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Charlie Magne was sixteen the first time she killed someone.
Sixteen, shaking, and scared.
She had a bat in her hands and her breath was coming in pants and she was terrified of what had just happened to her. What he’d just done to her. She hurt and she felt disgusting and with startlingly steady hands and arms she’d swung the baseball bat.
It connected with a sickening crack.
He went down like a sack of potatoes.
She raised the bat and hit him in the head again.
And again.
When her vision cleared, when she could see again instead of everything being blurry and red, he didn’t have a head anymore.
There was just a pile of disgusting mush.
There was blood everywhere and her shirt was torn and she was cold and she wanted to go home.
She covered the hole in her shirt and unthinkingly kept hold of the bat and walked home. Walked to her parents’ mansion.
Middle of the night.
Cold.
Alone.
The police investigation that came afterwards was whirlwind. They found her, because of her mother, before they ever found him.
She remembered asking the doctor, after she’d had an examination because of the nastiness on and inside of her, if she could go take a shower now.
She remembered crying.
Admitting, though not with full openness, what had happened to her.
But it had taken another four hours for the cops to try and push the story out of her, and that was only after she’d showered and re-dressed for the second time and she’d been given only female cops to speak to. The men scared her.
And she’d told them.
And she’d told them where to find him.
When they did, it was as horrible as she remembered―but she wasn’t meant to see the photos they’d taken. She knew that. But she saw them in passing anyway.
It was disgusting.
Disgusting.
… And yet she’d felt oddly giddy seeing her handiwork again.
Not such a big man now, are you? She’d thought, smugly, and immediately recoiled physically from the thought.
They put her in therapy and she was eventually cleared as being mentally healthy and everything sort of went back to normal, except that her mother bought her pants to wear instead of her usual skirts (at her request) and her father got her a beautifully engraved switchblade for personal protection.
There were never any charges filed against her for killing him.
He had no family, friends, or lovers to demand them and he was a serial―
Rapist.
A serial rapist.
And the cops told her to her face she’d done the world a service by killing him.
That was before the therapy, though.
She was seventeen when she killed someone a second time.
He wasn’t a man, this time.
He was her age, and she’d told him no when he tried to grab her in the deserted school hallway. There were no cameras because the parents of everyone here paid for privacy. He could have done it and gotten away with it because it was lunch and everyone else was in class or off-campus. But she told him no and he tried anyway and she pulled her knife and he grabbed her again after knocking it out of her hands.
He grabbed her by her parts and she lashed out instantly.
Punched him right in the face and tried not to feel satisfied when he jerked away from her and hit his head on the lockers behind him.
She grabbed her knife and started to walk away.
He grabbed her from behind. Grabbed her breasts.
She swung the knife behind her head, expecting him to move, and instead feeling the knife sink into… Something.
She found out later it had been his eye, then his brain.
She didn’t feel sorry for either event.
The first time, she’d been raped by a serial rapist and she’d picked up the bat she’d been given by her friend’s dad for protection on her way home and beaten him to death.
The second time, she’d said no and threatened physical retaliation if he still tried. He’d still tried and she hadn’t meant to stab him in the eye and the brain, but it had happened.
His family was furious, but other girls quickly came to her defense, admitting years of him trying to (or succeeding in) doing the same thing to them.
The charges were dropped and Charlie became something of a hero to her female classmates, and a challenge to the male ones. She met each mocking laugh and half-assed grabs at her with a steady smile and immediate physical retaliation.
Some of them stopped.
Some of them didn’t.
“Liz,” She said, examining her switchblade (which she was really surprised the police had given back to her), “What would you do if I became a serial killer?”
Liz had been her best friend since primary school. Her dad had been the one to give Charlie the bat she’d killed her rapist with.
And Liz, bless her, responded to the question with quirked brows and a totally unruffled, “I’d help you get rid of the bodies. Is there really another reasonable answer?”
She met Vaggie the summer after she finished high school.
