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matrixrefugeeI'm making good for taking so bloody long to update the last time: I hope to get the next chapter out by next week and the last chapter the week after that.
+J.M.J.+
The Smoke of Satan in Your House
by "Matrix Refugee"
Rating: PG-13 (spiritually mature themes, language)
Warnings: None for this chapter, aside from references to demonic activity, and Constantine's usual cussing.
Author's Note: I'd like to observe a moment of silence first, before continuing, to remember the victims of the London Underground bombings. (Hey, much of the "Hellblazer" series takes place in and around London, so it's only fitting to dedicate this chapter to their memory...)
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Disclaimer: I don't own "Constantine", its characters, concepts and other indicia, which are the property of Francis Lawrence, Kevin Brodbin, Frank Cappello, Village Roadshow, Warner Brothers, DC Comics/Vertigo, et al. And I certainly don't own any of the demons.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Chapter Five: Eviction Notice
This time, the trip went smoothly: No turbulence. No snow squalls. No trouble at the gate. No difficulties getting through security. The calm before the storm, Constantine thought. They're backing down to create a false sense of security, dull your resolve.
He found Crowley waiting for him in the concourse, the older man's sober face looking more troubled than usual. As Constantine approached, he rose to meet him. "Thank God you're here, John."
"So I take it they sold the residence?" Constantine asked.
Crowley nodded. "They passed papers yesterday: I've got less than forty-eight hours to move out of there. My sister Martha is letting me stay with her until I can find a place of my own, but there's a problem: she doesn't have much room."
Constantine shrugged. "I'll find a way to shift for myself."
Natalie approached at that moment, her eyes red from crying. Looking up at Constantine, she flung herself at him, clinging to his neck, nearly pulling him on top of her. He managed to peel her off him.
"Watch that... what the hell's wrong?" he asked.
"He did it: he issued the decree to supress us. We're as good as dead," she said, her voice trembling.
"Damn, that was fast."
"They work quickly when they think we're off guard," Crowley said, coming to Natalie's side and putting a fatherly arm around her to support her, and to keep her from causing another outburst. "Georg Schuller just got the news from Manning this morning, and passed it on the rest of the group trying to keep Sankt Maria's open."
"How much time do we have left?" Constantine asked.
"The final Mass is supposed to be offered Sunday, March 6th at 11 am," Natalie said, flat-voiced.
"Two days," Constantine said. "Gives me just enough time to pull this together."
"Back to practical matters: where are you going to stay while you pull this together?" Crowley asked.
"Probably put up at the YMCA," Constantine said, the need for a smoke starting to prick him.
"There isn't one in Houlton," Crowley said.
"You need a place to stay? There's a niche in the choir loft at Sankt Maria's," Natalie offered. "I go there when I need to get away from people. It's peaceful there... and that way, you can keep watch over the church, so nothing happens to it."
Crowley smiled. "I suppose that way you get the jump on the folks who are planning to hold a vigil in the church."
Constantine snerked. "Vigils aren't exactly my style."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Midnight in Sankt Maria's. Constantine stood on the main balcony of the loft, gazing down toward the sanctuary, the only light in the building came from the red lamp. Dim light from a nearby parking lot filtered in through the stained glass windows, but that did little to lift the gloom.
Natalie's niche in the loft turned out to be a small room at the top of one of the staircases leading to the choir loft, a room that looked like it hadn't been used in some time, except to store several dusty boxes of hymnals, a rack of cobwebby black choir robes and a few wobbly benches against one wall under a stained glass window of Saint Cecilia. With Crowley's help, Constantine had wrassled two of the benches together into a crude bunk on which he unrolled a blanket roll Crowley had loaned him. One of the benches still rocked a little, which Constantine tried to fix by jamming a hymnal under the legs. Still, the conditions would be Spartan at best: someone had turned the heat down considerably, but thankfully, it was warmer up here in the loft.
