matrixrefugee (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
matrixrefugee) wrote2005-04-19 09:56 pm
matrixrefugee) wrote2005-04-19 09:56 pm
Entry tags:
FANFIC: The Smoke of Satan in Your House -- Chapter Two
Sorry for the delay: I had a lot on my mind last week, between work and appointments...
+J.M.J.+
The Smoke of Satan in Your House
by "Matrix Refugee"
Rating: PG-13 (spiritually mature themes, language)
Warnings: Nothing for this chapter, aside from Constantine's occasional expletives.
Author's Note: Just in time for the election of Pope Benedict XVI, I finally got the next chapter typed (Deo Gratias! [Thank you, God!]). Special thanks goes out to all my kind reviewers. Glad to see there's so many of you who are enjoying this story!
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.
"You can hide de fire, but what are you gonna do wiff de smoke?" --Joel Chandler Harris
Chapter Two: Under the Floorboards
Blaring music jolted Constantine out of a sound sleep. For a moment, he was back home in LA, with some punks testing the limits of the subwoofers on their car stereo below the windows of his apartment. But the hipsters and would-be hipsters usually didn't blare heavy metal from the Seventies.
He poked his head out from under the blankets and looked around him, getting his bearings. You're in Crowley's rooms, he reminded himself.
The priest shifted on the bed, one arm reaching toward the nightstand, his hand fumbling for the clock radio perched on top. He shut the racket off, then lay still for a moment before sitting up.
"I'm sorry about that, John, I should have warned you," Crowley said, grinning sheepishly.
"Pretty funny music for a priest to have his radio tuned to," Constantine remarked.
"Ever since I had to start taking the sleeping pills, it's the only thing that'll wake me up," Crowley said, getting out of bed and kneeling on the floor beside it, to offer his morning prayers.
Constantine leaned back on his pillows as a wave of coughing wracked his chest. Crowley looked up, a pucker of concern between his brows.
"Are you all right there, John?"
"Yeah -- kaff! -- it just hits me like a pail of rocks when I first wake up."
"You might want to have that looked at," Crowley said, with a note of paternal concern.
"When I get back to LA," Constantine said, sitting up and reaching for his pants. Which might be fairly soon... he thought.
After a quick breakfast in the refectory, Crowley hurried Constantine away from the curious and suspicious looks from the other residents present in the dining hall, and led him back up to his rooms. Opening the door to a large cupboard in the far corner, Crowley took out a long, charcoal-black cassock.
"It's monk's wool: it'll keep you warm," Crowley said, with a slightly apologetic note as he handed the coat-like garment to Constantine.
He regarded it with some hesitancy before finally taking it and pulling it on. "People'll think I'm a priest."
"Or one of those strange 'Matrix' fankids," Crowley said.
Constantine winced. "Never saw it, and I'm too old for that." As a precaution, he left the front of the cassock unbuttoned.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wide sidewalk in front of the church and the narrow garden beside it were already lightly crowded with parishoners, talking amongst themselves, when Father Crowley dropped Constantine off. One Mass seemed to have gotten out, while another was about to start. He counted at least a dozen young families with several kids in tow or or scurrying around. No less than four of the mothers looked pregnant. Well, they won't fall short on Mallegant's baptism quota, Constantine thought. As he passed through the gathereing, he caught several girls between the ages of 13 and 30 looking at him with surreptitious looks in their eyes, like they wanted to know his name and how it would look next to theirs on the parish marriage records. He walked a little quicker past them as he approached the steps to the front doors.
The interior smelled of wood polish, floor wax, incense and beeswax candles, but he detected something else, something that didn't belong here. It was just a whiff, not enough to warrant immediate intervention, but enough to twig his awareness.
He knelt in a pew towards the back of the church, behind a pillar where he could see without being seen, especially by the two older women who'd come in behind him, who at first had regarded him with smiles, but then on seeing his rumpled suit under that cassock, had changed their expressions to disapproving frowns.
He glanced across the aisle just as Natalie O'Halloran entered; her head covered with a black veil wound almost like a Muslim woman's hejab. She glanced up at him as she knelt down in a pew several rows ahead of his spot; a small smile of recognition crossed her face, but thankfully, she made no other sign that she knew he was there.
