most men in positions of power,” Alastor finally turned from the fountain, turning the full weight of his regard on Lucifer.
“Aren’t you a man in a position of power?” Lucifer tested, transfixed.
“Shockingly little.”
“Because of the…?” Lucifer asked vaguely, gesturing to Alastor’s petite antlers.
“In part,” Alastor said cryptically and offered no more.
Risking a bit more proximity, Lucifer ambled over to stand before Alastor, rocking back and forth from heel to toe, “You know it doesn’t mean anything, right? Just that two people got into bed and made a baby.”
“That’s a naive way of looking at it considering how much the opinion of others seems to define one’s worth,” was Alastor’s riposte, “And, with all due respect - which is quite little at this point, I assure you - what would you know about it?”
Taking a moment to weigh his next course of action, Lucifer reached for his cuffs and undid them, beginning to roll his sleeves up. He knew perfectly well what Alastor would see there - pearly white scales tracing from wrist to forearm, opalescent under the moonlight. In truth, they flowed up the backs of both arms to his spine where even more scales fell in a waterfall down his spine and the backs of his legs. He allowed the fangs in his mouth to fold out as he worked, putting them on display when he spoke next.
“I know a thing or two.”
It was Alastor’s turn to stare, his sharp gaze dissecting every revelation Lucifer offered to him. There was a bit of surprise in his face, but even more interest.
“...You aren’t a pureblood,” he said succinctly.
“Nope,” Lucifer said simply, “Not even a little bit. My mother was viperfolk. I guess I get a little more leeway because everything was arranged and above board. My mother was of high rank and so was my father, a human, so it was deemed as an acceptable match.”
Alastor’s expression closed off again and Lucifer was tempted to ask what he had done wrong this time when the other man spoke, “...Ah yes, above board and arranged. The illusion of legitimacy they grant to some and not to others.”
Lucifer shook his head, “What I’m trying to get at is…it doesn’t matter to me, you being who you are. So, maybe we say to hell with everyone else tonight? You’re my companion until the end of the ball, so why should anyone else’s opinion matter for now?”
“It will matter very much in the morning,” Alastor reminded him.
“And? Alastor, you confuse me. Really you do. You say these absolutely mad things about the nature of purpose and how you don’t believe in it, then the very next moment you’re back to caring what people think! I am giving you a free pass to enjoy yourself tonight!” Lucifer laughed again, “Think about it…your reputation is apparently already in the gutter and no one knows who I am at all. Why not have a little fun? It’s not like things can get any worse.”
He reached past Alastor to pick up the man’s cast-off mask, holding it out like an invitation.
Alastor considered the mask in his hand, “...The king will be displeased if we make a scene at his ball.”
Lucifer grinned and wiggled the mask, “You don’t care what he thinks.”
“Your reputation will be dragged down right along with mine,” Alastor debated, still not reaching to take the mask.
“If I’m going to be honest? It’s not much of one and I don’t care much about it. Not in front of those people,” Lucifer haggled.
At last, the hint of a smirk graced Alastor’s face again, “If we dance, you will struggle. I don’t have shoes for you to stand on top of.”
Lucifer rolled his eyes, “Oh, just take the mask you infuriating creature.”
He was gratified when Alastor did.
~*~
Rosie stood in the midst of a small gaggle of ladies, doing her utmost to stay out of sight of Lady Susan while she listened idly to the gossip. She needed something good to take back to Alastor after all. It wouldn’t be fair if she’d demanded as much of him and offered nothing in return, though if he came back empty-handed he’d simply go to bed hungry, the fussy boy.
Honestly, she worried about that young man.
He’d been such a delight as a child, all smiles and curiosity. As a little one, Alastor had been absolutely enchanted with the manor, running wild through the orchards and making friends with any wild beast he’d come across. He smuggled in bullfrogs, tried to convince his mother he absolutely needed a pet snake, and even had favourite sheep in the flock. He’d always been a proud boy, but once there had been actual joy in him.
