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matrixrefugeeAt long last, I finally got this typed... Enjoy!
+J.M.J.+
The Smoke of Satan in Your House
by "Matrix Refugee"
Rating: R (Demon slash: Original Demonic Character/Balthazar)
Warnings: References to demonic activity, the above-mentioned demon slash, Constantine's usual cussing, and a sickening moment when Constantine's health starts to take a turn for the worse, which I modelled after "Hellblazer #41: The Beginning of the End", found in the compilation "Dangerous Habits".
Author's Note: Sorry for the delay: I've been working extra at my regular job, since I had an unexpected medical bill to pay... Before I go any further with this chapter, I have some good news to share: my parish, the model for Sankt Maria Magdalena, has been granted a reprieve until December 15th, 2005 (I know, what a stupid date: couldn't they wait till after New Year's Day??). Today, the day I started typing this, June 30th, is the day it was supposed to have closed; we still got more arm-twisting to do, but we've got some leverage behind us that could tip this in our favor, please God.
Disclaimer: I don't own "Constantine", its characters, concepts and other indicia, which are the property of Francis Lawrence, Village Roadshow, Warner Brothers, DC Comics/Vertigo, et al. And I certainly don't own any of the demons.
Chapter Four: Nipping out for Supplies
"I doubt the chancery library would have anything close to what you're looking for," Crowley said, frying eggs in a skillet over his "illegal" hotplate the next morning. "The Boston Public Library might be a more likely place to look."
"You ever been there running research?" Constantine asked, tying his shoes.
"I've poked around there a few times when I needed to," Crowley replied.
"I take it you never had to deal with a hotspot before," Constantine said.
"It's the first time I've heard of one in this area," Crowley said.
"You don't sound suprised by it, or are you just getting hardened to it, like me?"
Crowley turned the eggs out onto a plate. "That could be part of it, but it seems to me that a hotspot would be right in keeping with the area. There's all sorts of stories floating about New England, about ghost ships and sailors returning home who'd been lost at sea, and captains' widows who had special talents. There's a dead zone out in the Berkshires, where birds won't nest in the trees and animals won't go in; local stories say that it was the site of a farmstead back in the 1700s, or at least it was until a man went mad and apparantly killed his entire family before killing himself. Up near Bennington, Vermont, there's a strange spot in the woods that's a twin to the Bermuda Triangle, only a lot smaller."
"Don't forget the shit that went down in Salem," Constantine said, finding the carton of Lucky Strikes he'd bought the night before, and taking out a fresh pack.
"Actually, that happened in what's now Danvers, and according to one local forensic investigator, it was most likely a case of mass ergot poisoning, when several families ate bread made from rye that had been contaminated with a fungus that grows on the plants during a wet, warm growing season," Crowley said.
"There were a few who were the real thing, the ones who got away," Constantine said.
"You've been doing your homework, I take it?"
"Bit of information that caught my eye last night: I'd always wondered about Salem," Constantine said, lighting up his second cigarette of the day. "Didn't surprise me: there's always a guilty party or two who let the innocent folks get the sharp end of the stick."
"Don't tell me you think there's a connection," Crowley said, cracking two more eggs into the skillet.
Constantine shrugged and let a plume of smoke trail from his lips. "Could just be a fluke. Salem -- excuse me -- Danvers is just a few towns over."
Crowley set the first plate of eggs on the table, nudging it toward Constantine. "Here, there's something to keep you going while you're following that fluke.
At that moment, someone knocked at the door. Crowley turned down the eggs and went to answer the knock. He came back a moment later with a sheaf of mail and a rumpled newspaper.
"Pardon the condition of the Clarion," Crowley said, laying the rumpled paper, that week's issue of the dioceasan newspaper, on the table. "Things got so tight here, we're kind of sharing it here at the residency." From the dog-eared state of the pages and the rings on the back page, it clearly had had more than one reader already.
Constantine unfolded the paper and scanned the headlines idly. The main headline caught a corner of his attention: "Bishop Mallegant Hires Financial Advisor, Real Estate Broker To Balance Books". Below it were a few inches of type and a photograph of the bishop talking with a tall, distinguished-looking man with neatly brushed reddish hair and clad in a long jacket that had to be Armani. "Bishop Benjamin Mallegant converses with Marcel Mephis, a financial advisor brought in to bring order to the Houlton diocease's accounts and to manage the sales of diocesan property."
Something about the image twigged Constantine's awareness. He scanned the accompanying article more closely.
"...the bishop met with Marcel Mephis, a top-ranking certified public accountant and real estate broker in the employ of West Coast-based BZR Enterprises, an investment firm which has successfully assisted several large corporations through times of financial difficulty."
BZR Enterprises... that place was crawling with half-breed demons. One of its top executives was in reality a demon named Balthazar, the black beast of Constantine's existence, who'd been hounding him for years, interfering with his cases.
"Martin... you still got that black glass mirror?" Constantine asked, setting his cigarette in the ashtray at his elbow. "I think I've got something here."
"Yes, just give me a minute to find it," Crowley said, turning the eggs onto a plate and going to the cupboard. "Ursula was cleaning some time back and tried to toss it out on me. I had to hide it a little better. Let's hope I didn't hide it from myself."
After a few moments of poking around on the lower shelves, Crowley came up with round piece of glass in a tarnished silver frame, one side of the glass painted black, the other side was clear.
Constantine smoothed the newspaper flat on the table. Crowley held the mirror over it, glossy side down.
"Do you think it'll work?" Crowley asked, adjusting the angle. "It's only a newspaper photograph."
"It's worth a shot," Constantine said, peering under the edge of the glass.
He saw the photograph dimly reflected on the dark surface, the text reversed. But to his eyes, the image had changed: Mallegant's image looked blurred and distorted. Seven pairs of eyes that weren't his seemed to be looking out of his face. The other male in the photograph was almost completely blurred out.
"Damn," Constantine muttered.
Crowley set the mirror on the table top. "Holy Mother of mercy..." he said, under his breath. "The Grappin is all over him, inside and out."
"So what do you suggest we do? Try a deliverance the next time you meet him at a council meeting?" Constantine asked. "You're the one who kept saying you couldn't get involved."
"Do what you need to do, John," Crowley said. "Have you planned anything yet?"
"Not till I put a name to the demon who's master-minding it." He tapped the picture of Mallegant and Mephis. "I got an idea which one, but if I'm right, I'm dealin' with a heavy-hittin' bastard. I'll need some heavy artillery for this one."
"Not the shotgun," Crowley said, with a touch of incredulity, which Constantine expected.
"I guess I'll have to nip back to LA and bring it back. Scratch that: I'll have to call Beeman and have him overnight mail it out here."
"There's one problem, John: You can't ship guns into Massachusetts unless you're a dealer based in the state," Crowley warned.
"Damn. There any neighboring states that are any more gun-friendly?" Constantine asked.
"You could ship it to a postal box in New Hampshire. Let me set that up for you."
"Hey, I thought you said you weren't getting involved?" Constantine demanded, with a smirk.
Crowley shrugged. "I'm setting up a postal box, not trying to exorcise Mallegant's demons."
Constantine grinned crookedly, and took a final pull from his burned-down cigarette. "You can't resist the hunt any more than I can."
"I'm just doing you a good turn," Crowley said.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
While Crowley set about opening the postal box in Salem, New Hampshire -- conveniently located just over the state line -- Constantine made his arrangements to fly back to LA the next morning.
Five o'clock that evening found Constantine huddled in the shelter of the Houlton commuter rail station. A light snow had started to fall, but even his trench coat and a thermal undershirt Crowley had given him couldn't keep the icy breeze from gnawing at him. Natalie hadn't shown up yet, and at five-fifteen, five minutes before the next train into Boston was supposed to arrive, he was about to leave, when she came running up the platform.