Incidentally, this meeting coincided with the exact day her father decided to tell her that he was a mob boss like all the rumors said and asked if she was willing to start training in as his underboss so she could one day take over for him.
She was out with Liz, as usual, vibrating from the news and the question, when she’d run right into Vaggie.
… Who had descended promptly into a horrific tirade telling her to “watch where the fuck she was going, god dammit, could fuckin’ hurt somebody just prancin’ around like that”, which Charlie had listened to with surprisingly rapt attention. And it was about the moment that Vaggie paused for breath that Charlie thought, Oh. Yeah. I like chicks. Huh. Because boy was this chick cute.
And spirited.
“Sorry,” She managed to say, “I’m not usually so clumsy. Just got some good news today, is all―are you alright?”
And Vaggie had huffed a bit, but nodded and crossed her arms. “I’m fine. You good?”
“Oh she’s fine.” Liz had said for her, rolling her eyes, “Anything wrong with her right now comes right down to a hot girl yelling at her.”
Charlie had gone red instantly, and Vaggie had blinked in surprise, and Liz just smirked. And Charlie had wanted to argue, but, well… It wasn’t as if her assessment was wrong. It just sort of rankled that she’d called her out like that in front of the exact hot girl who was the current problem.
Vaggie’s brows lifted, eyes meeting Charlie’s, and Charlie had just given a sheepish grin before she looked away.
By the time they’d gone their separate ways, Liz had weaseled Vaggie’s name and number out of her for Charlie and at Vaggie’s insistence Charlie had, whole face red, given hers in return. She’d punched Liz as hard as she could in the shoulder, afterwards, and Liz had just grinned and shrugged the punch off even when Charlie apologized a few minutes later.
“Chuck, you punch like a nine year old.” She’d said, rolling her eyes and still smiling.
Charlie guessed that was fine.
She met Alastor a little later on.
She’d been her father’s underboss for nearly six months, and was attending college with both Liz and Vaggie as close friends… Though she’d admit to flirting considerably more with Vaggie than she did with Liz. Liz just wasn’t her type, and she’d known her as nothing but a friend for too long to ever see her otherwise.
But Alastor… Well.
She’d seen him around, and not just at college, before she ever met him face to face. He seemed to always be around somewhere in the background when she accompanied her father to meetings and she was pretty sure he had a radio show on the campus’ station. She’d just… Never spoken to him in person or had a class with him until she started her second semester and found she was in a cooking class with him.
“Alastor,” He’d said, when they’d ended up seating next to each other, and he’d offered a hand with a casual, polite smile.
“Charlie,” She’d said in return, and they’d shook hands.
Charlie had expected that to be as far as it went, but eventually they both realized (at about the same moment, it seemed) that they already knew everything the teacher was going over on that particular day. Listening to instructions on pasta for the millionth time was so mind-numbing even just in theory that Charlie had given into impulse and rolled her eyes, choosing to stare out the window instead of paying any attention.
Of course, when she’d turned her gaze to the window, she’d seen that Alastor was staring forward, still smiling (as he always seemed to be), but he looked terribly glassy-eyed.
Tossing a glance at the front of the room and realizing the teacher didn’t seem to have any intention of looking up or speeding up, Charlie scrawled a note and slid it across the counter-space between herself and Alastor.
I can’t believe that there are people here who don’t know how to cook spaghetti.
Alastor had glanced at the note, barely suppressed a laugh, and scrawled a message in return before passing the note back.
Indeed. I’d thought it to be fairly common knowledge.
She’d thrown another glance at the teacher before replying.
For a class that didn’t even go over the syllabus for the first class, I didn’t expect it to be so boring I’d want to go back to bed.
Sleep does sound far preferable to listening to him drone about boiling water. We can only pray that the next class is more engaging.
Pray indeed. Even re-learning how to make bread would be more engaging, though, so it’s a pretty low bar.
Honestly, re-learning how to make gumbo would be more engaging, and I’ve been making gumbo since before I could walk.
And they’d spent the rest of the class passing notes, pretty much, until the teacher had unleashed them all to cook their own spaghetti. Then, they spoke out loud.
