Chapter Text
January 20th, 1938
Blood was a heady, heavy scent. She’d never thought much about that, never really thought about blood at all - other than how to keep it from staining. But the pool of it she sat in was warm, slowly cooling to tacky against her skin, and the smell of it wrapped thick around her lungs and brain and settled in all her cracks.
The radio had been knocked over in the struggle, blasting choppy static instead of the usual blues station. The girl stood, knees wobbly, and ignoring the stick of her bare feet -the wet slap- she picked up the junker with two bloody hands.
When she was just a little girl radio static gave her the heebie jeebies, had left her skin crawling and the animal part of her brain braced for something awful. Her Momma used to tell her that the empty static was the devil listening in, looking for idle hands and weak souls. Her Momma talked about the devil an awful lot, a Good, God-fearing Woman right up to the day he reclaimed her.
What was it she used to say? About the devil worshippers.. something about sacrifice, wasn't it? Emotionless eyes trailed near-sightlessly across the messy floor.
Didn’t she have plenty sacrifice here?
She set the now blood stained radio back down on the table, turning the volume up to deafening. It took her a few tries to remember the symbols she used to see in the books her Momma owned, the ones she snuck looks in to try and understand the frantic warnings her Momma would give her when Papa wasn’t around. Her Uncle's books, weren’t they? Doesn’t matter much now.
Should she say something, was there a phrase or password? She pondered this for a while, staring down at the symbols painted on the tile floor of her kitchen, blood dry on her face and still drying on her hands and fingers like gloves. Her side ached from being thrown into the counter, and her head was pounding from the radio.
“I dedicate this sacrifice to you,” She tried, clumsy and unsure, “In return for a boon.”
God did she sound stupid, believing all the nonsense her momma told her. She should be up and cleaning this mess, not playing in it like a child. And god, the radio seemed to get louder and louder, almost enough to wince. A pounding, thrumming , unnatural heartbeat.
“To me?” The radio must have somehow been bumped to an actual station, the static dampening to near nothing and the lilting tones of a radio host replacing the quiet of her home. “What a lovely gift!“
She blinked blearily down at the blood, before stiffening in surprise as her brain caught up. The girl turned slowly on her knees, craning her neck to look up up up at the man in her kitchen. He wasn’t looking at her, staring behind her where her father lay dead. The knife was within reach, but she didn’t bother with it. This man wasn’t going to be threatened by a kitchen knife, inhuman and far larger than her. How odd, to see such a sight in the warm light of day instead of lurking in dark shadow. Somehow even more horrifying with sun rays gentle on his form. No, she wouldn't be able to scare him one bit.
Anyway, she had invited him hadn’t she?
“Hello.” She couldn’t do more than stare in wide eyed awe, stunned and still crashing from earliers adrenaline. “Welcome to my home. Thank you for taking the trip.”
He gave a bright chuckle, tucking his arms behind him and finally catching her eye. His were so red, as red as the rest of him. As red as her Papa’s blood.
“And she has manners! Truly a delightful surprise, I was having a dreadful morning. What a shock it was, then, to be called to the living world! Demon summoning is nearly unheard of these days, a dying art! Ha!” His voice held the radio in it, booming and upbeat as he laughed at his own joke.
But I’ve got the sneaking suspicion, my dear,” His glinting teeth were so sharp, too many crammed into a smile that stretched his brown-grey face. His voice chided her like a small child, eyes ever twinkling. “That you didn’t kill this man as a human sacrifice. The mess of his torso and the lack of candles in here are a fairly big hint.”
“No. I killed him because I wanted to.” She admitted easily, still craning her head up up up. “But then I remembered the stories about demons, and boons. Selling your soul. Thought it was worth a bash.” She hesitated, “Does he not count as a sacrifice then, if he wasn’t originally meant to be?”
The demon’s face never left its gleeful smile, eyes focused and posture as clean and as sharp as his suit. All the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up, every inch of her screaming about kneeling in front of such a dangerous predator. But she herself was surprisingly calm, hands clasped in her lap and neck crying out from the intense stretch.
“If it didn’t count, I wouldn’t be here, would I? But the sacrifice was just the cab fare you see, just to connect our worlds enough for passage. What it sounds like you’re looking for is a deal!” He suddenly bent towards her, letting her really notice for the first time the ears and antlers. Every inch of him was charm and ease and threat. “In exchange for your immortal soul, why I can help you achieve nearly anything! So what is it you desire, little lady? What's your boon?”
What she desired? It was easy as pie, wasn’t it? The only thing worth whatever he wanted her soul for, because it was surely already heading to hell guaranteed. She braced herself against the bloody tile and begged up at him, desperate, breathless,
“I want to be a star.”