An air current caused the flame to flatten and gutter for a moment, then right itself. The candle itself had burned low in its red glass holder, but it still burned. A lot like me, he thought. Except I'm burning out at both ends. He took a meditative swig from the bottle of Jack Daniels he'd bought at the "package store" down the street.
For some wierd reason, probably thanks to the alcohol jittering in his system, the red sanctuary lamp put him in mind of the nightlight his mother used to light in his room when he was a kid and he started seeing monsters lurking outside the windows at night. Strange he should put the two together: that red light indicated the Presence of the Divine, within the tabernacle, keeping the demonic horde at bay.
"Ah, shuttit, you're getting drunk," he said, thinking out loud and screwing the top back on the bottle.
A large shadow landed with a thump on the sill of the rose window, blacking out much of the light. A huge pair of wings fanned across the window before folding back, revealing a lean, angular male form with a long tail. The figure crouched on its perch, peering in.
Back in town already, Mefistofel? Constantine thought, keeping his thoughts to himself to minimize the demon's chances of growing aware of his presence. Casing the joint? Drooling over your prize, asshole? He had the feeling he had divined the demon's thoughts. He held still in the shadows, waiting for the demon to move on. He was too tired and muzzy to try repelling the interloper, and it wouldn't be necessary at this point. The Divine Presence held the demon in check.
For now.
The demon spread its wings and leapt away, out of sight. Constantine dimly heard the creature chuckling to itself. Biding your time, eh? he thought as he returned to his bunk. Makes two of us, with different intentions.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The next morning, during the nine am. Mass, Constantine snuck out of Sankt Maria's, heading for the coffee shop where he had agreed to meet with Crowley, en route to the post office in Salem, New Hampshire to pick up the box containing the Shotgun.
"You still using blessed silver for the shell casings?" Crowley asked, while they were on the highway.
"Only stuff that works," Constantine replied. "I tried etching crosses onto regular shell casings and having Hennessey bless them, but that wasn't as effective."
Crowley nodded. "I had a feeling you were going to say that. Martha found some old silver spoons she has no need for, so we thought you could use them... once I've blessed the raw materials."
"That'll work," Constantine said.
Once they arrived at the post office, Crowley waited in the car while Constantine went in to collect the package from the eeriely appropriate Box Number 656. Providence always did have a wierd sense of humor...
That afternoon, while Crowley was out tending to a new case that had come to his attention, and while Martha was at work, Constantine unpacked the box, which contained not just the case for the Shotgun, but also the mold for the casing and a press to seat the percussion caps with. He mixed some blessed salt into the shot before filling the cooled shells.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
That evening, on returning to Sankt Maria's after the 5 pm. Mass, another coughing fit forced Constantine to duck into the washroom of the sacristy after Mass. His hacking fit must have given him away: When he raised his head from the sink and reached for a paper towel to wipe his mouth, he spotted someone standing in the doorway, looking at him. He straightened up to find Father Prewitt standing there, looking at him.
"Can I help you?" the priest asked, quizzically.
"Nah, just a bad cough I picked up, thanks to this damn cold weather," Constantine replied, trying to sound casual. "I'm in from LA: I ain't used to this climate."
"You're not just some mere businessman who's passing through the area, are you?" the priest said, putting him on the spot.
"I ain't hanging around for long, just till I'm finished with the job that brought me out here," Constantine replied, dodging the question.
The priest folded his arms on his chest. "What sort of job?"
"Researching a case."
Father Prewitt found his gaze. "What kind of a case?"
He'd have to bite the bullet now. "A case of demonic infestation and possible possession."
The priest raised his eyebrows. "Are you an exorcist?"
"Technically, I am."
"Wait, are you one of those demon hunters? Who asked you to come here?"
Constantine stepped around the priest, heading out of the washroom. "That's what I do to keep busy. And I came here because someone tipped me off that there was something diabolic kicking around a church that was being closed."
"Who told you about that?" the priest asked, putting a hand on Constantine's shoulder, stopping him.
"I ain't about to name names," Constantine replied, starting to get irritated with all these questions. And with the fact that his cover had been blown to hell.