But then poor Delphine had taken ill and it was as if her sickness had taken them both, wasting Alastor’s soul alongside his mother’s body. It had wounded Rosie beyond reckoning to watch the lights of her world slowly dim over the months that followed until, one bitter winter’s day, they snuffed out forever. Her beloved Delphine had gone to the gods and little Alastor had sent all his happiness away with her.
He’d been melancholy after that, finding no pleasure in the simple things. It was as if he’d become a man overnight at the tender age of ten years old.
Alastor worked in the gardens, but he barely seemed to see the flowers. It seemed almost as if he treated the work as a punishment and never acknowledged the rewards of his labor. He still went for long walks through the fields and woods, but it seemed more an effort to lose himself than to admire the world he’d once loved. He was still fond of the animals, but it was a secret thing he didn’t share with anyone else any longer, as if opening his heart even a crack would tear it the rest of the way open.
Of course, as Rosie’s adopted son, it meant that attending court became a part of his life and he grew even further divorced from the little boy who had once pattered gleefully through Sancerre’s halls.
He grew watchful and suspicious of others once he was made painfully well aware of his place among them. Alastor became malicious by degrees, his smiles razor-edged and his tongue poison-barbed. Introducing him to the peerage as should have been his right had murdered the last vestiges of boyhood still inside him. Or…perhaps it had simply hidden them away.
Rosie didn’t begrudge the way Alastor had learned to protect himself. He would have been a fool not to. Yet at the same time, she held out hope there was something that would reignite his spark. Perhaps he simply needed someone who saw him.
Not that Vox cad, though. He certainly saw Alastor, but not as he was meant to be seen.
He didn’t see all of the charming peculiarities of Alastor’s character or his wit. He didn’t see the sparkling philosopher’s intellect hiding behind scarlet eyes. Rosie knew perfectly well what he was looking at and she didn’t like it one bit. She’d been incredibly satisfied when her godson had laughed the fool out of his suit.
A Baroness of Rosie’s age entered their knot of conversation, looking bright-eyed with the promise of new gossip, “Oh! Rosalind! You sly creature. You didn’t tell us you’d arranged a match for young Alastor! And from Enoch no less.”
Rosie’s eyebrows raised. She had done no such thing.
The rest of the women gasped and all eyes turned to her as Lady Katherine tucked a wicked smile behind her fan, “Finally taking your heir in hand? I’m not surprised after the embarrassment of last season. I couldn’t even imagine being in your shoes!”
Not that the hag had any room to speak. Her tempestuous marriage with Lord Thomas was ten times more scandalous than anything Alastor had done.
“So tragic that you had to go as far as Enoch to find someone suitable,” another woman, younger this time, trilled.
Mind already working quickly, Rosie pasted on her most sunny smile and tucked her cheek into her hand, “Goodness! Who told you girls all this?”
“Lord Vox saw them together, apparently,” the first woman said, clearly angling for confirmation.
Vox.
Snapping her fan closed, Rosie tutted, “Why, that scoundrel! I’m just going to pop off and have a word with him. Do keep my spot, would you?”
As the snide misfortune merchants behind her protested her absence, Rosie slipped away from them and around the dance floor proper. She needed to lay eyes on Alastor. She’d told him to go off and try to find amusements while she was gone, but if Vox was making trouble then it was time for them to make a dignified retreat before she killed the man. Alastor struggled enough without the Master of Potentia sullying his name.
She scanned the crowd, looking out for a head of curly red hair and black antlers, stopping in her tracks when she spotted them on the dance floor.
Looking closely, Rosie realized that her godson was currently engaged in a dance with someone. How very novel for him! Had Vox spotted them earlier in the evening and spread a rumor as revenge? It answered one question, but left another. Who on earth was Alastor dancing with? The man only came up to her godson’s shoulder and his hair…
Oh.