The Mass itself was decently said: the Gospel reading included a passage describing the torments that awaited self-condemned soul as "the weeping and gnashing of teeth", a fitting description, but it barely scratched the surface. The sermon, given by a youngish priest with prematurely thinning blonde hair, elaborated on "the reality of hell", but in Constantine's experience, it hardly came close to describing the horrors. The two older women whimpered on the verge of hysteria, but Constantine remained largely unmoved. He probably could have done better and used fewer words, but at best, they would have left much of the congregation shell-shocked. Which, all things considered, might not have been a bad thing: he spotted several people who had that air about them, that they needed to really see things from the other side. He got a vibe that a lot of the so-called respectable folks around him felt self-assured of their place on the straight and narrow. He certainly didn't envy them, if that was how they chose to spend their time on earth, sittin' pretty, when for all they knew, this holier-than-thou bullshit could well be the raw iron for the bolt on the gate of heaven when they got up there.
His mind wandered during much of the Mass. When the Priest elevated the Host, Constantine managed to refocus, going over the past few week, the interventions he'd made, the demons he'd pulled out of a couple of people, evening out the score with the Man Upstairs.
At Communion, he kept his head down while the majority of the congregation went up to receive the Body of Christ. He knew because of his own balls-ups, he couldn't receive the Sacred Species; that bothered him, but it didn't. He'd seen too many people eating the Bread of Heaven who shouldn't even set foot in a church, for the things they did to their fellow man, during the week. He sensed more than a few suspicious glares from the two eagle-eyed old women ahead of him, probably wondering what *he'd* done that kept him from going to Communion. Mind your own business, lady: nothin' to see here. Look to your own soul for a change, willya?
The organ postlude after the Mass was near-concert quality, oddly soothing to his vibrating nerves. He stayed put, keeping his eyes downcast, waiting for the congregation to file out. He felt a few people glance at him, probably thinking it was nice to see a young man praying on his knees in church on a Sunday morning. He wasn't a mind reader, but he got a vibe off some of these interlopers wanted to see a young man of their own aquaintence follow the example of the fine, young Catholic gentleman in front of them. He had to choke back his laughter at the absurdity of this notion: If only they knew him better...
Thankfully, he saw them go on their way, most likely turned off when they noticed his less than immaculate appearance: his unshaven jaw and still-tousled hair, or the smell of cigarette smoke that clung to him like an invisible garment.
The church emptied, except for a scattering of people praying the rosary after Mass, and the men from the Holy Name Society reciting the Litany of the Holy Name, in Latin:
"Ab Omni Malo.... Libera nos Jesu."
"Ab Omni Peccato... Libera nos Jesu."
"Ab Insidus Diaboli... Libera nos Jesu."
From all evil... From all sin... From the snares of the devil... deliver us, Jesus.
Once the Holy Name Society had left, he felt someone put a hand on his arm. He pulled away and looked up to find Natalie at his side. "I hoped you'd come," she said.
He shrugged. "I had to get a look at the place."
He rose and walked to the front of the church, toward the sanctuary with its high altar, ornately decorated with carven angels in small niches, antique statues of the Blessed Virgin Mary and Christ with His Sacred Heart, in larger niches. A white marble altar rail marked the demarcation between the nave, the body of the church, and the sanctuary proper. Overhead, the ceiling -- once painted blue with gold stars, now peeling noticably -- rose to a pointed arch; the lathing had started to show through the aging plaster. Grey-green columns, nearly as thick as tree trunks, supported the roof; somewhere, he'd read a description of a Gothic church, comparing it to a forest. He couldn't place the reference, but the words fit: to the point that some would-be developers wanted to cut down this sacred grove.
He paused at the head of the banks of pews, just at the transverse aisle in front of the sanctuary. That odd scent had come back; he let his feelers reach out, prodding around, touching the aura of this place.
And he felt it, coming up through the tiles at his feet. It manifested as a weak aura: the corona of the Divine Presence in the tabernacle on the high altar, held it at bay, like an iron fence holding back a wild beast, or a sea wall holding back the waves. But it still lay in wait.