"Sorry I'm late: The road was icy and that slowed down my bus," she said, panting.
He shrugged and dropped the stub of his cigarette on the pavement, grinding it out with his heel. "Hey, ...stuff like that happens," he said, reminding himself to soft-pedal it around this girl.
The train arrived ten minutes later, and their progress was slowed due to the snow. Someone was working overtime throwing curveballs at his head, Constantine thought. Once they were seated, Natalie took a worn wooden bead rosary from her inside pocket and silently started praying, the beads slipping through her fingers. Constantine turned to watch the scenery slipping past them, but the blur of snow and the layer of grime on the window pane blocked his view.
"Have you heard the latest news about what Mallegant is up to?" Natalie asked.
Constantine shrugged himself out of the light doze he'd slipped into. "What... about him gettin' the financial advisor?"
"Yes... I saw the picture of him in the Clarion: I don't like the looks of the advisor at all," she said.
"Neither did I," Constantine said.
"May I ask why?" she asked.
"Sure, but I can't answer that here," he said, looking around at the other passengers.
A look crossed her eyes like she might pest him for the answer, but thankfully, she dropped her gaze and went back to praying her rosary.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Of course the arcane section of the Boston Public Library lacked the grimoires and silver-strapped tomes that Constantine had found while running similar research in Rome and London, during his training in his twenties, but it still contained dozens of thick scholarly books, more than they needed, as he and Natalie found out once they started. Unfortunately, it also had a lot of dust, which inflamed Constantine's lungs, setting him coughing.
At length, Natalie found a set of several crumbling leather-bound books on a lower shelf: "An History of Supernatural & Diabolical Phenomena in the New England States", which appeared to cover everything from the Salem Witch Hunts to house-hauntings in the late 1800's. While Natalie continued to peer at the other titles, he pored over one volume of the set, covering the 1850's.
His gaze scanned idly down the columns of small, antique typeface. He never really cared much for research: the thrill of the hunt held his attention more readily. Generally, he preferred to have someone else scout out the information, running reconnaissence while he went in and mopped up, but Beeman hadn't called with anything he'd turned up, which left Constantine in the dark. And this gave Natalie something to do, hopefully to keep her out from underfoot when the mop-up started.
The name "Saint Mary Magdalen" on the bottom of one page caught his eye. He read the paragraphs above it, realizing he'd found exactly what they needed. It seemed there was more to the Know-Nothings than mere anarchist statements: one member, Boaz Ryder, had been messing with black magic and in so doing, had made contact with Mefistofel, a fallen archangel, which apparently had promised to help Ryder out of some gambling debts he'd racked up, if Ryder could get his Know-Nothing cronies to burn Sankt Maria's. Putting two and two together, it seemed Mefistofel wanted to uncork that hell-hole, but he habn't counted on the priest who died in the blaze to tip the balance the other way...
"Holy shit," he murmured.
"Hmm?" Natalie asked, looking up from a bottom shelf, which she knelt before, scanning titles, a handkerchief tucked under the bridge of her eyeglasses, covering her nose and mouth against the dust. "Did you find anything?"
"Nothing short of the goddamned Un-Holy Grail," Constantine said, turning the book around and pushing it toward her. She took it and read over it in a low murmur, as if she were thinking out loud.
"Mefistofel..." Natalie murmured, snatching the handkerchief from her face and squeezing it as her hand started to shake in that wierd gesture. "Mephis... Oh God."
"Damn, you thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?" Constantine asked.
"That financial advisor Mallegant hired..." Natalie murmured.
"Probably no less than that same fallen angel," Constantine said, taking the book from her and shoving it back into it'sn space on the shelf.
"But how did that hole get there in the first place?" Natalie said.
"It'd be interesting to know, but it ain't necessary," Constantine said. "What's important -- for me at least -- is to know what demon I'm dealing with, put a name on the dragon. I'm guessin' Mefistofel sent those smaller demons to infect Mallegant, blind him to what was really going on, and spy on him. Kinda like a preternatural wire-tap on the bishop's mind and soul. Demons can't make you do anything, but they can read your mind once they're in you, and they can play on your fears."
"This is scary," Natalie said.
"The hell it is," Constantine said, rising from the short step ladder he perched on and tucking a hand under her shoulder, pulling her up off the floor. "Come on, we got what we need.
She made no objection as he led her out: she seemed a little shocky, but that was to be expected. At least she wasn't spazzing out.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The snow had stopped by the time they emerged from the building, but a cold wind whipped through the brownstone canyon around them, threatening to freeze them before they got to the MTA subway entrance a few blocks away. Constantine quickened his pace, taking care not to start coughing again. Natalie, at his side, kept her head down, clearly a veteran of many an icy winter blast. She seemed apprehensive, but she could have been wrapped up in her thoughts.
A couple approached them, emerging from a pool of darkness up ahead where a street light had gone out: a young woman in a fur coat with her hand resting on the arm of a tall man in a ground-sweeping black coat.
Something about the guy caused Constantine's awareness to set off alarm bells in his head. He hustled Natalie into the doorway of a closed gift shop. She squawked in wordless objection, but Constantine shushed her, pushing her back against the door and covering her so that he faced out. "We've got company."
The couple passed by their hiding place. The man peered over his companion's head, looking into the doorway. Constantine glimpsed the guy's long-nosed, leonine face, but they passed by too quickly for him to get a good look at the interloper. But he could taste the demonic aura that flowed off the stranger in waves that weakened, doppler-effect style, as he passed out of sight.
Constantine mentally counted to sixty, keeping his awareness wide-open, in case the stranger returned.
Natalie, under his arm, emitted a small questioning chirp; he felt her trembling against him.
"It's all right: he's gone," he said, stepping out of the doorway.
She peered around cautiously before emerging. "I smelled him."
"So did I," he said. "Worse."
Natalie took his hand in hers, holding herself against him the rest of the way to the subway entrance. Normally, Constantine would have gently pushed her off, but she clearly needed someone to hang onto.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
By noon the next day, Constantine was on board a flight back to LA, reminding himself not to reach for his smokes for the next four hours. The impulses came more strongly, perhaps as a reaction to the numbness threatening to creep into his being, not from last night's encounter -- he'd had far nastier experiences and come out no worse for the wear. Something else had happened between last night and now, which in some ways made those experiences fade by comparison.
He'd woken up, that morning, before Crowley's clock radio went off. He'd just sat up and started reaching for the pack on the endtable, when a wave of coughing had hit him so hard, it practically choked him. Not the usual dry hacking: this felt almost the way it had when he'd had double pneumonia as a kid, only he sure as hell didn't have it now. Aside from the cough, he felt the same way he always did. He covered his mouth with both hands, to catch whatever was coming up. But instead of the bland non-taste of phlegm, he tasted something bitter and metallic on his tongue.
He looked into his hand to find a splotch of red in his palm. Blood. Where the hell had it come from? He couldn't have bitten his tongue in the night, it was way too much for that. He got up and headed for the washroom to clean the blood off his hands. Whatever it was, it was probably not going to clear up by noon time....
He stuck his hands under the faucet and ran warm water over them. As he stood there, another coughing spasm wracked his chest. He leaned over the sink, spitting blood into the basin.
A third fit hit him. Something seemed to have caught in his throat, choking him. He stood there retching, until after a momentary eternity, he felt it loosen and drop from his open mouth.
A pulpy, pinkish-grey mass dropped into the basin. He stared down at the nameless clot, wondering what the hell it was, if it was something Mefistofel could have infected him with. He didn't sense the aura, which could mean only one thing: he'd coughed up part of himself.