He seemed to almost wilt, his never ending smile shrinking a fraction and his eyebrows lowering. He gave off a staticy sigh, “How dull! Utterly common! But easy enough I suppose, it's not particularly hard for a demon such as I to give you a spark of talent. You really stumbled into quite the luck, dear, this is my area of expertise really-”
“No!” She jolted to life suddenly, rearing back. His neck snapped towards her from where it had been looking around the mess, a tension to him now that reminded her hindbrain how dangerous a demon must be. Her eyes glanced at those needle sharp, yellow teeth, before the steel shot back down her spine. “No thank you, you misunderstand. I have the talent, I just don’t have the connections or opportunities. Dunno nothing about the industry.” She gripped her skirt, braced her jaw. “But I am not gonna let myself fade away into mediocrity just because I don't have access to the right elbows to rub!”
He grabbed her by her hand in a whirl, pulling her to her feet before she knew what he was doing. He seemed upbeat again, and she privately thought the mood swings on this man might just kill her. If he doesn’t do it himself.
“Look at the fire in those eyes!” He grabbed her jaw between long fingers and turned it this way and that, unbothered by how tight he was gripping her, keeping her dangling and caught between his continued grip on her raised wrist and her tilted face, “I love the confidence, I really do! But I’m afraid every dame fancies herself the next Bette Davis so before we start ironing out the details of the deal I’ll need a demonstration. I would hate to find myself wasting time trying to make you a star the traditional way if you sound like a goat. You understand, don’t you?”
He released her face, reeling back from her personal space and giving a sharp rap to the tile with a long microphone she could swear hadn’t just been there, almost manic in his movements as he dusted off his suit and after a long judgemental glance around the room perched himself in a wobbly dining room chair. “Now, what exactly can you do?”
“A little of everything, there's not much to do out here except pick up hobbies. But I fancy myself a singer, Mister. What would you like to hear?”
“Surprise me!”
The girl paused, and looked real hard at the man sitting before her. And then she got an idea, staring at that smile. She rushed out to the tiny connected living room, where her momma’s vinyls and player were, grabbing one of the older worn sleeves and popping it on. She cranked it loud enough to be heard in the other room before scurrying back. Sure enough, the smooth jazz was clear and bright, so familiar she found herself relaxing into it immediately. It was one of Momma’s favorite songs, only instrumental but over the years she had made up her own lyrics. It was -hopefully- a great indicator of her skills. The demon seemed only more intrigued at how she started to smile, slipping into a role with ease.
“When you’re blue, and kinda lonely too, you’ll find a smile will go a long, long way.” She crooned, “Though you’re down, don’t sit around and frown! A little smile will go a long long way!”
Through the performance the room was transformed for her, and in her mind she was singing to a strange man in a smoky bar. The worn down, tiny farmhouse she was raised in fell away.
“Never grieve, just try and make believe, the sky is blue although you know it's grey. Don’t you pine, it’s just a waste of time, you’ll find a smile will go a long, long way!”
And standing in the early afternoon sun, breeze fluttering through aged lace curtains, she swayed merrily to the old tune, her swinging, patchy skirt weighed down at the ends - thick with the blood smeared across the floors and her skin. She performed for a delighted demon and the cooling corpse of her Papa, and she never felt more alive.
She finished to heavy applause, the demon bursting out of his seat as the vinyl switched to the next track. She did a quick curtsy, preening under the attention.
“That was wonderful! I didn’t know that tune had lyrics!”
“I made those myself.”
“Even better! My dear I believe we have quite the future ahead of us both!”
“Really?!” She gasped, and he grabbed her by the hand and yanked her into a quick spin. His static laughter echoed with the music.
“Your confidence was not misplaced. And how fun it’ll be, I’ve never done anything like this! I’ll have your name in lights in no time!”
“I don’t just want my name in lights, Mister Demon. I want my name on everyone's lips, my voice on every radio. Sold out shows!” She insisted breathily, eyes sparkling, “I want to be America’s Darling!”
He looked nearly as excited, spinning his microphone around his hand, “I’ll make sure your name is never forgotten, dear. And in return, upon the day you die, your soul will be mine.”
“What does that mean?”
The twinkle in his red eyes turned sharper, “I’ll own you, quite simply.” The menace lurking in him seemed to dull the very sun, steal her breath, chill the congealing blood now slicking both their hands. The musical, lilting beat to his words sank deep into the heart of her. “During your life I’ll be your little worker. Diligently at your beck and call until the day you die. And then, why, you’ll simply return the favor. “ He tapped her nose, face leaning intimidatingly close to hers. She refused to back down, nodding quickly. It may not be fair, eternity of servitude for what may only be years of stardom, but it was worth it. She’d do it willingly. Why, she’d do it with a smile.