He looked down: on the floor at his feet, in the middle of the aisle, just before the center aisle leading to the front doors and the low wrought brass gates in the center of the altar rail, the tiles changed color. In the middle of the aged white tiles here, the designers had marked out a hollow black square out of narrow strips of tile, lined with alterating red and white tiles. Outside of the square, they had set in four red triangular tiles, at the corners of the square, apexes touching the corners of the square. He felt the negative aura the strongest here, within the square, held in by the Divine Order.
He sensed the evil presence surge, like a swarm of bees riled up by an intruder, but the swarm was held back, impotent to sting anyone. He murmured a line from the Ritual of Exorcism, "Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Domine Deus Sabaoth." Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Hosts... The words forced the presence into calmness, but it did not fully disperse it. He knelt on the floor, reaching down to touch the tiles. To anyone else, they would have felt cool to the touch, but under his hand, they felt warm, even hot from the bleed-through emanating from the demonic plane. He projected his awareness deeper.
The demonic aura bucked at his touch. The yammer of a million harsh voices calling for blood, the clash of a million fanged jaws lusting for fresh meat rose in the ears of his soul.
He retracted his awareness, opening his eyes as he stood up. He knew now why he had to be here, why he had been called to this particular place. Like hell he knew it.
He turned to find Natalie standing behind him; she'd clearly been watching him the whole time. She held one hand clasped in a loose fist before her, below her chin, an odd gesture, but she'd confessed to being a little odd.
"Did you find something?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said, wondering for a moment how to describe it, or if he should share it with her at all.
At that point, a slim figure in black cassock, the young priest who had offered the Mass, emerged from behind the high altar, pausing to kneel briefly before it, then turned and approached them, opening the gate in the altar rail.
"Good morning, Natalie," the priest said.
"Good morning, Father," she replied.
"Did you get a chance to speak with Father Crowley?" the priest asked.
Natalie nodded. "Yes, I did: he said he'd like to help, but he isn't able to. Bishop Mallegant might throw him out of his position, but he said he'd call in someone he knows, someone who can take the case --"
Constantine stepped in between Natalie and the priest. He had to butt in before this chatterbox blew his cover.
"Excuse me, Father," he said. "I'm here in Houlton on business for a few days. Friend of mine told me about this church, said it was a really good place, had a good Mass. I gotta admit, it's gorgeous here: place like this has to have quite a history to it."
"Oh, it's quite a long story," the priest said.
Constantine shrugged. "I got time to hear it."
"Well, in that case... the parish was organized in 1836, to serve the needs of the German immigrants coming here from Bavaria, the Catholic province of Germany. But the present structure wasn't built until 1868. Before that, a wooden frame building stood on this spot, but that burned to the ground in 1858," the priest replied.
"Yeah, the Know-Nothings torched it, along with another church and a convent in Brighton," Natalie put in.
"The... what-whos?" Constantine asked.
"The Know-Nothings. They were the forerunners of the White Supremecist movement. They didn't like Blacks or foreigners like the immigrants coming in, so they did what they could to drive them out. Basically, they were terrorists, but they used other scare tactics, too. The ones who owned businesses refused to hire immigrants, while the rowdier members trashed and burned buildings where the immigrants gathered. They got their name from the reply they'd give to anyone who asked them what their political affiliation was; they'd say something like, 'I know nothing'." She said the last three words in an almost sarcastic, nasal tone.
"Pretty damned stupid of them -- sorry, Father. I mean, these people where, what, guys whose great-grandfathers came over on the Mayflower, right?" Constantine said.
"Yeah, and now our own bishop wants to shut us down," Natalie said. "Personally, I'd rather this place got wrecked by people who hate us, than see it get killed by one of our own kind."
"Guess if I want a look around, I'd better take my chance now," Constantine said.
"Would you care to join us for the social hour we're having downstairs in the parish hall?" the priest asked.
"Thanks, but I'll take a raincheck: I'm just passing through," Constantine said.
"You take care then, and God be with you, brother," the priest said, then went on his way, heading down the main aisle and out by the front doors.
Constantine breathed an uneasy sigh of relief. Then turning to Natalie, he said, "Do me a favor, will you?"
"What?" she asked, eyes open and innocent.
"Don't try to help me out here. I know what I'm doing. Last thing I need on my hands right now is some well-intentioned bystander getting in the middle and blowing this all to hell."
Her face visably crinkled with frustration. "I'm sorry... I thought I could help."