“Haven’t I seen you somewhere?” Was the first thing Alastor asked, under the din of everyone else talking amongst themselves.
“Depends on where you think you’ve seen me,” Charlie shrugged, glancing around in a way she hoped conveyed exactly why she was being cagey about it.
“Your father frequents that fancy Italian restaurant down on West Boulevard, doesn’t he?”
And what an eloquent way to phrase it, that was. “Frequents the Italian restaurant” was a much nicer way of saying, “has bi-weekly mob meetings in the private rooms”. She’d have to keep it in mind, later.
“He does,” She said, instead of commenting on his choice of phrasing, “... I thought I recognized you. You’re there just about as often, aren’t you?”
He grinned, winking. “I do so adore their alfredo,” He said, “I end up there every couple of weeks for a plate or two of it.”
“Their alfredo is pretty delicious,” She agreed, “My dad really prefers their risotto.”
Still grinning, Alastor nabbed their page of notes and scrawled something new onto it before passing it back to her.
Is it acceptable for me to speak to you during those meetings? I would love to discuss things with you somewhere more apt for it.
She scribbled, Dad wants me to start making connections on my own, so I don’t see why it wouldn’t be acceptable for us to talk at the next one instead of me just listening in on his conversations.
They didn’t exchange numbers, that day, but at the next meeting, she’d excused herself from her father’s side when Alastor inevitably arrived.
“Something important?” Her father asked, brow lifted.
“Oh, just discussing a potential partnership,” She’d replied, smiling when he seemed to swell with pride.
He only puffed up more when he saw her slide into the seat across from Alastor.
“Madam Magne,” Alastor greeted, grinning across the table, “Lovely to see you. I trust you’re in good health?”
Through her partnership with Alastor (which was, somehow, different than her father already having a partnership with him), she came to be friends with him. He seemed fond of her, if nothing else, and that was incredibly helpful to her.
Especially considering she was rather fond of him, as well.
With her own right-hand (Liz) and her own official connection (Alastor), she was well on her way to really starting to get things done.
… And then, wrinkling her nose as imperceptibly as she could through the whole meeting, she’d been introduced to Valentino.
Valentino was one of her father’s less savory business partners, and she wasn’t saying that because he was the owner of a porn studio. She was saying that because he just generally seemed to be a slimeball. She’d wanted to burn her hand off after shaking his and that had only become a more demanding urge when she’d been introduced to his “darling”, Angel Dust… Who had obviously been so coked out he couldn’t even form full, coherent sentences.
Angel Dust’s totally coked out appearance had only rattled her further when she realized he went to college with her and she lived in the same dorm building as he did. He didn’t look any older than she did.
… And of course she did find out after the fact that Valentino also controlled what was by far Charlie’s least favorite branch of underground operations―trafficking.
It boiled her blood to even think about and understandably her father had explained the alliance as, “He’s disgusting and so is his business, but if it’s not him, then it’s someone else. I’d rather know what’s happening and who’s doing it, personally.”
She could sort of agree with that, but she still made a point of saying that he made her want to puke.
And her dad had patted her shoulder, grimaced, and said, “Same.”
She ran into Angel Dust again on campus a week later.
He looked, thankfully, far less high, but he was stumbling a little.
“Do you need help getting back to your dorm, hon?” She’d asked, on instinct, reaching out to steady him after he nearly smacked right into her chest.
He’d blinked at her, swayed a little, laughed, and then said, “If ya don’t mind, sugartits.”
She’d rolled her eyes and said, “You live on the second floor, right?” instead of calling him out on calling her sugartits.
When he nodded, she’d looped an arm around his waist and hauled him up the stairs of their building and to his door, which he helpfully pointed out.
God, he lived across the hall from her.
Without thinking, she uttered under her breath as he opened his door, “I cannot believe he keeps you this drugged up, Christ on a stick.”
And Angel had turned to her and blinked. Seemed to recognize her very suddenly and went oddly pale.