His coughing must have awakened Crowley. He heard the older man's footsteps behind him, entering the washroom. Crowley approached, peering over Constantine's shoulder, his face grave.
"Merciful saviour..." he murmured. "You'd better have that cough checked out by a doctor when you get to LA, John."
"I'm in the middle of a job," Constantine said. "I'll make an appointment when this mess is over."
Crowley looked at him gravely. "You'd better do that: something like this happened to an uncle of mine, shortly before he died. The doctors told us it was cancer." With that, he stepped out of the washroom.
Whatever this was, he'd just have to hack along till he could see a specialist. He was used to hauling an injury around: cracked ribs, a sprained wrist, scratches, bites, bruises. The hazards of the profession. Constantine was used to it by now, used to treating himself. Try going to the emergency room with a three-inch gash in your arm and explaining to the nurse why you smelled like sulphur and burning garbage.
He leaned back in his seat, his fists bunched in his pockets, gritting his teeth and waiting for this wretched flight to land in LA.
He never felt so relieved to see Chas's battered "City of Angels" cab pull up to the curb outside the main terminal.
"Heya, John: how's the job goin'?" Chas asked as Constantine crawled into the back seat.
"So far so good," Constantine said, reaching for the pack he'd bought in Manchester. "How's things been hangin' here?"
"Pretty quiet, except for your little gal-pal in Sacramento gettin' shook up," Chas said, pulling away from the curb and weaving through the traffic that clogged the roadways.
"You keepin' her out of trouble?" Constantine asked, lighting up.
"I've been patchin' her up, holdin' her hand when she needs it," Chas said, trying to sound flippant and failing; the slightly sheepish smirk crossing his young face, visible in the rearview mirror, made a liar out of him, but Constantine ignored it. "So what's goin' down in Boston?"
"Houlton," Constantine corrected. "It's goin' like a snowball on a hill in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. Crowley called me out because some girl smelled demons in the bishop who's tryin' to shut down her parish. Once I get out there and start sniffin' around, come to find out that church is sittin' on top of a piece of real estate which a fallen archangel is trying to buy up."
"A fallen archangel? Cool," Chas said.
"Uh-unh, not cool," Constantine said, taking a long drag off his cigarette. "Definately not cool. This thing is deadly and smart. Common demons -- the elementals and soldier demons and other nasty little bastards you've seen me deal with -- those could maul you, but they're acting on pure appetite, it's all impulse. But this thing has the brains to fuck with your head till you don't know up from down, and then it moves in for the kill. Which is exactly what it's doin' to the bishop."
"Sounds like one hell of a mess you gotta clean up," Chas said, a little less enthusiastic. "You seen the thing behind it all?"
"Unfortunately, yeah: it spotted me and the girl who got me called out there in the first place."
"That why you're stickin' with this job?" Chas asked, grinning crookedly at John, over his shoulder as they stood in traffic.
"No. I'm not stickin' with this job because of the girl. She's more fucked in the head than I am. Or you are."
"Aw, thanks a lot. Seriously: what're you hauling out there for?"
"Crowley can't do it because he's too close to it: that bishop is his boss. I got less at stake than he does. So, why the hell not?"
"I see now... So what's this real estate the old scratch want?"
"Mefistofel: the demon that's master-minded this is called Mefistofel. If you know the demon's name, you refer to it by name: gives you a level of power over them, since it makes it harder for them to hide once you've identified them. and to answer your question... Turns out this church is sitting on top of a hellmouth."
"A what? How'd this get to be Buffy the Vampire Slayer?"
"Okay, put it another way: it's on top of an interdimensional portal between the demonic realm and the human realm. The church, or to be more specific, the Holy Eucharist in the tabernacle, is the one thing keeping hell from leaking out."
"That sounds bad. I take it that's why you came back, to get out the heavy artillery," Chas asked.
"And see if I can sniff out any more leads on this case," Constantine said, taking a final pull on his cigarette and stubbing it out in the seat-back ashtray in front of him. He leaned back, expecting Chas to start bugging him for a chance to help out on this case, but Chas didn't make a peep about it. The teeny-bopper demon hunter from Sacramento must have been keeping his young apprentice hopping. Well, in that case, Chas would get a crash course in how not to track demons, and what could happen if you crossed the wrong one.
They pulled into the alleyway behind the bowling alley over which Constantine's apartment perched. Once they climbed the stairs and entered, they found Beeman waiting for them.
"How was the flight back?" Beeman asked.
Constantine plunked himself down on the worn but still usable couch. "It was a flight. You found anything for me?"
"I made a few calls to a few friends in the field," Beeman said. "It turns out that weak spot between the planes has been there since the 1650s."
"Don't tell me: one of the Salem Village witches had something to do with it," Constantine said, fumbling a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket.
"You've soaked up some of the local color, I see," Beeman said. "You see, there was this black magician who managed to slip through the witch-hunters' nets, an unpleasant character by the name of Nathaniel Dwyler. He moved to what's now Houlton, tried scratching out a living on a farm he cleared himself; it seems Lucifer later called in a favor on him. For whatever reason Dwyler refused; Lucifer sent a legion to collect Dwyler, who didn't go down without a fight. The tussle was fierce enough to weaken the temporal fabric on the site of Dwyler's far, right where that hole is now. There's been a series of churches built on that site since, but each one has burned to the ground, for one reason or another, at least until Sankt Maria's was built there."
"Including the Know-Nothings torching the first one," Constantine said, lighting up.
"So how'd Mefistofel get in on this?" Chas asked, innocently.
Beeman widened his eyes. "Mefistofel? No wonder you came back for the Shotgun."
Constantine could have socked Chas for blurting out that information. "Tell me about it."
"What's so big about this Mefisto guy anyway?" Chas asked.
Here we go, Constantine thought. He hated it when Chas happened to be in the same room with Beeman: the kid had so much to learn and the scholar was only too willing to share his encyclopedic knowledge of the ethereal realm.
"You might call Mefisto the loan shark of hell, only he's got a lot more class," Beeman began. "He keeps an eye open for humans in financial trouble, so he can offer them a contract in exchange for security. His terms are usually quite simple: he'll get you out of debt if you give him something Lucifer or one of the other head honchos of the netherworld want. You just have to sign over your soul or your first-born child, or something else just as valuable."
"Including pieces of real estate they want," Constantine said. "Namely, Sankt Maria's."
"You said it, John," Beeman said.
"Guess you got your work cut out," Chas said. "You want me to hang around?"
"Nah, I gotta box to pack and ship out, and I could use forty winks," Constantine said, blowing a plume of smoke into the air.
"Jet-lag getting to you?" Beeman asked.
"Yeah, and I think I picked up a bug in my chest," Constantine said. Likely story, a voice in his head sneered.
"The cold weather up north does that to you," Beeman said. "I'll see if I can scare up some cough syrup for you."
Constantine shrugged. "Part of the territory."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Constantine crated up the Shotgun and headed out to the post office to have it overnighted. Hopefully, the U.S. Postal Service wouldn't try x-raying it: broken down, the Shotgun looked like an oddly-crafted reliquary, which had been the intention of the German gunsmith turned exorcist who'd crafted it. The designer never expected a time would come when there'd be machines that could scan past its appearances.
After fortifying himself with some Chinese take-out, he headed across town to Midnite's club: he had some reconnaisence to run on Mefistofel, and if there was any place he might overhear something, or if Midnite was forth-coming on anything he'd heard, that was the place to go.
On arriving there, and getting past the doorman's Rhine deck gauntlet, Constantine headed for the bar, where he found Midnite supervising the group of slightly shifty-looking waitstaff of no determinate gender setting up for the evening. A few patrons had already gathered, a mixed crowd (some with visible radiance around their heads, others with... more exotic signs of their species) relaxing after their day's work at... whatever they did.