Lady Rosalind Sullivan was no fool and, at a respectable sixty years of age, she’d been in court long enough to remember what their errant king looked like. The disguise he wore would fool those expecting a king in full regalia or those too young to recall a time when he’d been present, but it was nowhere near enough for her. She would never in a million years mistake that fine, pale skin or sunny-gold hair. She would never fail to recognize the too-wide smile that had been absent far longer than their abdicated queen.
Alastor was dancing with Lucifer Morningstar and she’d bet apples to acorns her godson didn’t even know it. He’d been a mere fifteen years when Lucifer had fully withdrawn and still very new to courtly life. Moreover, his only interest in the king as a young man had been basic items of general interest. Oh, that foolish, stubborn boy had fallen right into the king’s orbit and, against all odds, he looked like he was actually enjoying himself.
Rosie smirked and recalled their conversation in the carriage earlier that evening. Perhaps things were finally looking up for her foolish boy.
Turning on her heel, she looked through the crowd until she took note of Lucifer’s advisor, Asmodeus, lingering near the dais. His eyes were on the dance floor and Rosie knew he’d seen precisely what she had. Pleased as a cat who’d gotten the canary, she altered her course and slipped through the throngs of people until she was discreetly situated at his elbow.
Without looking at her, Asmodeus hummed, “Good evening, Lady Rosalind.”
“Lord Asmodeus,” she chirped back and tilted her head to where Lucifer was leading Alastor through a complicated Allemande and the two seemed to be making a game of trying to step on one another’s toes.
Raising a glass of dark port, the birdfolk inclined his head to the dance floor, “I take it you’ve seen?”
“I have,” Rosie said lightly, watching smugly as her godson managed to trip Lucifer up, “What do you make of it?”
“I think His Majesty is going to make a very explosive decision tonight if this keeps up.”
“Hm…and how long has this been going on?” Rosie asked, knowing that her long acquaintance with the advisor meant that he’d tell her as much as he was able (if not more).
“Reports say His Majesty was spotted with your son over by the refreshments about an hour ago. They left for the rose garden shortly after. They’ve been dancing since they returned. Or fighting? I can’t tell at this point, though Luci seems to be having fun.”
“And what do you think if that happens to be his choice?” Rosie inquired.
Ozzie sighed and finally looked at her, his eyes fond if a little weary, “I think I’m going to have to do a hell of a lot of damage control, but he could do worse. Your son is fifteen years his junior, an absolute nightmare in the peerage, his family line is a wreck, and I doubt he’ll tolerate being managed even the slightest bit. However, he’s your godson and that means he’s going to be cunning as a snake. Not to mention, his tutors have nothing but praise for him.”
“My, that’s quite a great deal of research,” Lady Sullivan intoned.
“I do my homework thoroughly,” Ozzie replied lightly.
Rosie shot her old friend a wry look, “Admit that you invited me just so Alastor would be in attendance.”
“Only partially. I had held out hope you might wrangle Lucifer, but it was dim,” Ozzie chuckled.
They watched as Lucifer retaliated for the earlier tripping by sweeping Alastor into a dip so low it shouldn’t have been possible.
“Oh, Rosalind,” the advisor sighed, smoothing a hand over the bright aquamarine of his crest-feathers, “It’s going to be chaos.”
~*~
The crowd around them erupted in whispers as Samael swept Alastor back up from the absurd dip he’d surprised him with and for once, Alastor relished the sounds of shock. What did he care? They already thought he was getting married to this man, so he was free to dance with him as he liked. They’d made their bed of rumors and now they were free to lie in it while Alastor grinned down at Lucifer.
“Well! You’re strong, I’ll grant you that. It’s simply too bad that brains don’t reside in the muscles, else you might prove more clever,” Alastor taunted, rather enjoying the fact that Samael took his insults on the chin and volleyed back with more of his own.
“And it’s too bad manners reside in the heart, else you might have some,” Lucifer snipped, pulling his dance partner into a turn.