"You can help best by *not* helping. I can see you want to help because this is your parish; but it's better for us all if you keep your mouth shut and let me do what I gotta do."
She edged away, her hands trembling. "I'm sorry..."
He realized he'd agitated her. "Look, I'm not saying this to be nasty to you: I'm trying to keep you out of the worst. It's a war zone."
She seemed to be forcing herself to breathe more slowly. "I'm sorry," she said, a little less fearfully.
"Hey, I know you meant well -- "
"I mean, I'm sorry I got upset: I tend to overreact to stuff, things people say to me."
He shrugged. "Didn't faze me; it's hard to bug me, after the things I've seen." He made a small mental note to watch his mouth around her, to avoid a repeat of this confrontation.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"She means well, yeah, but the last thing I need right now is a nosy girl fuckin' with my work," Constantine said, sitting perched on a windowsill in Crowley's room, a cigarette between his fingers. He took a pull from it and blew the smoke out, over the lowered upper sash.
"Aside from that, did you find anything there?" Crowley asked, putting his Mass kit away on its shelf.
"Hell, yeah." He took a meditative pull off his cigarette, holding the smoke before letting it trickle from his lips. "I'll have to take a closer look, but right now, I'll tell you this much: If that church comes down, it's gonna be hell on earth."
"What exactly do you mean?" Crowley said, his voice hinting that he had an idea of what Constantine meant.
"It's on top of a hellhole: felt it right through the floorboards." Constantine stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray Crowley had scared up for him.
"Holy Mother, protect us," Crowley murmured.
"No turnin' back now," Constantine said.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To Be Continued....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Literary Easter Eggs:
The heavy metal music on the radio -- Inspired by a crazy story about an older priest who was losing his hearing, and who had his clock radio set to the heavy metal station because that was the only thing loud enough to wake him up.
The cassock -- A playful dig toward the "Matrix" fan crowd, and toward the nuts at Warner Brothers for putting the "Constantine" movie poster on a billboard visible in one of the Matrix Online trailers.
The odd design on the floor before the sanctuary -- Inspired by a purely decorative design in a similar spot on the floor of Holy Trinity (German) Catholic Church. The operative words here are 'purely decorative'. As far as I know, there's nothing nasty under the floorboards of my parish church.
((Cross-posted to my personal LJ, "constant_hell" and "constantine_fic"))
+J.M.J.+
The Smoke of Satan in Your House
by "Matrix Refugee"
Rating: PG-13 (spiritually mature themes, language)
Warnings: Nothing for this chapter, aside from Constantine's occasional expletives.
Author's Note: Just in time for the election of Pope Benedict XVI, I finally got the next chapter typed (Deo Gratias! [Thank you, God!]). Special thanks goes out to all my kind reviewers. Glad to see there's so many of you who are enjoying this story!
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.
"You can hide de fire, but what are you gonna do wiff de smoke?" --Joel Chandler Harris
Chapter Two: Under the Floorboards
Blaring music jolted Constantine out of a sound sleep. For a moment, he was back home in LA, with some punks testing the limits of the subwoofers on their car stereo below the windows of his apartment. But the hipsters and would-be hipsters usually didn't blare heavy metal from the Seventies.
He poked his head out from under the blankets and looked around him, getting his bearings. You're in Crowley's rooms, he reminded himself.
The priest shifted on the bed, one arm reaching toward the nightstand, his hand fumbling for the clock radio perched on top. He shut the racket off, then lay still for a moment before sitting up.
"I'm sorry about that, John, I should have warned you," Crowley said, grinning sheepishly.
"Pretty funny music for a priest to have his radio tuned to," Constantine remarked.
"Ever since I had to start taking the sleeping pills, it's the only thing that'll wake me up," Crowley said, getting out of bed and kneeling on the floor beside it, to offer his morning prayers.
Constantine leaned back on his pillows as a wave of coughing wracked his chest. Crowley looked up, a pucker of concern between his brows.
"Are you all right there, John?"
"Yeah -- kaff! -- it just hits me like a pail of rocks when I first wake up."
"You might want to have that looked at," Crowley said, with a note of paternal concern.
"When I get back to LA," Constantine said, sitting up and reaching for his pants. Which might be fairly soon... he thought.