He seated himself at the bar and signalled to Midnite, who regarded him with narrowed eyes as he approached.
"Hey, I've heard there's a demon named Mefistofel who's running a racket out in the East Coast," Constantine said, trying to sound conversational.
An inscrutible look passed through Midnite's dark eyes. "You don't go looking for Mefistofel: He comes looking for you. He's a dealer, that one: souls are his racket."
"Yeah, so I've heard. If he comes around, don't mention my name to him, but find out where I can find him," Constantine said.
"John, what do you want with Mefisto? You think he'll buy you more time? Word's out you hit a patch of bad luck. You really want to pay his price?"
"This isn't for me: it's about someone else."
Midnite chewed the inside of his lower lip for a moment. "All right, but for this one time: I hear anything, I pass it on to you. But you know my rules: not under my roof."
"Yeah, whatever," Constantine muttered. A coughing jag had started to constrict his throat. He turned away from the bar and headed for the washroom. On the way into the men's room, he nearly collided with a tall blond guy in a trenchcoat over a rumpled suit.
"Oi, watch where yer goin'," the blond guy -- make that the blond bloke -- said, with a distinctly British accent.
"You watch it -- kaff! -- yourself, chief," Constantine retorted, trying not to choke.
He leaned over the closest sink as a mouthful of fluid came up. He retched, spitting into the basin, catching himself on the wall with one hand. Bit by bit, he was spitting out his life. Crowley's words came back to haunt him but he pushed them away. He had this job to focus on.
Growing aware of the noises -- and the demonic aura -- of some company he hadn't noticed before, and looking for a distraction, Constantine looked up, following the amorous shuffling noise at the far end of the bathroom.
He looked up to see two figures busy in the corner, a shorter male almost completely eclipsed by the taller, black-clad male who had him pinned to the wall. A pair of wings rose from the taller male's shoulders, not the leathery bat's wings Constantine usually saw, but eagle's wings. Or rather, eagle's wings which someone had poured gasoline over and set fire to, letting them burn to a crisp. As the taller demon worked over his partner, the wings unfurled, beating the air, nearly clipping the walls on either side of them. The taller demon emitted a deep-chested roar of delight so loud, everyone on that floor couldn't help knowing he'd just climaxed.
The pair relaxed, the smaller male leaning back against the wall, the taller one presssing him against the titles. Constantine shut his ears to the lubricid words that passed between them: they seemed to be speaking in old French, a long-dead language, but their brutal tendernesses were unmistakable.
The taller demon released the shorter one, who ducked out from under the shadow of his companions wings and approached Constantine. The demon's boyishly handsome yet malevolent face was unmistakeable.
"Back in town so soon, Johnny?" Balthazar asked, sidling up to Constantine. "Or did your little jaunt turn out badly?"
"None of your damn business," Constantine muttered.
"Ooh, in a bad mood, I see. What is it, Johnny-boy? Was it something I said?" Balthazar asked, leaning closer, his delicate nostrils twitching as he sniffed at Constantine's face hungrily. He was so close, Constantine could smell the demon's mingled scent of expensive aftershave and brimstone. "Maybe the French gentleman in the corner can cheer you up."
"Shuttit," Constantine grumbled.
Balthazar licked his lips and dropped Constantine a sly wink before sidling out.
"Constantine...? Ah, and why then does ze gran John Constantine grace us with 'is presence?" asked an oily baritone voice in the corner.
Constantine looked up into the taller figure's blue-grey eyes, which regarded him narrowly, his leonine face starting to gather itself in a smirk of superiority. The same face that had leered at him and Natalie as they huddled in the doorway the night before.
"Mefistofel," Constantine groaned. He *would* follow me, wouldn't he... he thought.
"You named me in one guess," the demon replied. Anyone else who looked at this lean stranger would only see a slightly raffish-looking but otherwise clean-cut businessman in a knee-length frock-coat jacket. But Constantine's eyes could not ignore the long, greyish tail with a barb on the end of it, which snaked out from under that jacket, or the short, sharp goat's horns which sprouted from the demon's temples, laying flat along the sides of his sleek head, his reddish-brown hair slicked back.
"Well, by all accounts, you're a busy bastard," Constantine replied.
"As you are," the demon replied. "We seem to be encountering each other quite often: I saw you only last night. In Boston, no less, close to where I have been helping process a sale for the diocese of Houlton. What brought you out to the East Coast at this frigid time of year?"
"Business," Constantine said, non-commitally.
"And what, might I ask, is this species of business? Tell me that you aren't putting that pretty face of yours into my business, or I shall have be obliged to tear it off. Which would be a terrible tragedy."
"Yeah, well, you wouldn't have to if you'd stay out of my way," Constantine muttered.
"Or if you took care not to cross my path," the demon said, edging closer.
"Whichever comes first," Constantine said, turning away.
He started to head for the door, but his foot caught on something and he sprawled, face down, on the floor. He propped himself up on his elbow, looking over his shoulder towards his feet. The end of Mefistofel's tail had somehow wound itself around Constantine's left ankle. The demon had tripped him.
"Be careful where you tread, M'sieu Constantine. Mea culpa..." the demon drawled, his voice oilier than ever with phony innocence. The tail-tip unwound from Constantine's ankle as the demon retracte his tail, hiding it under his jacket.
Constantine stood up, facing Mefistofel; the words of the Ritualis rose in his mind. He could do it right here, right now, and send this smirking demon back it its proper place. But it would accomplish nothing; Mallegant would still be enslaved.
"Don't try that again, hellscum," Constantine snapped, and walked out. Mefistofel laughed, a loud mocking cackle that followed Constantine as he headed back up to the street level.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Returning to his apartment, Constantine plunked himself on the bed, flopping back on the pillow and thrusting his fingers into his tousled hair. This case was getting more nerve-wracking by the minute. He'd lost some of the element of surprise when he'd bumped into Mefistofel. Now the demon would be on its guard, more likely to strike without warning and influence its human puppets to take action before the assailant could form a strategy
Constantine had shaped a rough plan to confront the bishop the day he closed and deconsecrated Sankt Maria's. Now, who knew what would happen? He'd been considering going to the clinic at Ravenscar and having that cough checked out, if only to appease Crowley, but now, he'd need to get back to Houlton as soon as possible.
The phone rang. Constantine pulled himself up on his haunches and heaved himself off the bed to answer it.
"Hello -- kaff-kaff."
"John? It's Crowley... we've got a situation on our hands. I'm wiring you the money to come out here on the next flight you can get."
"What in hell's going on?"
"Mallegant and his minions are pulling the noose tighter. I just got notice I have to move, and some of the churches that were supposed to be closed have had their decrees issued earlier than he'd previously announced."
"Fuck, that came fast. They must have gotten wise to me."
"I'm afraid so."
"All right, I'll call you from the airport before the next flight leaves."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
To Be Continued...
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Literary Easter Eggs:
The dingy commuter rail -- Obviously the Massachusetts Transit Authority's Purple Line commuter rail... and the windows of those trains need to be washed.
The Un-Holy Grail -- A phrase I lifted from from Walker Percy's "Lancelot". I have to admit, the John Constantine of the movie is a lot like the kind of "bad Catholic" anti-hero you find in Walker Percy's novels: a character who's really a good guy, but not exactly a nice guy.
Mefistofel -- If you're familiar with the Faust legend in any form, you'll know this guy. I've crudely Hebraicized the name (just because most of the names of demons and angels I've run across seem more Hebraic) and added the gloss on what his origins and original postition were.
"the teenybopper demon-hunter" -- This is an original character in a "Constantine" fic which I'm working on with my buddy![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dark_puck. Stay tuned...
The blond British guy -- Cadbury Biscuits to anyone who gets who this guy is...
