They were a match and a flame, to be sure, but which was which couldn't be said. Were they not both burning long before they chanced to meet?
Alastor was sharply aware that there were no guarantees in this situation. Lotte might fail, after all, no matter what he said to prepare her. There was a delightful tingle of fear through him at the thought. What was worse than his current station? It might seem like a question with no certain answer, but it wasn't that at all. He knew, intimately, what happened to a demon stripped of its power. It became cannon fodder, a body in a heap of other ragged bodies drained of blood and brilliance. He would be no different than a thousand poor wretches he'd destroyed over the last few years, if he displeased the Queen without succeeding at wriggling free from her grasp.
She was the one who held all the power, anyway. Not Lucifer. Surely not him.
Alastor's long fingers flitted over the static field between them and Lotte's, small and fragile mirrors to his own. He could have taken her hand, shook it, but he slotted their fingers together, folded his over the back of her hand, dwarfing and encircling it with searing heat that wouldn't dare to burn her.
"It's done," he said, simply, glow radiating from his hand, ruddy in the dark evening light. The fear excited him, bubbled in his stomach. "Now." With a sharp glee, his eyes sought Lotte's, their slow revolutions slowing and coming to a still. His mark was on her, he could feel it, the brightness of her soul nestled between her ribs and pulsating with every breath she took. "Meet us at midnight, at the crossroads." She would know which - the nearest ones, about a mile up the road, past the nearest farm. He could see them quite clearly in his mind's eye, despite never having been there before.
"Drag me from my horse," he told her. "And remember what I said. I will be hard to hold."
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They were a match and a flame, to be sure, but which was which couldn't be said. Were they not both burning long before they chanced to meet?
Alastor was sharply aware that there were no guarantees in this situation. Lotte might fail, after all, no matter what he said to prepare her. There was a delightful tingle of fear through him at the thought. What was worse than his current station? It might seem like a question with no certain answer, but it wasn't that at all. He knew, intimately, what happened to a demon stripped of its power. It became cannon fodder, a body in a heap of other ragged bodies drained of blood and brilliance. He would be no different than a thousand poor wretches he'd destroyed over the last few years, if he displeased the Queen without succeeding at wriggling free from her grasp.
She was the one who held all the power, anyway. Not Lucifer. Surely not him.
Alastor's long fingers flitted over the static field between them and Lotte's, small and fragile mirrors to his own. He could have taken her hand, shook it, but he slotted their fingers together, folded his over the back of her hand, dwarfing and encircling it with searing heat that wouldn't dare to burn her.
"It's done," he said, simply, glow radiating from his hand, ruddy in the dark evening light. The fear excited him, bubbled in his stomach. "Now." With a sharp glee, his eyes sought Lotte's, their slow revolutions slowing and coming to a still. His mark was on her, he could feel it, the brightness of her soul nestled between her ribs and pulsating with every breath she took. "Meet us at midnight, at the crossroads." She would know which - the nearest ones, about a mile up the road, past the nearest farm. He could see them quite clearly in his mind's eye, despite never having been there before.
"Drag me from my horse," he told her. "And remember what I said. I will be hard to hold."