After a quick breakfast in the refectory, Crowley hurried Constantine away from the curious and suspicious looks from the other residents present in the dining hall, and led him back up to his rooms. Opening the door to a large cupboard in the far corner, Crowley took out a long, charcoal-black cassock.
"It's monk's wool: it'll keep you warm," Crowley said, with a slightly apologetic note as he handed the coat-like garment to Constantine.
He regarded it with some hesitancy before finally taking it and pulling it on. "People'll think I'm a priest."
"Or one of those strange 'Matrix' fankids," Crowley said.
Constantine winced. "Never saw it, and I'm too old for that." As a precaution, he left the front of the cassock unbuttoned.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wide sidewalk in front of the church and the narrow garden beside it were already lightly crowded with parishoners, talking amongst themselves, when Father Crowley dropped Constantine off. One Mass seemed to have gotten out, while another was about to start. He counted at least a dozen young families with several kids in tow or or scurrying around. No less than four of the mothers looked pregnant. Well, they won't fall short on Mallegant's baptism quota, Constantine thought. As he passed through the gathereing, he caught several girls between the ages of 13 and 30 looking at him with surreptitious looks in their eyes, like they wanted to know his name and how it would look next to theirs on the parish marriage records. He walked a little quicker past them as he approached the steps to the front doors.
The interior smelled of wood polish, floor wax, incense and beeswax candles, but he detected something else, something that didn't belong here. It was just a whiff, not enough to warrant immediate intervention, but enough to twig his awareness.
He knelt in a pew towards the back of the church, behind a pillar where he could see without being seen, especially by the two older women who'd come in behind him, who at first had regarded him with smiles, but then on seeing his rumpled suit under that cassock, had changed their expressions to disapproving frowns.
He glanced across the aisle just as Natalie O'Halloran entered; her head covered with a black veil wound almost like a Muslim woman's hejab. She glanced up at him as she knelt down in a pew several rows ahead of his spot; a small smile of recognition crossed her face, but thankfully, she made no other sign that she knew he was there.
The Mass itself was decently said: the Gospel reading included a passage describing the torments that awaited self-condemned soul as "the weeping and gnashing of teeth", a fitting description, but it barely scratched the surface. The sermon, given by a youngish priest with prematurely thinning blonde hair, elaborated on "the reality of hell", but in Constantine's experience, it hardly came close to describing the horrors. The two older women whimpered on the verge of hysteria, but Constantine remained largely unmoved. He probably could have done better and used fewer words, but at best, they would have left much of the congregation shell-shocked. Which, all things considered, might not have been a bad thing: he spotted several people who had that air about them, that they needed to really see things from the other side. He got a vibe that a lot of the so-called respectable folks around him felt self-assured of their place on the straight and narrow. He certainly didn't envy them, if that was how they chose to spend their time on earth, sittin' pretty, when for all they knew, this holier-than-thou bullshit could well be the raw iron for the bolt on the gate of heaven when they got up there.
His mind wandered during much of the Mass. When the Priest elevated the Host, Constantine managed to refocus, going over the past few week, the interventions he'd made, the demons he'd pulled out of a couple of people, evening out the score with the Man Upstairs.
At Communion, he kept his head down while the majority of the congregation went up to receive the Body of Christ. He knew because of his own balls-ups, he couldn't receive the Sacred Species; that bothered him, but it didn't. He'd seen too many people eating the Bread of Heaven who shouldn't even set foot in a church, for the things they did to their fellow man, during the week. He sensed more than a few suspicious glares from the two eagle-eyed old women ahead of him, probably wondering what *he'd* done that kept him from going to Communion. Mind your own business, lady: nothin' to see here. Look to your own soul for a change, willya?
The organ postlude after the Mass was near-concert quality, oddly soothing to his vibrating nerves. He stayed put, keeping his eyes downcast, waiting for the congregation to file out. He felt a few people glance at him, probably thinking it was nice to see a young man praying on his knees in church on a Sunday morning. He wasn't a mind reader, but he got a vibe off some of these interlopers wanted to see a young man of their own aquaintence follow the example of the fine, young Catholic gentleman in front of them. He had to choke back his laughter at the absurdity of this notion: If only they knew him better...
Thankfully, he saw them go on their way, most likely turned off when they noticed his less than immaculate appearance: his unshaven jaw and still-tousled hair, or the smell of cigarette smoke that clung to him like an invisible garment.