“Oh.” He said, “I, uh― I’m s―”
“Don’t,” She said, “Whatever you’re about to apologize for, don’t.”
He bit his lip, swaying a little even as he leaned against his doorframe. “You’re― You work with ‘im?” He asked, “Saw you last week, I think.”
She tried not to press her lips into too thin a line and forced a smile. “I’m Charlotte Magne.” She told him, by way of explanation, and watched him go pale again since he didn’t seem to be high enough to not understand what that meant. “Now, I’m not your mom or your boss or anything, but I think you need to go drink some water and take a nap.”
He just sort of nodded, still pale, and disappeared into his dorm.
Two days later, he caught her coming out of class with Alastor.
“Ay, Chuck!” He waved her over, “Wanted t’ thank ya for helpin’ me back to my room the other day, sugar. Val had me on an overnight so I was ‘bout to drop when you caught me. Prob’ly saved me from crackin’ my head open on the stairs.”
“It was no problem, really,” She insisted, and tried not to let it tingle between her shoulders that she could tell Alastor was standing right behind her, “You probably shouldn’t let me string you out like that, though. It can’t be healthy.”
Angel laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, “Yeah, yeah― you can be the one to break that to ‘im, toots. He’d toss me out on my ass quicker ‘n ya can say ‘crackwhore’.”
Charlie hummed. “... Gimme your phone―I wanna put my number in so you can call me if you need help getting to your dorm again.”
And Angel handed it over obediently.
She didn’t bother to look at what he put in as her contact name, but she was sure it was either something she’d find unsavory or something oddly respectful.
He went his separate way, and she turned to Alastor, who didn’t look terribly impressed.
“... And who, pray tell, was that?”
“I only know him as Angel Dust,” Charlie admitted, sighing, “He lives across the hall from me and he― Well.” She leaned in as close as she could without invading his personal space, “He works for Valentino. I met him face to face the first time when I met that slimeball the first time.”
Alastor’s nose wrinkled imperceptibly.
“And he had trouble getting home a couple of days ago? From being on an… ‘Overnight’?”
Sighing again, Charlie nodded and they continued their walk as she explained, “Valentino keeps him drugged out of his head, it seems. He was still high and limping when I found him.”
She was sure she didn’t imagine the flash of rage on Alastor’s face.
She chose not to mention it.
“Angel, why do you still work for him?” Charlie couldn’t help ranting a little as she swiped a makeup wipe across his cheek, “He treats you like garbage.”
Angel didn’t meet her eyes. He stared at the wall over her shoulder and swallowed. He was seconds away from crying―had been since he showed up at her dorm. They’d long since moved into friend territory and now…
God.
“He pays for me to go to college,” Angel finally admitted in a weak, warbly voice, “I’d never be able to afford it if he didn’t.”
Charlie clenched her jaw. Swiped the rest of his makeup off and stared at the dark circles under his eyes. Gently grabbed his cheeks and made him look at her. Made him meet her gaze.
“Angel.” She said, stern but soft, “If it’s only about college, then work for me.”
He blinked in response, a little shell-shocked.
“Wha…?” He asked, still a little warbly. “Chuck, whaddaya mean?”
“You know who I am, Angel,” She sighed, stepping back and letting go of him, “If it’s about college, work for me instead. I will pay your tuition today and your dorm rent for the rest of your college education.”
The tears spilled over, at that one. He ducked his head and scrubbed at his cheeks and hiccuped, and she let him. She let him until he looked up at her again, eyes wide and a little too hopeful while still bearing some horrific sadness.
“... Ya mean it?” He croaked. “I― What would ya even have me do, Chuck?”
“If you’re particularly attached to anything you’re currently doing? That, probably. If not, well, you’re good at something else, aren’t you? We’ll figure it out.”
He’d cried for the rest of the night, but he’d agreed to work for her instead.
When his contract with Valentino ended a couple of weeks later, he refused to renew it and it would probably have been bad had Charlie not gone with him. Valentino had been furious that his best boy was quitting, and demanded a reason, especially considering that Valentino was paying for his schooling and board. Angel had said he’d received a better offer of employment.