Prewitt tightened his grip on Constantine's shoulder slightly, trying to propell him toward the door. "I'm sorry, but I'll have to ask you to leave."
Constantine shook off the priest's hand and turned to face him. "You throw me out, or you go blabbing to Mallegant about this, then you might as well be doing the demons' work for them. There's more going on here than the dioceasan bureaucrats would care to know about. Or to find out."
"What do you mean?" Prewitt asked, puzzled and a little worried.
"I mean, this church is sitting on top of a piece of real estate that Lucifer sent his own loan shark up to buy for him. Let me show you." Constantine took the priest by the shoulder and led him to the sanctuary. Once there, he pointed to the odd tile design on the floor before the center of the altar rail. "It's right there, right in back of the chapel in the basement."
"What is?" Prewitt asked.
"An interdimensional portal, a weak spot in the curtain between the human realm and the demonic realm. A hellmouth, or a hell-hole to put it in layman's terms. This church is the cork keeping the demons bottled up; let Mallegant pull it, and it'll be hell on earth."
"That's implausible: demons are purely non-physical beings," Prewitt argued.
Constantine gripped the priest's shoulder and kneeling down, pulled the shorter man onto his knees. He pressed the palm of Prewitt's left hand to the floortiles. At the same time, he projected his awareness down into the portal, opening a conduit to allow the priest to feel what he felt.
"It's right down there, under the floor, under the foundation. You feel it?"
The priest winced and pulled his hand from under Constantine's; even while he gripped the priest's hand, Constantine could feel the tiles growing hot. Rising to his feet, Prewitt sandwiched his hand between his right arm and his side, wincing.
"So what do you intend to do about this?" he asked.
"As you found out the hard way, it's impossible to reason with Mallegant: there's reasons to suspect the demons are using him as a middleman, whether he's aware of it or not. All we have to do is to keep him from removing the altar stone and the sacred vessals the day he deconsecrates the building," Constantine said, rising.
"So how are you going to stop him from doing that?" the priest asked.
"I don't intend to stop anything: I'm planning on cornering the demons when they're right in the act, get them out in the open."
"But they could attack you."
"Not likely: they won't exactly be fighting on their own ground."
"I don't know if I can allow this," Father Prewitt said. No trace of malice showed itself in his tone, only concern and a trace of fear.
"So? What do you suggest instead?" Constantine asked, not completely avoiding a sarcastic edge to his reply.
"Can't we call in Martin Crowley the exorcist?"
"Funny you should mention Crowley, since he was the one who called me in to cover for him so Mallegant wouldn't throw his ass out for insubordination. I'm an outsider: less risk for me. Besides, I get off on bedevilling the devils."
"But you aren't a priest."
"That should be obvious. But I've got the charism a lot of priests in this field don't have. They listen to me."
"Who else knows you're here?" The priest asked this informally, clearly just for knowledge's sake.
"One or two parishioners, tops: I've been staying under the radar, in case they got spooked by my presence. I found out my notoriety preceded me. And they know I'm hedging in on their target."
"God keep you from harm's way."
Constantine snerked. "Getting in harm's way is part of the job description. Now not a word to anyone else. I've had people getting in my face about me coming here. I don't need any more well-intentioned or bitchy old ladies trying to screw with this situation. I don't need any collateral damage on my hands."
"All right, as long as you know what you're dealing with," the priest said, relenting.
"Believe me, I know it better than I care to," Constantine said, rummaging in his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes.
"Now where are you staying, if you don't mind my asking?"
Constantine jerked his head toward the front doors. "Up in a corner of the choir loft."
"There's an empty room in the rectory: I can let you stay there," the priest offered.
"Thanks, but I'll pass, Father. It's better if I keep watch from here."
"Keep watch?"
Constantine looked up toward the rose window over the high altar. "You've had an unwelcome visitor peeking in the windows, casing the joint at night...."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
To Be Continued...
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Literary Easter Egg:
Molding the shotgun shells -- Loosely inspired by the opening paragraphs of William Gibson's "Johnny Mnemonic".
