Chapter Text
It has been less than a month since Alastor Rousseau’s mother died.
She went peacefully. That’s what he tells people when they offer him condolences accompanied by pitying smiles. And he isn’t lying. Vivienne Rousseau died in her sleep, just after midnight. Alastor’s only comfort is that he was there when it happened, had watched her wither away for years and years from her disease until she was nothing but skin and bones. There’s a hole in Alastor now, a wound he’s sure not even time will heal. Nothing can replace the woman who raised him. The woman he’d kill for.
In the weeks since, he’s found his own place. With the housing market on the verge of an implosion, he had to sell everything his mother ever owned, up to and including that little apartment they shared, and spend every cent they had saved between the two of them. It’s a fine house, sitting on one of the city’s levees and squashed between two luxury homes, and at least he doesn’t have to worry about rent.
His furniture is sparse right now. Excepting appliances and clothing, all he owns are a handful of pieces donated to him by Rosie. Not exactly to Alastor’s tastes, with their floral embroidery, but he appreciates the gesture nonetheless.
He’s not at home right now, though. The news of Vivienne Rousseau’s death inevitably made it to the other side of the levee and to the ears of his cousin, Lilith Primrose. Vivienne had been the help on Lilith’s family’s plantation before she fell ill, so the two had grown up together, both of them born in that three-story white-pillared mansion. Since Alastor and his mother relocated to the city, they haven’t spoken since. Now, he’s being extended an invitation to visit and ‘catch up’ while the Primroses have a friend over.
Of course, he knows intrinsically that he’s not to bring up their relation in front of company. To all who might ask, Alastor is a childhood friend, rather than Mrs. Primrose’s bastard cousin.
The Primrose’s driveway is a long stretch of white concrete, lined with well-kept crape myrtles. A little dizzy from the trolley ride, Alastor jogs up the front steps to the house, which sits on the line between the Irish Channel and the Garden District. He gives himself a cursory smoothing down, and knocks on the door. Tucked into a nook of the veranda, an aging Great Dane lifts its head to give him a once-over before going back to dozing in the heat.
Alastor’s scarcely touched the front door before it swings open. A butler looks down his nose at him, appraising him like he might glean some insight from just the way he looks.
“Miss Rousseau’s boy?” The man asks, and Alastor nods. “Yes, I see the resemblance. This way.”
The butler escorts him down sparkling corridors, all tastefully decorated. Within moments, they reach a sitting room that faces the water and Alastor’s own house, the French windows thrust open and ivory curtains billowing in the gentle breeze. It smells like it might storm.
“Mr. Alastor Rousseau, madam,” announces the butler, and Lilith Primrose jerks to attention where she’s posted up on an off-white fainting couch.
“Alastor!” His cousin scrambles hastily to her feet. She’s dressed in a plum-colored dress with sleeves shaped like lilies of the valley and a skirt that reaches her calves. As she comes closer, her décolletage bears a string of pearls no doubt worth more than four times Alastor’s monthly salary.
“Lilith. It’s a delight seeing you again, my dear.” He bows his head politely, hands clasped behind his back. Alastor is careful not to match her breathless enthusiasm.
Especially because there is a stranger in the room. A man who is decidedly not Adam Primrose, whom Alastor met when the former star athlete wed Lilith ten years ago, sits smoking a cigar in an armchair below one of the open windows. The man who is not Mr. Primrose wears a navy-blue suit, has salt-and-pepper slicked back hair, and has a face that strikes Alastor as being one he’s seen before, only he can’t quite place where. He looks older than Alastor by a few years.
Despite his presence, Lilith disregards all social conventions and pulls Alastor in for a tight hug. The disc jockey tenses up; evidently some things never change, including his cousin’s tendency to forget his aversion to touch. As he pats her shoulder awkwardly, Lilith’s rouged lips split into a sharp, enticing grin, one that promises to divulge heinous secrets if you lean in close enough. “It’s so good to see you again! Look at how tall you’ve gotten!”
