The aroma of old, cracked leather and cigars filled the room, dim splashes of orange light arced up the walls and the faded green filigree wallpaper that covered them. Lamps of dull brass with thick, brown glass sat squat upon the ancient tables that were littered with discarded tobacco wrappers and cigarette boxes. Some had dirty plates and mugs, beer glasses and tumblers.

A serpentine butler was winding around, stacking up crockery from dinner and tossing the rubbish into a black bag. He dipped his wide, frill-edged head respectfully as Peregrin and Crispin took a seat by a window.

Outside, the night sky was clearing. The stars (that weren't really there) were twinkling away as clouds drifted off of the edge of Hell's boundary. Beyond was the desert wasteland of Purgatory, where Crispin's dear friend once lived in an old, crumbling high-rise block. It would be stormy over there. Lightning would be striking both the roof and the Sky dish that Rave the menacing velociraptor had got so much use out of.

Peregrin sat back, relaxed, his cloak folded upon the long seat he was lounging upon. He lit a cigar and another snake-like butler appeared, again dipping its head with respect, this one not cleaning up but instead holding a silver tray with a drink on it; a scotch with ice.

"What are you having, Huttgart?" the aardvark asked, a blue fragrant cloud surrounding him as he exhaled, taking his glass of Laphroaig off the tray in his long-taloned grey hand.

"I'll have a whiskey," he answered, softly, eyeing the Director's amber liquid and not wanting to sound like a yob asking for a Budweiser like Anar used to drink.

"Good taste," Peregrin nodded, "we have an extensive collection. What's your tipple of choice?"

Crispin tried to remember some of the fancy drinks his father liked. He didn't know if vermouth was a kind of whiskey and he was too afraid to ask. His mouth flapped, "erm..." what would Anar do? "I'd... like to try something new... what do you recommend?"

Peregrin asked the butler for something that sounded like cough medicine and the waistcoat-wearing snake slowly unwinded itself and drifted off, snootily. There were faded tracks in the carpet from all the slithering over the aeons.

"Did my son bring you here often?" the director asked, casually.

Crispin turned his head back, sharply, "n-no..."

"Really? I'm surprised. But then, this is an old club for very distinguished minions. I suppose it's all Budweisers in pool halls for youth these days." His graphite eyes were piercing. "It's a pity. I gave my son access to so much, but it seems he never took advantage of it. I gave him every perk possible, every privilege…"

Crispin shifted, the leather sofa creaking as he moved. He knew Anar's dad wanted answers. He knew Anar's dad was a slimeball. He sounded so sad, though. Crispin was very close to his own father; they played golf together, holidayed together, and now they even worked together. It was a shame Anar didn't have any of that with Peregrin.

"Anar never wanted to be a demon," Crispin explained, "he felt you forced him into it." His drink arrived and he accepted it, the ice clinking in the glass as the whiskey he couldn't pronounce sloshed around. He took a sniff and winced. Why had he decided to drink the rotten stuff? A Smirnoff Ice would have been much nicer. He wrinkled his nose and tipped the cut-glass whiskey tumbler back, gulping the potent spirit as it evaporated in his throat and he tried not to cough.

"Another?" the aardvark asked, sipping his own drink, delicately.

For unclear reasons, Crispin nodded, dumbly, and the butler vanished again.

His chest burned from the strong alcohol. Maybe he would get hairs on it at last.

The director puffed on his Cuban cigar, deep in thought. "Do you know why I forced my son into a career in Hell?"

Crispin's head felt a little tight. He took his sweater off from around his shoulder. One drink should not have had that effect! Crikey. He blinked. How much did he want to say to this man? Anar always went on about not trusting anybody and not saying too much, but then he went against his own advice and told the truth all the time, getting himself into trouble. Anar was gone now - he'd managed to escape, that was why his dad had come looking for him, so he didn't have to be too careful with his answers, right?

"Anar said you didn't want him to be a true Warlock."

"And do you know what that means?" Peregrin butted in quickly.

"I... I think it had something to do with his magic...?"

The aardvark nodded, his cigar end glowing brightly as he inhaled deeply.

