Angel: A City of Lost Angels Story
Chapter 26: Alastair

Alastair’s POV

He was sure it was her. She was the spitting image of Kirinn, only her eyes and tail were different. After the many hours he spent staked out at the bar watching, he knew it was her. It had to be.

He couldn’t confirm it with anyone though. His whole pack had been slaughtered, and over 20 years he was sure no one else would remember a stray cat on the outskirts of town. The city had an ever-revolving door of bodies. He had only his memories to trust.

That is, unless the Syn-dicks found some connection in her blood. Maybe one the Tribe’s toms was her sperm donor and remembered Kirinn? Marco’s fiery pup Falkner had almost ruined any chance for proof, but his young anger was easily dismissed. He knew nothing of real rage. Not like Alastair did.

He chewed the ice from his drink faking interest out the window. In reality, he watched her confidence mask turn on and off like a switch today. On when taking orders. Off when wiping counters. Smiling and bouncy when that winged lump was near. Fear and self-doubt auras crushing her when alone. She must be dealing with Falkner’s attack by hiding.

His mask never dropped though. He wasn’t even sure he remembered what he was without the facade now. Too much guilt and regret kept contained by a thin wall of skin. He sighed.

As Angel looked up he lifted his empty glass. Silently she brought a full refill and shook her head as she approached. “How am I supposed to trust you’ll protect my ass if you’re drunk off yours?”

“I’m a lycan and a demon, Angel. It would take every drink in this bar for me to feel a buzz.”

She frowned. That frustrated look, THAT was Kirinn. “Well then why drink just to piss it away?”

“It tastes good.” She huffed at his answer and spun off.

Why was he wasting days away in the bar anyway? Sacrificing time better spent creating sinful acts he desperately needed to meet quota? Repentance maybe. Being a watchdog now when he wasn’t there for Kirinn. Protecting Angel now when he couldn’t protect his Pack. Settling his stomach with mint drinks when the sickness he felt would never actually ease. It shouldn’t either, he didn’t deserve peace. His own pride had killed everyone he knew.

He downed the drink in one gulp, chewing ice that remained instead again. It was a small bar like this where he had boasted to the beer about his werewolf healing. Challenging the weak humans inside to a bar fight for fun. He teased and peacocked. Cracked bottles and broken chairs barely scratched his skin, but any faces that met his fists were levelled. He had exposed their Pack secret to the neighbouring village and then cockily hadn’t told Alpha quick enough to prevent the onslaught that followed.

Past the River Styxx in death, Mistress Narcissa claimed him unbidden and he rose again on Earth where he had fallen... Amongst the charred bodies of his family and the smouldering embers of their homes. He found the chain from his son’s necklace, a pup that would have now been Falkner’s age. He screamed at the moon until his voice permanently changed. He threw himself into the demon role those first years and took as many souls as graves he dug in retribution.

His only sense of humanity had been in sheltering an injured neko, often seen skirting the Pack boundary. Alpha believed nekos were no threat and ordered all to leave them alone, so he had no reservations in providing aid for the innocent cat caught up in the bloodbath. He provided for her, and soon too a tiny daughter she bore. It was a strange sort of family unit that brought comfort.

9 months after the birth, an underhanded favour took him far away for days. The small kitten was just starting to toddle and he expected to come back to their makeshift home to replace her jumping off the furniture.

The scene though was an execution, and one he’ll never forget. He buried anything left of his heart with Kirinn in yet another grave. The child was gone, and years of searching found no trace of killers or kidnappers.

He watched Angel choose a horribly poppy song from the jukebox. Some guy singing about a strange disease and bezerk libido? Even her terrible music taste reminded him of many happier things in his past, and he felt the smallest thump where his heart used to be.

He promised himself then and there to aid in her happiness and safety, at whatever cost to him. He mentally had reaped enough souls to avenge his Pack and had only been maintaining existence until he could learn of the lost kitten’s fate. If her life required his to save it, he was happy to give it. Even if she wasn’t Kirinn’s blood.

Another thump in his chest made him smile for the first time in 20 years. A hint of peace? He lifted his glass for a refill.