EDITED TO ADD: Missing "Literary Easter Egg"
+J.M.J.+
The Smoke of Satan in Your House
by "Matrix Refugee"
Rating: R (Demon slash: Original Demonic Character/Balthazar)
Warnings: References to demonic activity, the above-mentioned demon slash, Constantine's usual cussing, and a sickening moment when Constantine's health starts to take a turn for the worse, which I modelled after "Hellblazer #41: The Beginning of the End", found in the compilation "Dangerous Habits".
Author's Note: Sorry for the delay: I've been working extra at my regular job, since I had an unexpected medical bill to pay... Before I go any further with this chapter, I have some good news to share: my parish, the model for Sankt Maria Magdalena, has been granted a reprieve until December 15th, 2005 (I know, what a stupid date: couldn't they wait till after New Year's Day??). Today, the day I started typing this, June 30th, is the day it was supposed to have closed; we still got more arm-twisting to do, but we've got some leverage behind us that could tip this in our favor, please God.
Disclaimer: I don't own "Constantine", its characters, concepts and other indicia, which are the property of Francis Lawrence, Village Roadshow, Warner Brothers, DC Comics/Vertigo, et al. And I certainly don't own any of the demons.
"I doubt the chancery library would have anything close to what you're looking for," Crowley said, frying eggs in a skillet over his "illegal" hotplate the next morning. "The Boston Public Library might be a more likely place to look."
"You ever been there running research?" Constantine asked, tying his shoes.
"I've poked around there a few times when I needed to," Crowley replied.
"I take it you never had to deal with a hotspot before," Constantine said.
"It's the first time I've heard of one in this area," Crowley said.
"You don't sound suprised by it, or are you just getting hardened to it, like me?"
Crowley turned the eggs out onto a plate. "That could be part of it, but it seems to me that a hotspot would be right in keeping with the area. There's all sorts of stories floating about New England, about ghost ships and sailors returning home who'd been lost at sea, and captains' widows who had special talents. There's a dead zone out in the Berkshires, where birds won't nest in the trees and animals won't go in; local stories say that it was the site of a farmstead back in the 1700s, or at least it was until a man went mad and apparantly killed his entire family before killing himself. Up near Bennington, Vermont, there's a strange spot in the woods that's a twin to the Bermuda Triangle, only a lot smaller."
"Don't forget the shit that went down in Salem," Constantine said, finding the carton of Lucky Strikes he'd bought the night before, and taking out a fresh pack.
"Actually, that happened in what's now Danvers, and according to one local forensic investigator, it was most likely a case of mass ergot poisoning, when several families ate bread made from rye that had been contaminated with a fungus that grows on the plants during a wet, warm growing season," Crowley said.
"There were a few who were the real thing, the ones who got away," Constantine said.
"You've been doing your homework, I take it?"
"Bit of information that caught my eye last night: I'd always wondered about Salem," Constantine said, lighting up his second cigarette of the day. "Didn't surprise me: there's always a guilty party or two who let the innocent folks get the sharp end of the stick."
"Don't tell me you think there's a connection," Crowley said, cracking two more eggs into the skillet.
Constantine shrugged and let a plume of smoke trail from his lips. "Could just be a fluke. Salem -- excuse me -- Danvers is just a few towns over."
Crowley set the first plate of eggs on the table, nudging it toward Constantine. "Here, there's something to keep you going while you're following that fluke.
At that moment, someone knocked at the door. Crowley turned down the eggs and went to answer the knock. He came back a moment later with a sheaf of mail and a rumpled newspaper.
"Pardon the condition of the Clarion," Crowley said, laying the rumpled paper, that week's issue of the dioceasan newspaper, on the table. "Things got so tight here, we're kind of sharing it here at the residency." From the dog-eared state of the pages and the rings on the back page, it clearly had had more than one reader already.
Constantine unfolded the paper and scanned the headlines idly. The main headline caught a corner of his attention: "Bishop Mallegant Hires Financial Advisor, Real Estate Broker To Balance Books". Below it were a few inches of type and a photograph of the bishop talking with a tall, distinguished-looking man with neatly brushed reddish hair and clad in a long jacket that had to be Armani. "Bishop Benjamin Mallegant converses with Marcel Mephis, a financial advisor brought in to bring order to the Houlton diocease's accounts and to manage the sales of diocesan property."
Something about the image twigged Constantine's awareness. He scanned the accompanying article more closely.
"...the bishop met with Marcel Mephis, a top-ranking certified public accountant and real estate broker in the employ of West Coast-based BZR Enterprises, an investment firm which has successfully assisted several large corporations through times of financial difficulty."
BZR Enterprises... that place was crawling with half-breed demons. One of its top executives was in reality a demon named Balthazar, the black beast of Constantine's existence, who'd been hounding him for years, interfering with his cases.
"Martin... you still got that black glass mirror?" Constantine asked, setting his cigarette in the ashtray at his elbow. "I think I've got something here."
"Yes, just give me a minute to find it," Crowley said, turning the eggs onto a plate and going to the cupboard. "Ursula was cleaning some time back and tried to toss it out on me. I had to hide it a little better. Let's hope I didn't hide it from myself."
After a few moments of poking around on the lower shelves, Crowley came up with round piece of glass in a tarnished silver frame, one side of the glass painted black, the other side was clear.
Constantine smoothed the newspaper flat on the table. Crowley held the mirror over it, glossy side down.
"Do you think it'll work?" Crowley asked, adjusting the angle. "It's only a newspaper photograph."
"It's worth a shot," Constantine said, peering under the edge of the glass.
He saw the photograph dimly reflected on the dark surface, the text reversed. But to his eyes, the image had changed: Mallegant's image looked blurred and distorted. Seven pairs of eyes that weren't his seemed to be looking out of his face. The other male in the photograph was almost completely blurred out.
"Damn," Constantine muttered.
Crowley set the mirror on the table top. "Holy Mother of mercy..." he said, under his breath. "The Grappin is all over him, inside and out."
"So what do you suggest we do? Try a deliverance the next time you meet him at a council meeting?" Constantine asked. "You're the one who kept saying you couldn't get involved."
"Do what you need to do, John," Crowley said. "Have you planned anything yet?"
"Not till I put a name to the demon who's master-minding it." He tapped the picture of Mallegant and Mephis. "I got an idea which one, but if I'm right, I'm dealin' with a heavy-hittin' bastard. I'll need some heavy artillery for this one."
"Not the shotgun," Crowley said, with a touch of incredulity, which Constantine expected.
"I guess I'll have to nip back to LA and bring it back. Scratch that: I'll have to call Beeman and have him overnight mail it out here."
"There's one problem, John: You can't ship guns into Massachusetts unless you're a dealer based in the state," Crowley warned.
"Damn. There any neighboring states that are any more gun-friendly?" Constantine asked.
"You could ship it to a postal box in New Hampshire. Let me set that up for you."
"Hey, I thought you said you weren't getting involved?" Constantine demanded, with a smirk.
Crowley shrugged. "I'm setting up a postal box, not trying to exorcise Mallegant's demons."
Constantine grinned crookedly, and took a final pull from his burned-down cigarette. "You can't resist the hunt any more than I can."
"I'm just doing you a good turn," Crowley said.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
While Crowley set about opening the postal box in Salem, New Hampshire -- conveniently located just over the state line -- Constantine made his arrangements to fly back to LA the next morning.
Five o'clock that evening found Constantine huddled in the shelter of the Houlton commuter rail station. A light snow had started to fall, but even his trench coat and a thermal undershirt Crowley had given him couldn't keep the icy breeze from gnawing at him. Natalie hadn't shown up yet, and at five-fifteen, five minutes before the next train into Boston was supposed to arrive, he was about to leave, when she came running up the platform.