She, too, has grown like a kudzu vine. Perhaps it runs in her side of the family.
As she’s marveling at his height, Alastor hears another familiar voice. This one is loud and brash. He whips around to face it, reeling from all the stimuli.
“Is he here?” The new voice belongs to, of course, Adam Primrose, who appears in the other doorway, dressed in baby blue. Age has done nothing to his rugged good looks, but his face has hardened, and his boundless youthful athleticism seems to have been replaced by tough, whipcord strength. Though he has, as Alastor understands it, stopped being an athlete and since begun clinking glasses with other richfolk in lieu of having an occupation at all, there’s still punishment promised in the sinew of his tanned forearms. When he spies Alastor, his eyes flash with recognition and he gives him a smirk. “Hey there, bo! There’s a face I haven’t seen since my rugby days. How ya been?”
How has he been?
Alastor simply forces his smile wider. “Oh, you know.”
Lilith rolls her eyes. Her voice drips with disdain for her husband, surprising Alastor. “Adam, don’t be rude. I already told you his mother just passed away.”
“Oh shit,” hisses the man, expression creasing with chagrin, and he disappears from the doorway. The alarmingly clear contempt on his wife’s face elicits a smokey laugh from the stranger in the corner.
The sound causes Alastor’s cousin to remember they are not alone. Dismissing Adam with a shake of her head, she promptly pulls a baffled Alastor towards the center of the room to make introductions. “Ignore my husband. He’s been—preoccupied. Not keeping anything straight these days. Alastor, this is Victor Oslo Xavier. He’s in entertainment, too.”
“Please, just call me ‘Vox’,” the man insists, leaning back in his chair and taking a puff off his cigar. His eyes flicker up and down Alastor’s form. They’re a cruel, icy blue. A scar runs through the left one.
“Pleasure to be meeting you sir, quite a pleasure!” Alastor declares, choosing to ignore Adam’s slip-up. He adjusts the glasses on his face, the smile affixed to it never wavering in the slightest. Approachability is everything in this sort of company. ‘Vox’ certainly seems to be cut from the same cloth as their hosts, based solely on his appearance and the rich, heady aroma wafting from his cigar. “How do you do?”
Vox continues to study him closely. Alastor has never met a wolf, but he wonders if this isn’t what they look like when they are on the hunt, searching for a weakness with a sinister curl to their black and dripping muzzles. “Very well, sir. Heard a fair few things about you from your cousin. Only the good, mind you. Though I would like to get to know the bad. I find those are often the most interesting parts of a man, you see.”
It’s as Vox is offering up his silver cigar box, motioning for Alastor to take one, that he adds, “Didn’t tell me you had a touch of tar, though.”
Alastor’s eye twitches.
He fights tooth and nail against the urge to rip his hand away, even as his skin crawls. Thankfully he manages to accept a cigar and a light without much of an outward reaction.
The fact Vox is even aware of his and Lilith’s relation is…well, he doesn’t know how to feel about it yet. But it’s not a positive feeling.
“My mother and I are of Creole descent,” he says flatly. He turns his attention back to Lilith after a drag of his own cigar, not eager to discuss details of himself with this ‘Vox’ character. “It pains me to hear Adam’s been having trouble. I trust everything is all right with the two of you? I have vivid memories of you riding off into the sunset together. Surely that kind of passion doesn’t dwindle.”
It can and it does. Alastor can hardly call himself and Lilith especially close, but the amicability between himself and Adam is strained at best. For all intents and purposes, Alastor did not exist to Adam Primrose when they were younger, unless he was pointed out by someone else. Thus he was able to observe the man quietly and make the unsurprising discovery that his interests and endeavors, no matter the subject, were all superficial. Anyone with half a brain could see that his marriage to Lilith was little more than a conquest.
But to criticize their marriage uninvited would be untoward.
“Oh, yes, it’s certainly been a passionate few years,” Lilith sighs out, her tone not at all matching her expression. Vox tuts at her.