“So,” And the afternoon sun dimmed, his eyes glowing and smile stretching past the limits of his face. She was reminded how much taller he was, the unnatural length of his limbs, as he thrust out his now glowing hand. “Is it a deal?”
She didn’t hesitate.
A static sensation enveloped her arm immediately upon contact (was this hellfire she was holding, it must be-) building in just seconds to something so overwhelming that it caused an explosion of power that whipped her hair and clothes back. Her stomach flipped inside out, her teeth buzzed right out of her skull, her arm burned and burned and- A blinding flash of light, and before she could regain her wits the demon was a few feet back examining a scroll of paper. The girl could glimpse what appeared to be a contract, and at the very bottom what appeared to be her signature, large and neat.
“I am truly looking forward to working with you, Miss-”
“Annette!” She interrupted once more, cringing at how rude it was, but…”Annette Lace. It’s my stage name.”
He paused for a moment, still as a statue, predator's eyes, before inclining his head slightly. “Miss Annette. A pleasure to meet you. My name is Alastor.” He snapped the contract shut and it disappeared in a flash, “Now, I do believe our first matter of business should be cleaning up the mess you’ve made. Hate to have to wiggle you out of the coppers grasp this early on. So if you’d go shower and change, I’ll be happy to have this place looking spick and spam!”
On her way to the shower she glanced down at her Papa one more time, looking into his glassy, accusing eyes. He had been a hulking man in life, gruff and rough and no nonsense. In death he just looked small and red.
She smiled, and made sure to crush his fingers under foot as she stepped over his shredded, ruined body.
December 31st, 1950
There was a heavy knock on her door, calling out to her where she stood in the kitchen with a glass of wine. Annette grinned, small and slow and blossoming as she made her way to her entry-way. The heavy shadow at her feet writhed and bloated and danced, only to dissipate into stillness when she swung the front door wide.
“Arthur! Darling, I’m so glad you could make it!” She cheered warmly.
Arthur gave a full and hearty laugh, clapping big hands over her arms and giving them a friendly squeeze. Annette’s shadow twitched. “You act as if I could have missed it! Miss Annie I would have missed my anniversary for tonight, why I would even be late to my own funeral!”
Arthur Stock was a bold man, a mane of wheat hair and broad shoulders. Smokers teeth against success tan. Everytime she saw him she was nearly surprised at the height and weight of him, enough that any other woman might think twice about inviting him in when she was home alone. Annette simply fanned a dramatic hand toward her face and stepped aside.
“You flatterer, you.” Leading him in, she paused to allow him to drape his coat on her rack, stacking his hat on top. Snow dusted both, and lingered in his rosy cheeks. He made sure to dust it off his bags before following her to the living room, still spouting out praise and flattery she only paid half an ear to. Annette sat gracefully on one of her velvet sofas, the jewels on the bottom of her gown catching in the warm light as the skirt hiked with her crossed leg. It caught his attention for the first time, cutting through his sweet-talk. He blinked at the white formal evening gown, bias-cut and radiating wealth. Her finest dress, and her finest heels, hours spent on her hair and makeup. A thin gold chain dipped under her neckline, pendant concealed.
“You look lovely, though I have to wonder what I’ve done to earn it.” Arthur joked, clearly confused. She waved a gloved hand in dismissal.
“Not for you I’m afraid. I’ve got somewhere to be after this, and I wanted to look my best.”
He eased again, sitting himself down on the sofa across from her. He heaved one of the bags, a small heavy-looking suitcase, up onto the coffee table and clicked it open to reveal complicated machinery. From the second, smaller satchel, he brings out a notepad and pen.
“Well, we best get started then. I’d hate to make you late to whatever party has you dressed to the nines!”
Arthur Stock was also one of the finest reporters in New York, and her personal favorite. A man so good at what he did he received offers from every major newspaper in the country yearly. Well mannered, jovial, and shrewd as can be. He was perfect for this.
“I thought to myself, Miss Annie, surely a woman of your stature would have better plans on New Year's Eve than meeting with me. Glad to see I was right, though I would have been just fine rescheduling. I would just hate to make you late.” He hummed, fussing with his recorder. She’d never actually seen one in person before, they were so new and rare, but of course Arthur had cheerfully agreed when she had asked if he had one. Best of the best meant you got all the nicest toys.
“Nonsense, I’m exactly where I want to be. Can I get you something before we start, dear?” She fluttered, swirling her wine.