+J.M.J.+
The Smoke of Satan in Your House
by "Matrix Refugee"
Rating: PG-13 (spiritually mature themes, language)
Warnings: None for this chapter, aside from references to demonic activity, and Constantine's usual cussing.
Author's Note: I'd like to observe a moment of silence first, before continuing, to remember the victims of the London Underground bombings. (Hey, much of the "Hellblazer" series takes place in and around London, so it's only fitting to dedicate this chapter to their memory...)
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--
Disclaimer: I don't own "Constantine", its characters, concepts and other indicia, which are the property of Francis Lawrence, Kevin Brodbin, Frank Cappello, Village Roadshow, Warner Brothers, DC Comics/Vertigo, et al. And I certainly don't own any of the demons.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Chapter Five: Eviction Notice
This time, the trip went smoothly: No turbulence. No snow squalls. No trouble at the gate. No difficulties getting through security. The calm before the storm, Constantine thought. They're backing down to create a false sense of security, dull your resolve.
He found Crowley waiting for him in the concourse, the older man's sober face looking more troubled than usual. As Constantine approached, he rose to meet him. "Thank God you're here, John."
"So I take it they sold the residence?" Constantine asked.
Crowley nodded. "They passed papers yesterday: I've got less than forty-eight hours to move out of there. My sister Martha is letting me stay with her until I can find a place of my own, but there's a problem: she doesn't have much room."
Constantine shrugged. "I'll find a way to shift for myself."
Natalie approached at that moment, her eyes red from crying. Looking up at Constantine, she flung herself at him, clinging to his neck, nearly pulling him on top of her. He managed to peel her off him.
"Watch that... what the hell's wrong?" he asked.
"He did it: he issued the decree to supress us. We're as good as dead," she said, her voice trembling.
"Damn, that was fast."
"They work quickly when they think we're off guard," Crowley said, coming to Natalie's side and putting a fatherly arm around her to support her, and to keep her from causing another outburst. "Georg Schuller just got the news from Manning this morning, and passed it on the rest of the group trying to keep Sankt Maria's open."
"How much time do we have left?" Constantine asked.
"The final Mass is supposed to be offered Sunday, March 6th at 11 am," Natalie said, flat-voiced.
"Two days," Constantine said. "Gives me just enough time to pull this together."
"Back to practical matters: where are you going to stay while you pull this together?" Crowley asked.
"Probably put up at the YMCA," Constantine said, the need for a smoke starting to prick him.
"There isn't one in Houlton," Crowley said.
"You need a place to stay? There's a niche in the choir loft at Sankt Maria's," Natalie offered. "I go there when I need to get away from people. It's peaceful there... and that way, you can keep watch over the church, so nothing happens to it."
Crowley smiled. "I suppose that way you get the jump on the folks who are planning to hold a vigil in the church."
Constantine snerked. "Vigils aren't exactly my style."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Midnight in Sankt Maria's. Constantine stood on the main balcony of the loft, gazing down toward the sanctuary, the only light in the building came from the red lamp. Dim light from a nearby parking lot filtered in through the stained glass windows, but that did little to lift the gloom.
Natalie's niche in the loft turned out to be a small room at the top of one of the staircases leading to the choir loft, a room that looked like it hadn't been used in some time, except to store several dusty boxes of hymnals, a rack of cobwebby black choir robes and a few wobbly benches against one wall under a stained glass window of Saint Cecilia. With Crowley's help, Constantine had wrassled two of the benches together into a crude bunk on which he unrolled a blanket roll Crowley had loaned him. One of the benches still rocked a little, which Constantine tried to fix by jamming a hymnal under the legs. Still, the conditions would be Spartan at best: someone had turned the heat down considerably, but thankfully, it was warmer up here in the loft.
An air current caused the flame to flatten and gutter for a moment, then right itself. The candle itself had burned low in its red glass holder, but it still burned. A lot like me, he thought. Except I'm burning out at both ends. He took a meditative swig from the bottle of Jack Daniels he'd bought at the "package store" down the street.
