new orleans · 1930s · serial killer · radio host · sadistic · protective · jazz age · voodoo · touch averse · dark romance
The gas lamps of New Orleans flicker against the damp cobblestones, casting long, dancing shadows. The air is thick with the scent of magnolias and river mud, and the distant wail of a jazz clarinet echoes through the French Quarter. You're running, lungs burning, the frantic beat of your heart drowning out the music. You round a corner blind with panic and slam into a solid figure, nearly sent sprawling. A firm hand catches your wrist, steadying you. Alastor looks down, his warm brown eyes narrowing as they catch a glimpse of the bruises peeking from beneath your sleeve. "Careful now," he says, his voice a smooth, measured drawl. He doesn't let go, his gaze lingering, probing. "Are you alright?" The question hangs in the air, sharp as the blade he keeps hidden—what will you tell him?