“No no, I won’t wait another minute, you called me weeks ago with promises of an unheard story I simply can’t miss!”. She supposed she had been keeping the poor man in enough suspense. His eyes were eager and hungry, “Tell me your secret, Annette Lace.”
With a million-dollar smile and a tilt of the chin, she did.
Or, started her tale at least. For the next half an hour she detailed how an average day when she was 20, she had killed her father. Voice thick with memory, fondness on her face. Only the very beginning of tonight's tale, but what a good beginning it was. She paused when she was done, waiting patiently. The vinyl in the other room crooned softly, dancing with the distant sound of traffic.
The man across from her gaped, face bone white and fingers trembling around his pen.
“You killed your father.” He seemed to want to phrase it as a question, but there was no doubt in either of them about what she had just admitted.
Annette smiled, a wry twist of amusement. Thirty minutes ago he had been beaming and enthusiastic as she welcomed him into her home, big movements and exaggerated showmanship. He was eager and how could anyone blame him, when The Annette Lace was offering him an exclusive interview she promised would cement him in history.
Arthur had been so excited at her secrecy, at the dance of it all. And now he was sitting on her couch, trying to hold himself together at the shock and scandal she was spilling from perfectly painted lips.
How much worse off would he be, she mused, if I had told him about my demon?
Not that she had any intention of that. Alastor may have had a huge role in her story, but she'd certainly never let him overshadow her legacy. Anyways, best not to sound crazy.
“I killed my father.” She confirmed sweetly. “He was a traditional, strict man. A hard worker, with a dead wife and a small farmhouse on the border between country land and a small town. All he had in the world was me, and he had made it clear he was going to do right by me.”
Her lip curled at the thought, the memory of that day. She puffed at her cigarette, porcelain holder warm from her lips. “He was gonna marry me off. Of course he was, what else was there to do? He could hardly leave me loose and unaccounted for now that I was a grown woman. Marry me up higher, to care for me and control me. A classic story really.”
“You didn't want to marry.” Arthur coughed, fighting himself back under control. It was an impressive effort, a look into how he had climbed so far as a journalist. Annette had always liked Arthur.
She laughed a moment, “Of course not. And I know what you want to hear, that my intended was a brute, cruel and womanizing and violent.” He gulped. “But truth is, I don't even remember. It didn't matter one whit what the man was like. Because, dear, marriage would have been death to me. Women don't get famous when they've got husbands at home, and they certainly don't sell out shows with children tugging at their hems. No, a woman can't marry until after she's hit her peak, once she doesn't need to appear as a beautiful, unachievable daydream to every gape-jawed man out there pretending he might have a shot.”
She tapped her cigarette holder to rid the ash, “I didn't have to kill Papa, but it just made me so angry hearing him….so I did. Grabbed that knife just like I told you, stabbed him till he stopped fighting back then a few more times for the hell of it. I'm afraid I can't actually prove this one, I had to hide the body so thoroughly no copper could ever declare him anything but missing.”
Annette watched with lidded, amused eyes as Arthur adjusted his tie once again, shifting nervously even after he had managed to school his face to stone. How much further into this tale would that last, she mused.
“And wouldn't you know? Someone must have been smiling on me because real quick after I got the connections I needed to break out in the industry! Mr. Landry even moved his family all the way from Louisiana just to be my Manager, can you even imagine. And well, I'm sure you know the rest Arthur.” Annette winked, “ With his help I started getting radio gigs, bigger and better till I was performing live in some real swanky places.”
April 12th, 1940
Annette heaved, body slumped in the squeaky chair she'd been given, beaming at her sweaty face reflected in the smudgy mirror.
“That was fantastic! Tremendous! Killer diller! I mean really, a whole theater just for me! I mean a whole theater, Alastor! Not a juke or a speako, a real classy establishment!” She spun her chair around with a mouthful of giggles, still high off the performance with phantom horns ringing in her ears. “Mitt me, kid!”
Alastor laughed with her, and she was feeling too good to even bother with whether this was one of his real laughs or he was just humoring her. “You did splendidly out there, truly. One of your best performances yet!”
And he looked honest, though she found it much harder to tell somehow, when he was like this.
The man in the corner was tall, but only a little over 6-feet. Lanky, with broad shoulders and big hands with neat fingers. He was in his 30’s, with warm brown skin and playful dark brown eyes behind oval glasses. Hair fell sweetly over his brow, lightly curled and thick. A handsome man, no doubt, and one who knew it. Straight white teeth bared in something pretending to be a smile.