"But magic's no big deal, really, right? We use magic! In the mortal realm, anyway. The Council of Sorcerer's use magic. It's like, whatever, surely?"

The butler returned. Crispin accepted his drink, his memory-of-a-heart beating fast. He didn't like being under the watchful gaze of Anar's dad. It made him jittery. Like he'd done something wrong. He hadn't. He didn't think so, at least.

"Have you heard about something called Natural Magic? Where a person is born with magic in their blood. Wild and untamed and dangerous?"

Crispin remembered watching pool tables whizz across the pool hall, crushing Frank Matlock's hired muscle before they could get to him and his friend. Crispin remembered Anar’s flying horse and the terrifying, star-coated cat. Oh yes, he had seen natural magic first-hand. "I think so," he squeaked, tipping his drink back.

The butler watched and hissed, "sssssshall I bring the bottle, My Lord?" it asked, wearily.

Peregrin nodded, "put it on my account, as always, Fisifer."

It dipped its head again, and was off, gently moving back to the bar.

"Natural magic is a curse," Peregrin growled. "It can manifest itself at any time, any how it chooses. There is no normal life with natural magic inside of you..."

"Anar couldn't actually do anything with his natural magic, though, could he?" Crispin objected, "it was only his gifted demonic powers that made him powerful, because they massively magnified what little natural magic he had in his blood."

The cool, low-lidded gaze across the table made his skin spring up in goosebumps. "It did what now?" the director asked.

Crowley flapped again. He'd been terrified of natural magic-wielders, once. Walking around, looking like everyone else, but one flick of the wrist and they could make things explode. "Anar couldn't do anything, when he was a mortal. With his magic, I mean."

Peregrin leaned in, his talons digging into the tabletop, his teeth on show as he carefully spoke; "my son could alter reality itself," he declared, "he summoned dinosaurs for friends after watching that Jurassic movie, I bet you met them - real, living breathing, long-extinct reptiles! He had a stuffed toy that could come to life and would do his bidding! He watched too much Magnum P.I. and managed to get himself a red Ferrari from his uncle. How many uncles do you know handing out Italian sports cars that they don't want?! Anar may not have been able to make things move with his mind while on the mortal plane but that doesn't mean he didn't have any tangible power!"

Crispin poured himself a generous, disgusting shot from the bottle that had been placed on the table, spilling some with a shaky hand.

"I only ever wanted to keep my boy safe," Peregrin insisted, leaning back again now his outburst was over. "I gave him everything he could ever want, down here. I arranged for his car to come down, his green scaly pals to stay with him, I gave him the keys to our family residence upon the Rise... every leisure club he could want, every meal paid for. He could have been down here forever, safe, happy... where is he, Crispin? Where is my son? Where is your friend? Don't you want what's best for him, after all is said and done?"

Ice tinkled in the crystal tumbler, Crispin wobbled as he answered, ashamed that he was so easily interrogated and genuinely concerned now for his absent pal's wellbeing. "Warlock Court. He said he was going back... to Warlock Court... to take up the seat of his powerful ancestor..."

"Then that is where we shall go."

"We?" Crispin repeated, squeakily and a bit tipsy. He didn't want to have to spend another minute with this scary guy, never mind another day.

"We."

He felt a little sick. He couldn’t say ‘no’, not to this demon; he was too powerful – he would follow him, he would kidnap him – torture him if he had to. Directors were ruthless. "Ok," he gulped.

Peregrin drummed his fingers on the table, 'hmmm'-ing to himself. It was clear to him now why his son had set fire to the Hell Afterlife Services building: he'd created an emergency because he wanted him out of the way, to be summoned back to Hell so that Anar could go back to Mortimer without his knowledge.

Now all Peregrin had to do was come up with a good excuse to return to the mortal realm and find Anar while all the Inner Circle were meant to be staying here investigating the office fire and getting everything back how it was, more or less. Was there someone, anyone in the land of the living that could realistically be put under scrutiny for such an attack upon the Underworld? Even just a hint of a suspicion would be enough to justify him crossing through via the Link to investigate.

"What do you know about the half-elf demonologist my son was involved with for a while, Huttgart?"

"Ember? What does she have to do with any of this?" Crispin slurred.

"Nothing. But… we could always change that."