“From who?” Valentino had demanded.
“From me.” Charlie had said, taking that as her cue to enter. She’d smiled, “It’s nothing personal, of course. Just business as usual.” Conspiratorially, she’d tacked on, “Angel’s got a real gift for charisma, you see, and I need people like him.”
Unable to say or do anything in reply to that without fear of her father, Valentino had dropped the issue with surprising swiftness.
She’d paid off the rest of Angel’s tuition that day, and when her father had called her, a little alarmed at the sudden charge on her bank account, she’d told him the truth. He’d been impressed, mostly, and though he seemed to take her paying Angel’s tuition as a way to ensure he felt indebted to her rather than her just getting it out of the way for her friend, it worked out perfectly.
And Angel didn’t really do anything differently, after that, except that he was high significantly less often. Half his proceeds from his deeds went straight to Charlie without her ever asking for it and considering she was using most of it to pay his rent anyway she wasn’t complaining.
Liz and Alastor seemed impressed, really, by how well she’d handled the whole situation. Even more impressed by Angel’s money-making efficiency, though, she was sure. Even if they both seemed to find the methods less than savory.
Still.
She’d technically hired Angel for his charisma and extroversion, and eventually she had to use it.
As underboss, she was expected to engage in frequent meetings with other bosses and underbosses in the city and attend parties when invited. Sometimes as the actual recipient of the invitation, sometimes in her father’s place. And, seeing as her closest partners were Liz and Alastor, they usually went with her.
It was always somewhat frowned upon that Charlie and Liz technically came as a pair and Alastor came alone.
So, with Alastor and Angel’s combined consent, the next party she had to go to with the others, she assigned Angel as Alastor’s date for the night. This was partially just an excuse to have Angel there at all since she was sure he’d appreciate the opportunity to live the high life without having to be on so much PCP he couldn’t see straight, partially so that he could use his charisma without worry someone would take advantage of it since Alastor would be with him the whole night, and partially to alleviate the amount of disapproving looks Alastor got throughout the night.
They left that party with a lot of juicy inside information about the other bosses who had been in attendance because none of them seemed to be immune to Angel and his twink college boy charms.
Even Alastor looked a little enamoured.
“... So what does it taste like?” She found herself asking, watching Alastor cut into the meat he was working with.
She’d known since their first official talk that he had a habit of turning people into food as a method of body disposal, and didn’t mind partaking in some of it. Mostly he sold it off to a couple of restaurants who knew full well what it was and marketed it as something else to their customers.
Was it diabolical and morally sickening? Absolutely. Did Charlie have it in her to care? Nope.
She drew the line at hurting kids and rape, but murder was fine and she guessed so was cannibalism.
“Depends,” Alastor replied, conversationally, “Particularly on diet and a few other key factors. I imagine this one will taste a lot like lamb.”
She hummed and nodded along.
“Would you like to try?” Alastor asked, after a long silence during which he’d cooked up a couple of pieces.
“Sure,” She shrugged, accepting the offered piece.
She was already going to hell when she died, anyway. Might as well have plenty of good reasons.
“Gonna be a busy weekend,” Angel hummed, “... Lotsa folks left in their dorms while their partners aint here, y’know? ‘N lotsa new fish runnin’ around gettin’ drunk for the first time.”
“That so?” Charlie asked, genuinely curious.
“Mhm,” Angel nodded, “Bettin’ on about a grand or two by the end of the weekend―know some regulars who’ll pay top dollar for some real and I’d bet mosta them newbies would kill for a piece of strange. ‘N that’s not even touchin’ on the bastards I know’ll hit me up since their girlfriends’re gone for the weekend.”
“Homewrecker,” She teased.
Angel just grinned.
Secretly, she was a little impressed that, when Monday came, he’d been right and had made just a little over two grand for exactly the reasons he’d expected to.
Charlie didn’t really think before she acted, once her temper flared significantly enough.