Alastor’s blood thrummed in his veins and he followed along, hooves picking out the delicate step sequence required to complete the maneuver. Samael was sharp-tongued and charming in his own way, reckless enough to be infectious and merrily dragging Alastor down with him. He was older, yes, but with a boyish impishness that knocked the years away from him…and from Alastor too if he was being honest.
“Tut, my good man! I’ve had no need of a heart up to this point and I daresay I’ve done just fine,” he said to Samael, watching as the man’s golden eyes glittered.
“Why, no heart? What a thing to say to your fiancé! What shall I do with a heartless man?” Samael played back gamely.
“Perish, I expect,” Alastor said and slipped away from him as the song ended.
It would be improper to dance twice in a row with the same man (nevermind that this was perhaps their third or fourth). Besides, he rather liked the little look of disappointment Samael shot him once they were no longer touching. Had anyone ever looked bereft in his absence before? Usually they were grateful not to have to deal with him.
“I wonder if there’s a legal precedent for that?” Samael asked idly, following at Alastor’s heels like a loyal pup, “How does one prosecute for death by heartlessness? Would it be murder?”
“Hardly,” Alastor informed him, walking them over to the refreshments and selecting new drinks for them, “Death by misadventure, I’ll warrant.”
“How do you figure?”
Alastor grinned sharply into his wine as he brought it to his mouth, purring, “Death by misadventure is usually the coroner’s conclusion when the deceased has become so by undertaking a risk that leads to their demise. I daresay wedding a heartless man is quite the risk.”
“I see. And once I’ve perished, what sort of funeral will you throw for me, poor widower that you’ll be?” Samael asked, utterly ignoring the sideways looks they received from anyone in earshot.
Tapping his chin, Alastor pretended to think, “Well, I think perhaps we shall inter you with a nosegay of lavender, for starters.”
“Oh? To symbolize your unending devotion to me?”
“Goodness no!” Alastor said with relish, “To mock you for trusting a pretty thing when you shouldn’t have. Cleopatra was bitten by a snake lurking beneath a lavender bush.”
To his delight, Samael merely nodded and said, “Fair enough. Go on.”
“There will be a spray of rhododendrons atop your casket, the brightest I can find in the garden.”
His partner for the evening tipped his brandy glass in Alastor’s direction, “Let me guess…to brighten an otherwise grim affair?”
“Would that it were so,” Alastor said with mock mourning, “No, it will be your final warning to any other man who hopes to court me to beware. I am a dangerous temptation after all.”
Samael laughed and waved him away, “Alastor, why does everything you know about flowers sound so ghastly?”
“Because flowers, much like people, exist for more than simply decoration and they are more diverse than the meager designations we assign to them…often in defiance of our whims,” Alastor said, running a thumb over the nightshade blossoms on his waistcoat, “I admire that.”
His companion offered him a knowing grin, “You just like being morbid to try and upset people, don’t you?”
“I invite you to prove it,” Alastor teased in a sing-song.
Against all expectations, Samael was proving to be good company now that the earlier unpleasantries had been dispensed with. He wasn’t put off by any of Alastor’s nasty jokes or his grim sense of humour. He’d heard all of the court scuttlebutt about Alastor’s failings and remained utterly unphased by all of it. Absolutely nothing Alastor did seemed to put him off even the least bit - none of his bristling or cruelty. It was also nice to be in the presence of someone else of his particular genetic persuasion…someone who understood without having to speak the words.
Still…reality would come calling and it was best to prepare.
Alastor sighed and took another sip of his wine and looked out over the crowd rather than at Lucifer, for once not caring overmuch when he caught one of his peers gaping at him, “While I will grudgingly admit that this evening has exceeded my basement level expectations, I believe it would be prudent to discuss how to go about parting ways.”
Samael gave him a scrunch-nosed expression of confusion, “Parting ways?”
Well. No one was perfect.
“Viscount, you and I both know you will return to Enoch when all is said and done, and that our engagement was nothing more than your idea of a joke. It’s all well and good scandalizing the peerage and pretending tomorrow will never come, but I should like at least some story to tell when you vanish,” Alastor explained with what he thought was a stunning amount of patience.