Not long after their initial meeting, Alastor had started going on about how he had set up some connections for her - some he used when he had been alive. Color-her-surprised, that he had ever been human to begin with. But while she was celebrating what was sure to be the start of her career, he was busy gabbing up a storm about how much trouble it had been to find the right spell to help her, how she should really be thankful he was willing to go the extra mile. And then he had done the most spectacular thing. He had become a man.
Apparently, in order to get her on the beam, and continue helping her in the future, he thought it best to get a ‘human-disguise’. It certainly had been helpful to have him acting as a secondary manager, and using his past connections for her benefit. But she wouldn't lie and say it wasn't unsettling, seeing a gentle, brown human face grinning back at her where she was used to seeing monster fangs and yellow and red. That it didn't put a twist in her stomach when he opened his mouth and an average old voice came out (as pleasing as that voice was).
But backstage, in the flickering light from her dressing room vanity, he still looked plenty dangerous standing in that shadow.
“You pulling my leg?” She pouted teasingly, struggling against the smile tugging at her lips.
“Now now, don't go fishing dear.” He chided playfully. Oh, she must have been real good tonight.
The door to her dressing room slammed open, jolting her from her easy slump and causing Alastor to bristle in warning, eyes flashing red in the sickly yellow light. But it was just Mr Landry, his pale skin flushed red and his eyes a little wild. She groaned and relaxed once again, spinning back to the mirror.
“Jeez Charles, warn a girl before you go breaking her door down.”
“Listen, girly-” He started excitedly, ignoring her, only to be cut off.
“Mr Landry, I would recommend against entering a woman's dressing room unannounced in the future. It's quite rude at best, and at worst one might find it a threat.” Alastor reprimanded pleasantly, but everyone in the room knew it was the real threat. Charles gulped, exuberance wilting as the usual fear took its place.
“Of course, Mr Gautreaux. Miss Lace, please forgive my entrance.” He ducked his head, catching her eye. His pupils always got so tiny when Alastor was in the room, back straight and hands fighting a tremble. She supposed that's what happened, being face to face with a demon not on your leash. Or maybe just speaking with a man you once reported dead. Can you imagine, breaking the story that a beloved community man was secretly a serial killer, only for him to rise from the grave years later and start demanding you dance to his tune?
(She doesn’t help, probably, continuously cornering him to hear the story again. Alastor was so secretive though, could you blame a gal for being curious?)
“It’s forgiven, Charles,” Annette dismissed easily, “If you tell me what’s got you so hot under the collar.”
He perked back up, and now she really was curious.
“There's someone here to see you! Someone from -get this- Columbia Records!”
…
….
She gasped, slamming her hands down on the vanity and scattering her makeup everywhere with a violent clatter. She spun around, standing up with eyes blown wider than they’ve ever been.
“You’re joshing! No soap!” She squawked, flinging herself forward on click-clacking heels. She gripped onto his arm with all her strength, ignoring his flinch. “Mr Landry, if you’re fooling me I swear to god- I’ll kill you right here.”
Rumbling laughter from Alastor went ignored as Charles gave her a nervous smile. “I’m not, swear on my life-”
“You are.”
“-Theres a man here saying he’s from New York, working for Columbia Records! He wants to talk to you!”
She let out another muffled scream, stomping her feet in excitement before bursting back over to her vanity and scooping up the fallen makeup into a more orderly mess. She whipped a glare over her shoulder as she started fussing with her hair.
“What are you waiting for, send him in!”
The door banged shut behind him, and she set to work fixing what performing had done to her hair and face. The buzz of static slipped and vibrated over her bare shoulders as she saw a shadow slink closer in the mirror. Another flash of red red eyes, the glint of sharp sharp teeth.
“A label executive,” She breathed, “can you just believe it, Alastor?”
“Why of course I can, my dear,” danger danger danger, “After all, you have me at your side.”
When Charles came back in, confident and boisterous and in his element, he led a handsome, mousy man in his 40’s. The man sung her praises, tempted and flattered her until she agreed to follow him back to New York. Her manager switched from (a relieved) Charles Landry to a charming William Rose.
And Alastor. Always Alastor.
December 31st, 1950
“-And after just two years I was moving here to New York, getting picked up by my lovely music executive Mr. Rose and by Columbia Records. I've been quite a hit here as well, album after album and movie after movie, interviews in every format and my name on everyone's lips.”
“Miss Lovely, America’s Darling, Queen of the Starlets.” He agreed, tapping his pen, “Not a soul would argue your fame, Miss Lace. But that's not what this interview is about, is it?”
Annette’s ever present smile twisted into something sinister, voice crooning out seductive and dark.
“No. That’s not what this is about. Let's talk about the second man I killed.”