"Sorry I'm late: The road was icy and that slowed down my bus," she said, panting.
He shrugged and dropped the stub of his cigarette on the pavement, grinding it out with his heel. "Hey, ...stuff like that happens," he said, reminding himself to soft-pedal it around this girl.
The train arrived ten minutes later, and their progress was slowed due to the snow. Someone was working overtime throwing curveballs at his head, Constantine thought. Once they were seated, Natalie took a worn wooden bead rosary from her inside pocket and silently started praying, the beads slipping through her fingers. Constantine turned to watch the scenery slipping past them, but the blur of snow and the layer of grime on the window pane blocked his view.
"Have you heard the latest news about what Mallegant is up to?" Natalie asked.
Constantine shrugged himself out of the light doze he'd slipped into. "What... about him gettin' the financial advisor?"
"Yes... I saw the picture of him in the Clarion: I don't like the looks of the advisor at all," she said.
"Neither did I," Constantine said.
"May I ask why?" she asked.
"Sure, but I can't answer that here," he said, looking around at the other passengers.
A look crossed her eyes like she might pest him for the answer, but thankfully, she dropped her gaze and went back to praying her rosary.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Of course the arcane section of the Boston Public Library lacked the grimoires and silver-strapped tomes that Constantine had found while running similar research in Rome and London, during his training in his twenties, but it still contained dozens of thick scholarly books, more than they needed, as he and Natalie found out once they started. Unfortunately, it also had a lot of dust, which inflamed Constantine's lungs, setting him coughing.
At length, Natalie found a set of several crumbling leather-bound books on a lower shelf: "An History of Supernatural & Diabolical Phenomena in the New England States", which appeared to cover everything from the Salem Witch Hunts to house-hauntings in the late 1800's. While Natalie continued to peer at the other titles, he pored over one volume of the set, covering the 1850's.
His gaze scanned idly down the columns of small, antique typeface. He never really cared much for research: the thrill of the hunt held his attention more readily. Generally, he preferred to have someone else scout out the information, running reconnaissence while he went in and mopped up, but Beeman hadn't called with anything he'd turned up, which left Constantine in the dark. And this gave Natalie something to do, hopefully to keep her out from underfoot when the mop-up started.
The name "Saint Mary Magdalen" on the bottom of one page caught his eye. He read the paragraphs above it, realizing he'd found exactly what they needed. It seemed there was more to the Know-Nothings than mere anarchist statements: one member, Boaz Ryder, had been messing with black magic and in so doing, had made contact with Mefistofel, a fallen archangel, which apparently had promised to help Ryder out of some gambling debts he'd racked up, if Ryder could get his Know-Nothing cronies to burn Sankt Maria's. Putting two and two together, it seemed Mefistofel wanted to uncork that hell-hole, but he habn't counted on the priest who died in the blaze to tip the balance the other way...
"Holy shit," he murmured.
"Hmm?" Natalie asked, looking up from a bottom shelf, which she knelt before, scanning titles, a handkerchief tucked under the bridge of her eyeglasses, covering her nose and mouth against the dust. "Did you find anything?"
"Nothing short of the goddamned Un-Holy Grail," Constantine said, turning the book around and pushing it toward her. She took it and read over it in a low murmur, as if she were thinking out loud.
"Mefistofel..." Natalie murmured, snatching the handkerchief from her face and squeezing it as her hand started to shake in that wierd gesture. "Mephis... Oh God."
"Damn, you thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?" Constantine asked.
"That financial advisor Mallegant hired..." Natalie murmured.
"Probably no less than that same fallen angel," Constantine said, taking the book from her and shoving it back into it'sn space on the shelf.
"But how did that hole get there in the first place?" Natalie said.
"It'd be interesting to know, but it ain't necessary," Constantine said. "What's important -- for me at least -- is to know what demon I'm dealing with, put a name on the dragon. I'm guessin' Mefistofel sent those smaller demons to infect Mallegant, blind him to what was really going on, and spy on him. Kinda like a preternatural wire-tap on the bishop's mind and soul. Demons can't make you do anything, but they can read your mind once they're in you, and they can play on your fears."
"This is scary," Natalie said.
"The hell it is," Constantine said, rising from the short step ladder he perched on and tucking a hand under her shoulder, pulling her up off the floor. "Come on, we got what we need.
She made no objection as he led her out: she seemed a little shocky, but that was to be expected. At least she wasn't spazzing out.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The snow had stopped by the time they emerged from the building, but a cold wind whipped through the brownstone canyon around them, threatening to freeze them before they got to the MTA subway entrance a few blocks away. Constantine quickened his pace, taking care not to start coughing again. Natalie, at his side, kept her head down, clearly a veteran of many an icy winter blast. She seemed apprehensive, but she could have been wrapped up in her thoughts.
A couple approached them, emerging from a pool of darkness up ahead where a street light had gone out: a young woman in a fur coat with her hand resting on the arm of a tall man in a ground-sweeping black coat.
Something about the guy caused Constantine's awareness to set off alarm bells in his head. He hustled Natalie into the doorway of a closed gift shop. She squawked in wordless objection, but Constantine shushed her, pushing her back against the door and covering her so that he faced out. "We've got company."
The couple passed by their hiding place. The man peered over his companion's head, looking into the doorway. Constantine glimpsed the guy's long-nosed, leonine face, but they passed by too quickly for him to get a good look at the interloper. But he could taste the demonic aura that flowed off the stranger in waves that weakened, doppler-effect style, as he passed out of sight.
Constantine mentally counted to sixty, keeping his awareness wide-open, in case the stranger returned.
Natalie, under his arm, emitted a small questioning chirp; he felt her trembling against him.
"It's all right: he's gone," he said, stepping out of the doorway.
She peered around cautiously before emerging. "I smelled him."
"So did I," he said. "Worse."
Natalie took his hand in hers, holding herself against him the rest of the way to the subway entrance. Normally, Constantine would have gently pushed her off, but she clearly needed someone to hang onto.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
By noon the next day, Constantine was on board a flight back to LA, reminding himself not to reach for his smokes for the next four hours. The impulses came more strongly, perhaps as a reaction to the numbness threatening to creep into his being, not from last night's encounter -- he'd had far nastier experiences and come out no worse for the wear. Something else had happened between last night and now, which in some ways made those experiences fade by comparison.
He'd woken up, that morning, before Crowley's clock radio went off. He'd just sat up and started reaching for the pack on the endtable, when a wave of coughing had hit him so hard, it practically choked him. Not the usual dry hacking: this felt almost the way it had when he'd had double pneumonia as a kid, only he sure as hell didn't have it now. Aside from the cough, he felt the same way he always did. He covered his mouth with both hands, to catch whatever was coming up. But instead of the bland non-taste of phlegm, he tasted something bitter and metallic on his tongue.
He looked into his hand to find a splotch of red in his palm. Blood. Where the hell had it come from? He couldn't have bitten his tongue in the night, it was way too much for that. He got up and headed for the washroom to clean the blood off his hands. Whatever it was, it was probably not going to clear up by noon time....
He stuck his hands under the faucet and ran warm water over them. As he stood there, another coughing spasm wracked his chest. He leaned over the sink, spitting blood into the basin.
A third fit hit him. Something seemed to have caught in his throat, choking him. He stood there retching, until after a momentary eternity, he felt it loosen and drop from his open mouth.
A pulpy, pinkish-grey mass dropped into the basin. He stared down at the nameless clot, wondering what the hell it was, if it was something Mefistofel could have infected him with. He didn't sense the aura, which could mean only one thing: he'd coughed up part of himself.
His coughing must have awakened Crowley. He heard the older man's footsteps behind him, entering the washroom. Crowley approached, peering over Constantine's shoulder, his face grave.