For some wierd reason, probably thanks to the alcohol jittering in his system, the red sanctuary lamp put him in mind of the nightlight his mother used to light in his room when he was a kid and he started seeing monsters lurking outside the windows at night. Strange he should put the two together: that red light indicated the Presence of the Divine, within the tabernacle, keeping the demonic horde at bay.
"Ah, shuttit, you're getting drunk," he said, thinking out loud and screwing the top back on the bottle.
A large shadow landed with a thump on the sill of the rose window, blacking out much of the light. A huge pair of wings fanned across the window before folding back, revealing a lean, angular male form with a long tail. The figure crouched on its perch, peering in.
Back in town already, Mefistofel? Constantine thought, keeping his thoughts to himself to minimize the demon's chances of growing aware of his presence. Casing the joint? Drooling over your prize, asshole? He had the feeling he had divined the demon's thoughts. He held still in the shadows, waiting for the demon to move on. He was too tired and muzzy to try repelling the interloper, and it wouldn't be necessary at this point. The Divine Presence held the demon in check.
For now.
The demon spread its wings and leapt away, out of sight. Constantine dimly heard the creature chuckling to itself. Biding your time, eh? he thought as he returned to his bunk. Makes two of us, with different intentions.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The next morning, during the nine am. Mass, Constantine snuck out of Sankt Maria's, heading for the coffee shop where he had agreed to meet with Crowley, en route to the post office in Salem, New Hampshire to pick up the box containing the Shotgun.
"You still using blessed silver for the shell casings?" Crowley asked, while they were on the highway.
"Only stuff that works," Constantine replied. "I tried etching crosses onto regular shell casings and having Hennessey bless them, but that wasn't as effective."
Crowley nodded. "I had a feeling you were going to say that. Martha found some old silver spoons she has no need for, so we thought you could use them... once I've blessed the raw materials."
"That'll work," Constantine said.
Once they arrived at the post office, Crowley waited in the car while Constantine went in to collect the package from the eeriely appropriate Box Number 656. Providence always did have a wierd sense of humor...
That afternoon, while Crowley was out tending to a new case that had come to his attention, and while Martha was at work, Constantine unpacked the box, which contained not just the case for the Shotgun, but also the mold for the casing and a press to seat the percussion caps with. He mixed some blessed salt into the shot before filling the cooled shells.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
That evening, on returning to Sankt Maria's after the 5 pm. Mass, another coughing fit forced Constantine to duck into the washroom of the sacristy after Mass. His hacking fit must have given him away: When he raised his head from the sink and reached for a paper towel to wipe his mouth, he spotted someone standing in the doorway, looking at him. He straightened up to find Father Prewitt standing there, looking at him.
"Can I help you?" the priest asked, quizzically.
"Nah, just a bad cough I picked up, thanks to this damn cold weather," Constantine replied, trying to sound casual. "I'm in from LA: I ain't used to this climate."
"You're not just some mere businessman who's passing through the area, are you?" the priest said, putting him on the spot.
"I ain't hanging around for long, just till I'm finished with the job that brought me out here," Constantine replied, dodging the question.
The priest folded his arms on his chest. "What sort of job?"
"Researching a case."
Father Prewitt found his gaze. "What kind of a case?"
He'd have to bite the bullet now. "A case of demonic infestation and possible possession."
The priest raised his eyebrows. "Are you an exorcist?"
"Technically, I am."
"Wait, are you one of those demon hunters? Who asked you to come here?"
Constantine stepped around the priest, heading out of the washroom. "That's what I do to keep busy. And I came here because someone tipped me off that there was something diabolic kicking around a church that was being closed."
"Who told you about that?" the priest asked, putting a hand on Constantine's shoulder, stopping him.
"I ain't about to name names," Constantine replied, starting to get irritated with all these questions. And with the fact that his cover had been blown to hell.