The church emptied, except for a scattering of people praying the rosary after Mass, and the men from the Holy Name Society reciting the Litany of the Holy Name, in Latin:
"Ab Omni Malo.... Libera nos Jesu."
"Ab Omni Peccato... Libera nos Jesu."
"Ab Insidus Diaboli... Libera nos Jesu."
From all evil... From all sin... From the snares of the devil... deliver us, Jesus.
Once the Holy Name Society had left, he felt someone put a hand on his arm. He pulled away and looked up to find Natalie at his side. "I hoped you'd come," she said.
He shrugged. "I had to get a look at the place."
He rose and walked to the front of the church, toward the sanctuary with its high altar, ornately decorated with carven angels in small niches, antique statues of the Blessed Virgin Mary and Christ with His Sacred Heart, in larger niches. A white marble altar rail marked the demarcation between the nave, the body of the church, and the sanctuary proper. Overhead, the ceiling -- once painted blue with gold stars, now peeling noticably -- rose to a pointed arch; the lathing had started to show through the aging plaster. Grey-green columns, nearly as thick as tree trunks, supported the roof; somewhere, he'd read a description of a Gothic church, comparing it to a forest. He couldn't place the reference, but the words fit: to the point that some would-be developers wanted to cut down this sacred grove.
He paused at the head of the banks of pews, just at the transverse aisle in front of the sanctuary. That odd scent had come back; he let his feelers reach out, prodding around, touching the aura of this place.
And he felt it, coming up through the tiles at his feet. It manifested as a weak aura: the corona of the Divine Presence in the tabernacle on the high altar, held it at bay, like an iron fence holding back a wild beast, or a sea wall holding back the waves. But it still lay in wait.
He looked down: on the floor at his feet, in the middle of the aisle, just before the center aisle leading to the front doors and the low wrought brass gates in the center of the altar rail, the tiles changed color. In the middle of the aged white tiles here, the designers had marked out a hollow black square out of narrow strips of tile, lined with alterating red and white tiles. Outside of the square, they had set in four red triangular tiles, at the corners of the square, apexes touching the corners of the square. He felt the negative aura the strongest here, within the square, held in by the Divine Order.
He sensed the evil presence surge, like a swarm of bees riled up by an intruder, but the swarm was held back, impotent to sting anyone. He murmured a line from the Ritual of Exorcism, "Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Domine Deus Sabaoth." Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Hosts... The words forced the presence into calmness, but it did not fully disperse it. He knelt on the floor, reaching down to touch the tiles. To anyone else, they would have felt cool to the touch, but under his hand, they felt warm, even hot from the bleed-through emanating from the demonic plane. He projected his awareness deeper.
The demonic aura bucked at his touch. The yammer of a million harsh voices calling for blood, the clash of a million fanged jaws lusting for fresh meat rose in the ears of his soul.
He retracted his awareness, opening his eyes as he stood up. He knew now why he had to be here, why he had been called to this particular place. Like hell he knew it.
He turned to find Natalie standing behind him; she'd clearly been watching him the whole time. She held one hand clasped in a loose fist before her, below her chin, an odd gesture, but she'd confessed to being a little odd.
"Did you find something?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said, wondering for a moment how to describe it, or if he should share it with her at all.
At that point, a slim figure in black cassock, the young priest who had offered the Mass, emerged from behind the high altar, pausing to kneel briefly before it, then turned and approached them, opening the gate in the altar rail.
"Good morning, Natalie," the priest said.
"Good morning, Father," she replied.
"Did you get a chance to speak with Father Crowley?" the priest asked.
Natalie nodded. "Yes, I did: he said he'd like to help, but he isn't able to. Bishop Mallegant might throw him out of his position, but he said he'd call in someone he knows, someone who can take the case --"
Constantine stepped in between Natalie and the priest. He had to butt in before this chatterbox blew his cover.
"Excuse me, Father," he said. "I'm here in Houlton on business for a few days. Friend of mine told me about this church, said it was a really good place, had a good Mass. I gotta admit, it's gorgeous here: place like this has to have quite a history to it."
"Oh, it's quite a long story," the priest said.
Constantine shrugged. "I got time to hear it."