"Merciful saviour..." he murmured. "You'd better have that cough checked out by a doctor when you get to LA, John."
"I'm in the middle of a job," Constantine said. "I'll make an appointment when this mess is over."
Crowley looked at him gravely. "You'd better do that: something like this happened to an uncle of mine, shortly before he died. The doctors told us it was cancer." With that, he stepped out of the washroom.
Whatever this was, he'd just have to hack along till he could see a specialist. He was used to hauling an injury around: cracked ribs, a sprained wrist, scratches, bites, bruises. The hazards of the profession. Constantine was used to it by now, used to treating himself. Try going to the emergency room with a three-inch gash in your arm and explaining to the nurse why you smelled like sulphur and burning garbage.
He leaned back in his seat, his fists bunched in his pockets, gritting his teeth and waiting for this wretched flight to land in LA.
He never felt so relieved to see Chas's battered "City of Angels" cab pull up to the curb outside the main terminal.
"Heya, John: how's the job goin'?" Chas asked as Constantine crawled into the back seat.
"So far so good," Constantine said, reaching for the pack he'd bought in Manchester. "How's things been hangin' here?"
"Pretty quiet, except for your little gal-pal in Sacramento gettin' shook up," Chas said, pulling away from the curb and weaving through the traffic that clogged the roadways.
"You keepin' her out of trouble?" Constantine asked, lighting up.
"I've been patchin' her up, holdin' her hand when she needs it," Chas said, trying to sound flippant and failing; the slightly sheepish smirk crossing his young face, visible in the rearview mirror, made a liar out of him, but Constantine ignored it. "So what's goin' down in Boston?"
"Houlton," Constantine corrected. "It's goin' like a snowball on a hill in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. Crowley called me out because some girl smelled demons in the bishop who's tryin' to shut down her parish. Once I get out there and start sniffin' around, come to find out that church is sittin' on top of a piece of real estate which a fallen archangel is trying to buy up."
"A fallen archangel? Cool," Chas said.
"Uh-unh, not cool," Constantine said, taking a long drag off his cigarette. "Definately not cool. This thing is deadly and smart. Common demons -- the elementals and soldier demons and other nasty little bastards you've seen me deal with -- those could maul you, but they're acting on pure appetite, it's all impulse. But this thing has the brains to fuck with your head till you don't know up from down, and then it moves in for the kill. Which is exactly what it's doin' to the bishop."
"Sounds like one hell of a mess you gotta clean up," Chas said, a little less enthusiastic. "You seen the thing behind it all?"
"Unfortunately, yeah: it spotted me and the girl who got me called out there in the first place."
"That why you're stickin' with this job?" Chas asked, grinning crookedly at John, over his shoulder as they stood in traffic.
"No. I'm not stickin' with this job because of the girl. She's more fucked in the head than I am. Or you are."
"Aw, thanks a lot. Seriously: what're you hauling out there for?"
"Crowley can't do it because he's too close to it: that bishop is his boss. I got less at stake than he does. So, why the hell not?"
"I see now... So what's this real estate the old scratch want?"
"Mefistofel: the demon that's master-minded this is called Mefistofel. If you know the demon's name, you refer to it by name: gives you a level of power over them, since it makes it harder for them to hide once you've identified them. and to answer your question... Turns out this church is sitting on top of a hellmouth."
"A what? How'd this get to be Buffy the Vampire Slayer?"
"Okay, put it another way: it's on top of an interdimensional portal between the demonic realm and the human realm. The church, or to be more specific, the Holy Eucharist in the tabernacle, is the one thing keeping hell from leaking out."
"That sounds bad. I take it that's why you came back, to get out the heavy artillery," Chas asked.
"And see if I can sniff out any more leads on this case," Constantine said, taking a final pull on his cigarette and stubbing it out in the seat-back ashtray in front of him. He leaned back, expecting Chas to start bugging him for a chance to help out on this case, but Chas didn't make a peep about it. The teeny-bopper demon hunter from Sacramento must have been keeping his young apprentice hopping. Well, in that case, Chas would get a crash course in how not to track demons, and what could happen if you crossed the wrong one.
They pulled into the alleyway behind the bowling alley over which Constantine's apartment perched. Once they climbed the stairs and entered, they found Beeman waiting for them.
"How was the flight back?" Beeman asked.
Constantine plunked himself down on the worn but still usable couch. "It was a flight. You found anything for me?"
"I made a few calls to a few friends in the field," Beeman said. "It turns out that weak spot between the planes has been there since the 1650s."
"Don't tell me: one of the Salem Village witches had something to do with it," Constantine said, fumbling a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket.
"You've soaked up some of the local color, I see," Beeman said. "You see, there was this black magician who managed to slip through the witch-hunters' nets, an unpleasant character by the name of Nathaniel Dwyler. He moved to what's now Houlton, tried scratching out a living on a farm he cleared himself; it seems Lucifer later called in a favor on him. For whatever reason Dwyler refused; Lucifer sent a legion to collect Dwyler, who didn't go down without a fight. The tussle was fierce enough to weaken the temporal fabric on the site of Dwyler's far, right where that hole is now. There's been a series of churches built on that site since, but each one has burned to the ground, for one reason or another, at least until Sankt Maria's was built there."
"Including the Know-Nothings torching the first one," Constantine said, lighting up.
"So how'd Mefistofel get in on this?" Chas asked, innocently.
Beeman widened his eyes. "Mefistofel? No wonder you came back for the Shotgun."
Constantine could have socked Chas for blurting out that information. "Tell me about it."
"What's so big about this Mefisto guy anyway?" Chas asked.
Here we go, Constantine thought. He hated it when Chas happened to be in the same room with Beeman: the kid had so much to learn and the scholar was only too willing to share his encyclopedic knowledge of the ethereal realm.
"You might call Mefisto the loan shark of hell, only he's got a lot more class," Beeman began. "He keeps an eye open for humans in financial trouble, so he can offer them a contract in exchange for security. His terms are usually quite simple: he'll get you out of debt if you give him something Lucifer or one of the other head honchos of the netherworld want. You just have to sign over your soul or your first-born child, or something else just as valuable."
"Including pieces of real estate they want," Constantine said. "Namely, Sankt Maria's."
"You said it, John," Beeman said.
"Guess you got your work cut out," Chas said. "You want me to hang around?"
"Nah, I gotta box to pack and ship out, and I could use forty winks," Constantine said, blowing a plume of smoke into the air.
"Jet-lag getting to you?" Beeman asked.
"Yeah, and I think I picked up a bug in my chest," Constantine said. Likely story, a voice in his head sneered.
"The cold weather up north does that to you," Beeman said. "I'll see if I can scare up some cough syrup for you."
Constantine shrugged. "Part of the territory."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Constantine crated up the Shotgun and headed out to the post office to have it overnighted. Hopefully, the U.S. Postal Service wouldn't try x-raying it: broken down, the Shotgun looked like an oddly-crafted reliquary, which had been the intention of the German gunsmith turned exorcist who'd crafted it. The designer never expected a time would come when there'd be machines that could scan past its appearances.
After fortifying himself with some Chinese take-out, he headed across town to Midnite's club: he had some reconnaisence to run on Mefistofel, and if there was any place he might overhear something, or if Midnite was forth-coming on anything he'd heard, that was the place to go.
On arriving there, and getting past the doorman's Rhine deck gauntlet, Constantine headed for the bar, where he found Midnite supervising the group of slightly shifty-looking waitstaff of no determinate gender setting up for the evening. A few patrons had already gathered, a mixed crowd (some with visible radiance around their heads, others with... more exotic signs of their species) relaxing after their day's work at... whatever they did.
He seated himself at the bar and signalled to Midnite, who regarded him with narrowed eyes as he approached.