“Come on, Lili, Adam’s a real catch. He stays out of your way for the most part, doesn’t he? What’s a few wifely duties in exchange for all the money and freedom it affords you?”
Lilith scoffs. “What would you know, Voxxy?” she drawls, waving a dismissive hand. “You’re a man. You do whatever and whoever you please.”
“Guilty,” the man purrs, grinning roguishly as he leans back in his armchair with another drag of his cigar. He crosses one leg over the other and his eyes take another leisurely tour of Alastor’s body. “It was my time abroad though, during the war. Has a way of making a fellow, mm, open-minded. Creole, huh? Don’t think I’ve ever met your type. Charming creature, aren’t you? Sun-kissed as a Spaniard.”
Alastor wants to crawl out of his skin. Even more so, wants to make use of the switchblade currently tucked into his sock and gouge that shit-eating grin off Vox’s face.
Never met his type. Alastor has to laugh. Doesn’t the man know where he is? What Vox doesn’t know is that he’s telling on himself about how ‘open-minded’ he truly is.
“Play nice,” Lilith teases Vox with a twinkly little laugh, like they’re a pair of roughhousing schoolboys. “We still have dinner to get through. You will stay, won’t you, Al? We have so much to catch up on.”
Truth be told, the more he interacts with Victor Oslo Xavier, the less and less Alastor wants to stick around. But it is a free dinner, and he was invited. And he can’t find any traces of condescension in his cousin’s tone.
“I suppose I will,” Alastor agrees finally. He smiles a wan smile at Lilith. “What is it we’re having, might I ask?”
“Oh, trust me, Al, we eat like kings here.” Adam has materialized again, standing next to a gentleman in all white—presumably the chef. He waits a beat, and when the room just stares at him, he guffaws and throws his hands up. “Well, what are you waiting for, people? Come on already.”
Then he traipses off into what must be the dining room.
That…didn’t answer Alastor’s question. Fortunately, as they all drift in the same direction, another servant murmurs to him that they’ll be having steak (medium rare, praise be), Duchess potatoes, icebox cake, and, should the present company want it, wine.
How nice it must be, to be so wealthy that Prohibition may as well not exist. Alastor is rather frugal, and he has never wanted for much, but that absolutely produces a pang of longing in his chest.
The wine flows freely at dinner, with one bottle cracked open and then another when that one is down to the dregs. They've only just finished the main course by the time the third bottle makes an appearance.
"It's good," Vox hums as he tries the dessert wine, light and sweet. "You can tell it's the proper stuff. Vintage. Well-kept. Not like the sort that flows over at the Magne place."
Lilith's fork clatters against her plate, causing Alastor’s eyes to flick up from the cake he’s picking at. "Magne? What Magne?"
"I was telling you about it, darling. The party, remember? The one I went to the other night with the showgirls?"
Alastor is not actually much of a wine man. Thus, he has no reference for what makes this particular one good. But he doesn't mind it, which is saying something, given his preference for rye whiskey and, in particular, Sazeracs. Even if he didn't like it, though, he's not about to complain over a dinner he's not paying a nickel for.
He's been half-tuned in to the idle dinner table chatter so far (frankly, he found the steak infinitely more interesting), but Vox gets his attention with the casual dropping of a familiar name, one that invokes images of festivities stretching late into the witching hour, hydroplanes and (likely illegal) party boats on the levee when Alastor walks home from the studio.
"Would that be one Lucifer Magne?" He inquires. "I do believe my neighbor is a gentleman of that name. His lawn is never empty, and I think he must employ something like two hundred people, with the number I see tending to it in the daytime."
Alastor has yet to speak with or even see Mr. Magne, though Rosie has told him he's quite the elusive figure even at his own events. Her descriptions paint the man as an eccentric misanthrope with more money than he knows what to do with.
"Can hear the motherfucker's parties from across the water," Adam contributes drunkenly into his wineglass. Lilith’s painted lips curl in irritation.