"Well, in that case... the parish was organized in 1836, to serve the needs of the German immigrants coming here from Bavaria, the Catholic province of Germany. But the present structure wasn't built until 1868. Before that, a wooden frame building stood on this spot, but that burned to the ground in 1858," the priest replied.
"Yeah, the Know-Nothings torched it, along with another church and a convent in Brighton," Natalie put in.
"The... what-whos?" Constantine asked.
"The Know-Nothings. They were the forerunners of the White Supremecist movement. They didn't like Blacks or foreigners like the immigrants coming in, so they did what they could to drive them out. Basically, they were terrorists, but they used other scare tactics, too. The ones who owned businesses refused to hire immigrants, while the rowdier members trashed and burned buildings where the immigrants gathered. They got their name from the reply they'd give to anyone who asked them what their political affiliation was; they'd say something like, 'I know nothing'." She said the last three words in an almost sarcastic, nasal tone.
"Pretty damned stupid of them -- sorry, Father. I mean, these people where, what, guys whose great-grandfathers came over on the Mayflower, right?" Constantine said.
"Yeah, and now our own bishop wants to shut us down," Natalie said. "Personally, I'd rather this place got wrecked by people who hate us, than see it get killed by one of our own kind."
"Guess if I want a look around, I'd better take my chance now," Constantine said.
"Would you care to join us for the social hour we're having downstairs in the parish hall?" the priest asked.
"Thanks, but I'll take a raincheck: I'm just passing through," Constantine said.
"You take care then, and God be with you, brother," the priest said, then went on his way, heading down the main aisle and out by the front doors.
Constantine breathed an uneasy sigh of relief. Then turning to Natalie, he said, "Do me a favor, will you?"
"What?" she asked, eyes open and innocent.
"Don't try to help me out here. I know what I'm doing. Last thing I need on my hands right now is some well-intentioned bystander getting in the middle and blowing this all to hell."
Her face visably crinkled with frustration. "I'm sorry... I thought I could help."
"You can help best by *not* helping. I can see you want to help because this is your parish; but it's better for us all if you keep your mouth shut and let me do what I gotta do."
She edged away, her hands trembling. "I'm sorry..."
He realized he'd agitated her. "Look, I'm not saying this to be nasty to you: I'm trying to keep you out of the worst. It's a war zone."
She seemed to be forcing herself to breathe more slowly. "I'm sorry," she said, a little less fearfully.
"Hey, I know you meant well -- "
"I mean, I'm sorry I got upset: I tend to overreact to stuff, things people say to me."
He shrugged. "Didn't faze me; it's hard to bug me, after the things I've seen." He made a small mental note to watch his mouth around her, to avoid a repeat of this confrontation.
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"She means well, yeah, but the last thing I need right now is a nosy girl fuckin' with my work," Constantine said, sitting perched on a windowsill in Crowley's room, a cigarette between his fingers. He took a pull from it and blew the smoke out, over the lowered upper sash.
"Aside from that, did you find anything there?" Crowley asked, putting his Mass kit away on its shelf.
"Hell, yeah." He took a meditative pull off his cigarette, holding the smoke before letting it trickle from his lips. "I'll have to take a closer look, but right now, I'll tell you this much: If that church comes down, it's gonna be hell on earth."
"What exactly do you mean?" Crowley said, his voice hinting that he had an idea of what Constantine meant.
"It's on top of a hellhole: felt it right through the floorboards." Constantine stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray Crowley had scared up for him.
"Holy Mother, protect us," Crowley murmured.
"No turnin' back now," Constantine said.
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To Be Continued....
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Literary Easter Eggs:
The heavy metal music on the radio -- Inspired by a crazy story about an older priest who was losing his hearing, and who had his clock radio set to the heavy metal station because that was the only thing loud enough to wake him up.
The cassock -- A playful dig toward the "Matrix" fan crowd, and toward the nuts at Warner Brothers for putting the "Constantine" movie poster on a billboard visible in one of the Matrix Online trailers.
The odd design on the floor before the sanctuary -- Inspired by a purely decorative design in a similar spot on the floor of Holy Trinity (German) Catholic Church. The operative words here are 'purely decorative'. As far as I know, there's nothing nasty under the floorboards of my parish church.
((Cross-posted to my personal LJ, "constant_hell" and "constantine_fic"))
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