The fact that she only had the barest thought of “Oh, I probably shouldn’t―” before she turned around and broke the guy who’d grabbed her’s arm almost in half just proved that further. As did the fact that she didn’t at all stop with his arm. She also punched him in the face, kneed him in the groin, and threw him into the wall beside the two of them.
She was furious.
And it took Liz grabbing her arm and dragging her off down the street to keep her from just pouncing on the dude and ripping him apart.
To be fair to herself, she’d told him. She’d told him that if he touched her again she was going to hurt him. And that was after he’d grabbed her ass. Then he’d grabbed her arm and that was the last straw for her usually quite robust levels of anger management. It fell apart right then.
… Angel Dust and Alastor were staring at her, still, when Liz got her to sit down on their couch.
She was just glad Vaggie hadn’t been around for that. No need for her poor, innocent bystander and regular citizen girlfriend to see any of that.
“Thanks,” She managed to force out, to Liz. “Don’t think I could have avoided a murder charge on that one if you hadn’t dragged me off.”
Liz, as usual, just snorted and said, “I dunno, you got away with the first two.”
“I was underage for both of those,” Charlie reminded her.
“... Wait,” Said Angel, “You tellin’ me that you’ve killed two people?” The disbelief was palpable, and only moreso when he repeated, “You?”
“A serial rapist when I was sixteen and a classmate who grabbed me a year after that.” Charlie shrugged, because, sure, the whole bit where she’d actually gotten raped still fucked with her head something fierce, but talking about killing the bastard didn’t bug her.
She didn’t even really think the mess she’d made was nasty anymore, if she was honest.
“That sounds fair, actually.” Was what Angel finally replied to that with, and he’d apparently understood the connotations of her having killed a serial rapist without her having to say anything else.
Thank God.
She hated talking about that.
And then Vaggie showed up and she did her best to put all of it aside so she could love on her girlfriend.
Alastor just… Watched her the whole time.
It was unsettling.
When he finally went home, she got a text from him.
If you want me to kill anyone for you, you need only say the word.
And she appreciated that. And she told him that much.
The next time she killed someone, it was because they touched Vaggie.
She didn’t even hesitate―some asshole shoved her and made to hit her and Charlie’s brain shut off. She pinned the bastard to the ground and squeezed until she felt his windpipe collapse and had to be physically pulled off of him by Liz and Angel Dust both. Vaggie just stared and Alastor calmly assessed the man who continued to flail and struggle and gasp for breath that he could no longer take.
When Charlie’s brain finally turned back on, she said, “Shit.”
And Vaggie blinked, laughed. Said, “Holy shit, babe.”
“Oops?” Charlie leaned further into Liz and Angel.
“Not gonna lie,” Her girlfriend pushed her hair out of her face, “Always had a thing for cute girls who’ll throw down for me.”
“I will literally always throw down for you.” Charlie said, maybe too seriously. “I love you.”
Vaggie smiled. “I love you too.”
“Touching as that is,” Alastor interrupted, “What are we going to do about him?”
Charlie threw a glance at the no longer struggling man, and Liz and Angel released her. She chewed her lip. “... Think your usuals would take him?” She asked, quirking her brows.
“They should.” Alastor said, and that was the end of the conversation.
Somehow, Charlie wasn’t at all surprised when she popped her head into Angel’s dorm a few months later and found Angel passed out curled up in Alastor’s arms.
And Alastor looked to her immediately, only relaxing fractionally when he saw it was her. Before he’d noticed her, he’d been watching Angel sleep, and it was… Well. The look on his face had been sweet.
He’d looked so totally enamoured and soft…
“When he wakes up,” She said softly, “Let him know I need him, okay?”
Alastor nodded, and turned his attention back to Angel.
Charlie lingered, just for a moment, and watched him brush Angel’s hair out of his sleeping face. Watched him sigh and go back to looking soft and in love. Watched his fingers toy idly with the pink-dyed fringe.
And she smiled.
Quietly stepped out.