Prewitt tightened his grip on Constantine's shoulder slightly, trying to propell him toward the door. "I'm sorry, but I'll have to ask you to leave."
Constantine shook off the priest's hand and turned to face him. "You throw me out, or you go blabbing to Mallegant about this, then you might as well be doing the demons' work for them. There's more going on here than the dioceasan bureaucrats would care to know about. Or to find out."
"What do you mean?" Prewitt asked, puzzled and a little worried.
"I mean, this church is sitting on top of a piece of real estate that Lucifer sent his own loan shark up to buy for him. Let me show you." Constantine took the priest by the shoulder and led him to the sanctuary. Once there, he pointed to the odd tile design on the floor before the center of the altar rail. "It's right there, right in back of the chapel in the basement."
"What is?" Prewitt asked.
"An interdimensional portal, a weak spot in the curtain between the human realm and the demonic realm. A hellmouth, or a hell-hole to put it in layman's terms. This church is the cork keeping the demons bottled up; let Mallegant pull it, and it'll be hell on earth."
"That's implausible: demons are purely non-physical beings," Prewitt argued.
Constantine gripped the priest's shoulder and kneeling down, pulled the shorter man onto his knees. He pressed the palm of Prewitt's left hand to the floortiles. At the same time, he projected his awareness down into the portal, opening a conduit to allow the priest to feel what he felt.
"It's right down there, under the floor, under the foundation. You feel it?"
The priest winced and pulled his hand from under Constantine's; even while he gripped the priest's hand, Constantine could feel the tiles growing hot. Rising to his feet, Prewitt sandwiched his hand between his right arm and his side, wincing.
"So what do you intend to do about this?" he asked.
"As you found out the hard way, it's impossible to reason with Mallegant: there's reasons to suspect the demons are using him as a middleman, whether he's aware of it or not. All we have to do is to keep him from removing the altar stone and the sacred vessals the day he deconsecrates the building," Constantine said, rising.
"So how are you going to stop him from doing that?" the priest asked.
"I don't intend to stop anything: I'm planning on cornering the demons when they're right in the act, get them out in the open."
"But they could attack you."
"Not likely: they won't exactly be fighting on their own ground."
"I don't know if I can allow this," Father Prewitt said. No trace of malice showed itself in his tone, only concern and a trace of fear.
"So? What do you suggest instead?" Constantine asked, not completely avoiding a sarcastic edge to his reply.
"Can't we call in Martin Crowley the exorcist?"
"Funny you should mention Crowley, since he was the one who called me in to cover for him so Mallegant wouldn't throw his ass out for insubordination. I'm an outsider: less risk for me. Besides, I get off on bedevilling the devils."
"But you aren't a priest."
"That should be obvious. But I've got the charism a lot of priests in this field don't have. They listen to me."
"Who else knows you're here?" The priest asked this informally, clearly just for knowledge's sake.
"One or two parishioners, tops: I've been staying under the radar, in case they got spooked by my presence. I found out my notoriety preceded me. And they know I'm hedging in on their target."
"God keep you from harm's way."
Constantine snerked. "Getting in harm's way is part of the job description. Now not a word to anyone else. I've had people getting in my face about me coming here. I don't need any more well-intentioned or bitchy old ladies trying to screw with this situation. I don't need any collateral damage on my hands."
"All right, as long as you know what you're dealing with," the priest said, relenting.
"Believe me, I know it better than I care to," Constantine said, rummaging in his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes.
"Now where are you staying, if you don't mind my asking?"
Constantine jerked his head toward the front doors. "Up in a corner of the choir loft."
"There's an empty room in the rectory: I can let you stay there," the priest offered.
"Thanks, but I'll pass, Father. It's better if I keep watch from here."
"Keep watch?"
Constantine looked up toward the rose window over the high altar. "You've had an unwelcome visitor peeking in the windows, casing the joint at night...."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
To Be Continued...
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Literary Easter Egg:
Molding the shotgun shells -- Loosely inspired by the opening paragraphs of William Gibson's "Johnny Mnemonic".