"You really can just walk over to his parties if you live that close, you know," Vox advises, leaning across the table to talk to Alastor even though there is maybe three feet of distance between them. "We should all go sometime. Just to gawk. It's all so very tasteless, but fun in its own way. His music choice is good. They always have a band. Some of my associates have found themselves getting swept up in the whole thing and passing out on the lawn."
Based on his first impression of the fellow, Alastor can think of nothing he’d like less than to attend an event with Vox.
Even as an introvert, Alastor has always enjoyed dancing. Rounding up Rosie and Mimzy to spend some time amongst all that glitz and glamor like a bunch of ravenous social climbers...it has more appeal than he expected it to. Of course, Rosie and Mimzy already rub elbows with some well-to-do folks given their respective careers, but Alastor's never crossed paths with the opportunity, at least after moving out of Lilith's family's plantation. And if he really can just waltz on in...
"Perhaps I’ll have a look next time," he agrees eventually, returning to what’s left of his dessert with a newfound resolve. He'll be going to the next of Magne's lavish parties, preferably without the company of Victor Oslo Xavier.
Honestly, he hopes he won't run into him.
After dinner, Lilith receives a telephone call from a girl friend back home in river country and flees the table, leaving the three men on their lonesome in the dining room. Adam is the least sober of the group by far; surprising, given he’s got three times Alastor’s own muscle mass. Although, to be fair, there is a discrepancy between the number of glasses they’ve each had, with Alastor’s one and a half and Adam’s…well…that really says it all, doesn’t it?
Vox is significantly less wasted, but his movements still have a sway to them, like he’s standing on the bow of a boat. And of course his propriety hasn’t improved.
“So, Al—can I call you Al?—you got a girl?” He croons, chin propped up on one palm. He nods in Mr. Primrose’s direction. “Adam here’s got some girl in the city proper.”
“Got some girl?” Alastor echoes, alarmed. Alarmed, though he’s not sure why. Such a thing seems perfectly in character for the former athlete.
“Shut up, asshole,” Adam snorts in Vox’s direction, looking unaffected. “It’s none of your business.”
“Au contraire, Mr. Primrose,” chuckles the man. “I find that everyone’s business is my business. Comes with the gig. You don’t get the wire on the latest scandals by minding your business. And soon, when television’s king, anyone who’s anyone in all of America will know the scoop too.”
Television. Replacing the papers? Replacing radio? Ludicrous, Alastor thinks, tossing his eyes. But Vox’s sentiment does give Alastor some insight into his profession, as well as an explanation for why his face is familiar. He must have seen him on a magazine cover, or in the paper somewhere.
“Are you at the Picayune, then?” asks Alastor. Vox turns to him with a close-lipped smile that feels patronizing, even before he’s been spoken to. Like Alastor is a child who needs things explained to him slowly and in simple, monosyllabic words.
“Oh, no,” Vox laughs. “I live in New York City. This—” he gestures nonspecifically around them, “Is just a little vacation for myself and my associates. I’m editor-in-chief for a paper up north, though of course we dabble in other markets as well.”
Again, his scrutiny of Alastor becomes salacious. Alastor tightens his jaw.
Vox opens his mouth to speak again, but blessedly, Lilith chooses that moment to return. She launches into an explanation of what she spoke about on the phone, but Alastor is already standing up from the table.
“Lilith, sweetheart, I believe it’s time for me to return home.” He forces some cheeriness into his voice.
His cousin does look genuinely crestfallen, bless her heart. “Oh!” she exclaims, pressing a hand to her chest. “Are you sure?”
“I am. You know how it is. Busy day tomorrow,” he insists, feeling Vox’s intense gaze on him. “Shall I be seeing you again soon?”
“Of course! Let me walk you to the door…”
As Alastor follows her out of the dining room, he casts one last glance over his shoulder at the two men watching him intently. Vox is still smiling. His stomach turns and he forces out, “Goodnight, gentlemen.”
On the streetcar ride home, Alastor wonders, half-asleep, when the next of Lucifer Magne’s famous soirées might be happening.