Chapter 2, Episode 14

Transcript: Chapter 2, Episode 14

At the meeting table in the living room, Blaze sits cross-legged while lighting a taper candle to start a ghost therapy session with Alastor, who is in his less-smoky human form. He says, “All right, Alastor. Let’s talk.” Alastor replies, “Talk about what?”

Blaze says, “Let’s start with why you tried to kill me this morning.” Alastor sits slouched in the opposite chair, his arms folded. He pauses, then says with a cocky smile, “I don’t know what to tell you.”

Blaze tilts his head with a look of sensitive concern and asks, “How did you feel when you tried to kill me?” Alastor doesn’t respond.

As Alastor frowns and narrows his glowing white eyes, Blaze says from off panel, “You know what I’ve noticed? You’re always very calm about it. Methodical. You only got angry after I fought back. Why is that?”

Blaze whirls around with surprise as Evie says from behind him, “Because he’s a hitman, Blaze.”

Evie narrows her eyes and says, “Alastor the Angel Killer.”

Looking indignant, Blaze cries, “Evie! You can’t just interrupt a session!”

Her face stern, Evie explains, “Legend says the demon Lucifer has a hitman to dispose of all the angels that get in his way. Alastor the Angel Killer.” A gritty black and sepia image shows the demon Lucifer seated on his throne, smiling wickedly with bat-like wings spread. At his side stands a grinning, broad-shouldered demon holding a bloody scythe. Evie continues, “Five years ago, a series of targeted murders was committed across the country. The assassin took the name of Lucifer’s fabled right-hand man, executor of his sentences.” A black and sepia image shows the body of a man lying face down in a city alley, a cross necklace splayed on the ground from around his neck. In the background is the silhouette of a man in a trench coat, walking away.

As Alastor glares at her, Evie asks, “Tell me, Alastor. What makes you an “angel killer”?

Alastor scowls and looks away. He says, “I don’t know who you are, lady, but I’ve never killed an “angel.”

From beside him, Blaze leans forward and says, “But you have killed.” Alastor frowns, his eyebrows furrowed. He says nothing.

Blaze tilts his head in contemplation, his hands resting on his knee. He says, “I mean, it makes sense. The smoke brings out your basest instincts. If you were a murderer, that’d explain why you’re so driven to kill everyone you see.”

The view zooms out to show the three of them in the living room. Evie, her brows lowered and her hands on her hips, says, “Why Angel Killer”? Why take the name of a demon as your own?” Blaze turns in his seat and cries, “Oh my god, Evie! Can you please stop using the D-word?!” Evie presses, “Why, Alastor?”

With an impertinent smile, Alastor says, “You seem to know already. Why don’t you enlighten us?”

Evie holds out her arm and snaps her fingers at Blaze. “Alastor the Angel Killer,” she says. “Look it up on your phone, Blaze.” Blaze slumps in his seat and whines, “Aww, come on, Evie, just tell us! You know I hate touching screens!” Tiny text next to him says, “They suck out my soul,” followed by a frowny face.

Evie glares intensely at Blaze. Blaze gulps nervously.

With a sullen frown, Blaze pauses as he looks down at his phone. With one glove on and one glove off, he reads from his phone, “Alastor the Angel Killer has been linked to the deaths of 3 Catholic bishops, 5 priests, and 18 additional clergy members across various Christian denominations. He’s also believed to be responsible for the deaths of two Buddhist monks, two Jewish rabbis, one Hindu swami, two Wiccan high priestesses, and one—“ Evie cuts him off. With a bitter frown, she says, “one spirit medium.”

Blaze’s eyebrows furrow with concern as he finishes, “All eight appeared to be healthy before suddenly succumbing to cardiac arrest.”

Looking up at Evie with wide, worried eyes, he says, “Evie… I thought you died of ‘natural causes.’”

Evie folds her arms and says, “It certainly looked natural, didn’t it? No one questions an 80-year-old’s heart attack. Not the EMTs, not the medical examiner, not the toxicologist.” She recalls her death as an elderly woman, lying prone on the floor of a Chicago bus as two nearby passengers look down with shock. On the floor beside her is a paper coffee cup, the opening in the plastic lid highlighted red. In present time, she says, “Nor did they check the lip of the to-go cup on the floor of the bus.”

Alastor narrows his eyes and tilts his head, silently thinking. Then, with a smirk, he says, “Ohhh… That old raisin was you? Tch, my bad.”

Holding out his arms in an apathetic shrug, he says, “It was nothing personal. Just a paycheck.”

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