"Hey, I've heard there's a demon named Mefistofel who's running a racket out in the East Coast," Constantine said, trying to sound conversational.
An inscrutible look passed through Midnite's dark eyes. "You don't go looking for Mefistofel: He comes looking for you. He's a dealer, that one: souls are his racket."
"Yeah, so I've heard. If he comes around, don't mention my name to him, but find out where I can find him," Constantine said.
"John, what do you want with Mefisto? You think he'll buy you more time? Word's out you hit a patch of bad luck. You really want to pay his price?"
"This isn't for me: it's about someone else."
Midnite chewed the inside of his lower lip for a moment. "All right, but for this one time: I hear anything, I pass it on to you. But you know my rules: not under my roof."
"Yeah, whatever," Constantine muttered. A coughing jag had started to constrict his throat. He turned away from the bar and headed for the washroom. On the way into the men's room, he nearly collided with a tall blond guy in a trenchcoat over a rumpled suit.
"Oi, watch where yer goin'," the blond guy -- make that the blond bloke -- said, with a distinctly British accent.
"You watch it -- kaff! -- yourself, chief," Constantine retorted, trying not to choke.
He leaned over the closest sink as a mouthful of fluid came up. He retched, spitting into the basin, catching himself on the wall with one hand. Bit by bit, he was spitting out his life. Crowley's words came back to haunt him but he pushed them away. He had this job to focus on.
Growing aware of the noises -- and the demonic aura -- of some company he hadn't noticed before, and looking for a distraction, Constantine looked up, following the amorous shuffling noise at the far end of the bathroom.
He looked up to see two figures busy in the corner, a shorter male almost completely eclipsed by the taller, black-clad male who had him pinned to the wall. A pair of wings rose from the taller male's shoulders, not the leathery bat's wings Constantine usually saw, but eagle's wings. Or rather, eagle's wings which someone had poured gasoline over and set fire to, letting them burn to a crisp. As the taller demon worked over his partner, the wings unfurled, beating the air, nearly clipping the walls on either side of them. The taller demon emitted a deep-chested roar of delight so loud, everyone on that floor couldn't help knowing he'd just climaxed.
The pair relaxed, the smaller male leaning back against the wall, the taller one presssing him against the titles. Constantine shut his ears to the lubricid words that passed between them: they seemed to be speaking in old French, a long-dead language, but their brutal tendernesses were unmistakable.
The taller demon released the shorter one, who ducked out from under the shadow of his companions wings and approached Constantine. The demon's boyishly handsome yet malevolent face was unmistakeable.
"Back in town so soon, Johnny?" Balthazar asked, sidling up to Constantine. "Or did your little jaunt turn out badly?"
"None of your damn business," Constantine muttered.
"Ooh, in a bad mood, I see. What is it, Johnny-boy? Was it something I said?" Balthazar asked, leaning closer, his delicate nostrils twitching as he sniffed at Constantine's face hungrily. He was so close, Constantine could smell the demon's mingled scent of expensive aftershave and brimstone. "Maybe the French gentleman in the corner can cheer you up."
"Shuttit," Constantine grumbled.
Balthazar licked his lips and dropped Constantine a sly wink before sidling out.
"Constantine...? Ah, and why then does ze gran John Constantine grace us with 'is presence?" asked an oily baritone voice in the corner.
Constantine looked up into the taller figure's blue-grey eyes, which regarded him narrowly, his leonine face starting to gather itself in a smirk of superiority. The same face that had leered at him and Natalie as they huddled in the doorway the night before.
"Mefistofel," Constantine groaned. He *would* follow me, wouldn't he... he thought.
"You named me in one guess," the demon replied. Anyone else who looked at this lean stranger would only see a slightly raffish-looking but otherwise clean-cut businessman in a knee-length frock-coat jacket. But Constantine's eyes could not ignore the long, greyish tail with a barb on the end of it, which snaked out from under that jacket, or the short, sharp goat's horns which sprouted from the demon's temples, laying flat along the sides of his sleek head, his reddish-brown hair slicked back.
"Well, by all accounts, you're a busy bastard," Constantine replied.
"As you are," the demon replied. "We seem to be encountering each other quite often: I saw you only last night. In Boston, no less, close to where I have been helping process a sale for the diocese of Houlton. What brought you out to the East Coast at this frigid time of year?"
"Business," Constantine said, non-commitally.
"And what, might I ask, is this species of business? Tell me that you aren't putting that pretty face of yours into my business, or I shall have be obliged to tear it off. Which would be a terrible tragedy."
"Yeah, well, you wouldn't have to if you'd stay out of my way," Constantine muttered.
"Or if you took care not to cross my path," the demon said, edging closer.
"Whichever comes first," Constantine said, turning away.
He started to head for the door, but his foot caught on something and he sprawled, face down, on the floor. He propped himself up on his elbow, looking over his shoulder towards his feet. The end of Mefistofel's tail had somehow wound itself around Constantine's left ankle. The demon had tripped him.
"Be careful where you tread, M'sieu Constantine. Mea culpa..." the demon drawled, his voice oilier than ever with phony innocence. The tail-tip unwound from Constantine's ankle as the demon retracte his tail, hiding it under his jacket.
Constantine stood up, facing Mefistofel; the words of the Ritualis rose in his mind. He could do it right here, right now, and send this smirking demon back it its proper place. But it would accomplish nothing; Mallegant would still be enslaved.
"Don't try that again, hellscum," Constantine snapped, and walked out. Mefistofel laughed, a loud mocking cackle that followed Constantine as he headed back up to the street level.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Returning to his apartment, Constantine plunked himself on the bed, flopping back on the pillow and thrusting his fingers into his tousled hair. This case was getting more nerve-wracking by the minute. He'd lost some of the element of surprise when he'd bumped into Mefistofel. Now the demon would be on its guard, more likely to strike without warning and influence its human puppets to take action before the assailant could form a strategy
Constantine had shaped a rough plan to confront the bishop the day he closed and deconsecrated Sankt Maria's. Now, who knew what would happen? He'd been considering going to the clinic at Ravenscar and having that cough checked out, if only to appease Crowley, but now, he'd need to get back to Houlton as soon as possible.
The phone rang. Constantine pulled himself up on his haunches and heaved himself off the bed to answer it.
"Hello -- kaff-kaff."
"John? It's Crowley... we've got a situation on our hands. I'm wiring you the money to come out here on the next flight you can get."
"What in hell's going on?"
"Mallegant and his minions are pulling the noose tighter. I just got notice I have to move, and some of the churches that were supposed to be closed have had their decrees issued earlier than he'd previously announced."
"Fuck, that came fast. They must have gotten wise to me."
"I'm afraid so."
"All right, I'll call you from the airport before the next flight leaves."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
To Be Continued...
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Literary Easter Eggs:
The dingy commuter rail -- Obviously the Massachusetts Transit Authority's Purple Line commuter rail... and the windows of those trains need to be washed.
The Un-Holy Grail -- A phrase I lifted from from Walker Percy's "Lancelot". I have to admit, the John Constantine of the movie is a lot like the kind of "bad Catholic" anti-hero you find in Walker Percy's novels: a character who's really a good guy, but not exactly a nice guy.
Mefistofel -- If you're familiar with the Faust legend in any form, you'll know this guy. I've crudely Hebraicized the name (just because most of the names of demons and angels I've run across seem more Hebraic) and added the gloss on what his origins and original postition were.
"the teenybopper demon-hunter" -- This is an original character in a "Constantine" fic which I'm working on with my buddy
dark_puck. Stay tuned...The blond British guy -- Cadbury Biscuits to anyone who gets who this guy is...
EDITED TO ADD: Missing "Literary Easter Egg"