The smaller man’s face did something complicated again and he went quiet, taking a deep drink from his glass. Had the little fool forgotten in the span of an hour that none of this was real? How very tragic that the first tolerable person Alastor had ever found at one of these affairs was also mentally infirm. What did that say about his taste?
Ah well, let the little imbecile figure it out.
Alastor watched him, ears flickering while he sipped from his own glass and waited for the small blonde to come back to reality.
At last, Samael sighed heavily and then tilted a smile up at Alastor, “...There will be time to talk about all of that. Want to do one last scandalous thing before the party ends?”
Alastor tried very hard not to be flattered by the fact that the other man was actively trying to extend their time together and decided the sentiment deserved a reward, “And what did you have in mind?”
“I’ve heard that Sheol Palace houses one of the most exclusive collections of oddities in the realm. If the rumors are true, the king is a bit of an eccentric,” Samael said, his golden eyes bright behind the protective covering of his mask.
“So the stories say. What of it?” Alastor asked, trying desperately to follow the switching tracks of the other man’s mind.
Samael’s smile grew into a truly wicked grin, “I think you seem like a man who truly enjoys an oddity. Would you fancy seeing the collection?”
Alastor started, fingers twitching on the fine cut crystal in his hand, “Dear Viscount, there is skullduggery and then there’s madness. You are suggesting that we sneak into the areas of the palace which are certainly His Majesty’s private collections while everyone watches. We would be more than shunned were we caught.”
To his mixed horror and intrigue, his companion merely winked roguishly and knocked back the rest of his drink before saying, “Well then, we simply must be discreet, don’t you agree? Come on, Mister Hartfelt…think about it. After tonight you’ll be better than all of these swaggering cockerels who speak ill of you. You’ll have seen something none of them ever have.”
“Yes, and my future after tonight will be short indeed if I’m caught snooping out of bounds,” He sounded unconvincing even to his own ears, finishing his wine and setting the glass aside.
The prospect was thrilling, truly, and it sent Alastor’s blood racing even as he scoffed at the very idea. He was acting foolish to even entertain such a dangerous notion. Something so catastrophically risky could do untold damage not only to himself, but to his Aunt Rosie. He would be ungrateful in the extreme if he brought such a dark stain to her name over a single night of excitement.
And yet…
When Samael looked at him with such shameless excitement in his gleaming golden eyes, Alastor felt daring. Samael was edging them both out onto a tightrope with his hands outstretched, beckoning Alastor onward like temptation itself. It was foolish, but something in the young man thrilled at the positive attention. He shouldn’t have cared, really, but this felt like permission to be his genuine, horrid self without reprobation and it was a heady thing.
“I have a notion,” Samael said, lowering his voice to a stage whisper, “that His Majesty has given up on his own party and has better things to do. So come on and live a little.”
The mysterious man from Enoch took Alastor’s hand in his own and brought his knuckles up for another kiss, “Let me show you something worth seeing.”
Alastor took another step out onto the tightrope, hand in the Viscount’s, “You don’t even know where it is, you daft man.”
“I have a feeling it won’t be hard to find,” Samael cajoled.
At last, on the very brink of sense Alastor asked, “...Why gamble on this?”
Why gamble on me?
“...Because I played a cruel trick on you earlier when I already knew you weren’t well-regarded and you didn’t deserve it. Because I was truly dreading another dull function and you’ve been good company. Because I don’t think anyone else would appreciate the collection the way you will, and…because I want to,” Samael said as if he’d had the list rehearsed in his head all night.
As if the answer was simply that easy.
His companion shrugged, still smiling, “And if tomorrow really is going to be miserable, then shouldn’t you have something to remember this night by?”
Alastor worked his jaw for a moment, not even noticing that his ears had half-fallen, utterly relaxed. He took the step out onto the tightrope that would take him fully away from the safety of protocol.
“Very well…but after that we really must talk.”