Angel of the Bat: Da Pacem Domine
A Fan Fiction by MJTR
[[Author's introduction: We have finally reached the five year anniversary of Angel of the Bat, and with it, I'm ready to take another crack at telling this story. For those of you who were reading this during the initial attempt, I've spent a lot of time ironing out details that felt like they weren't exactly going how I wanted them to and hope to have a much stronger piece to present this time around, and I hope you can bear with me while I get it all together.
This story is rather different than both the original and Times of Heresy, in ways that felt worthy of experimentation. As I alluded to back in Times of Heresy, that story was meant to be the most grounded in the trilogy. This one, in turn, will be by far and away the most fantastic. I am a fantasy writer first and foremost, and I don't believe being more fantasy driven is a reason why a story doesn't have the potential to be every bit as meaningful.
I'd strongly recommend reading the first two Angel stories before getting into this one, but as with Times of Heresy (and well written comic books, really) I am writing with the intention that the pieces are all there for the reader to put together. As a last note, this story takes place independent of the events of Beware the Batman, a different fic I started, didn't finish, but one day may. I just want to establish that, although this would take place before that story, they are in separate timelines in my little Angel-verse.
As a last plug, later tonight, for continued celebration of five years of Angel, I will begin releasing my chapter-by-chapter readings of the original story to my YouTube channel, HalfwayBeret. So if you're looking for a new way to experience the original story or just how you can take it in for the first time, consider giving that a talk then, this opening chapter is long enough already. I hope you enjoy the story.]]
Prologue:
Blood stained the sands of Acre and ran down into the Levantine Sea. The single day's casualties numbered dozens if not a hundred in total. Of the over seventy knights of Britain who had stepped off the ship from Genoa, only one still stood. The damned sand dogs who were so eager to taste the bite of his blade were less than a third of his force, nearly all of them laid dead in the dirt. Only one of the worms remained, but he was the one who had almost singlehandedly leveled the crusaders. In the setting sun, his opponent's cloak seemed to glow as if it was made of fire. The lone knight struggled to even hold his footing but would never surrender. His opponent raised a scimitar toward him and stared with those pure, white, prophet's eyes that seemed to pierce the soul.
The one dressed in flames was not used to speaking English, but he knew enough to deliver a message. "You will live. Go back to your masters, tell them what you have seen. Tell them to leave my people be, your lives needn't be forfeit."
The knight clutched his chest and squeezed the handful of the cross-marked shirt over his chainmail. It was difficult for him to speak, but he pressed on. "My master is greater than yours, dog of Termagant! I shall fear no evil, to die to see the Holy Land again purified is to accept sanctification!"
"The prophet, Jesus, peace be upon him, would never wish your blade raised upon mine," the flame-cloaked man said. "Cruel men corrupted his words, as they have corrupted your heart."
"You do not dare speak to me of the works of Christ, you heathen dog!" The crusader pulled a second sword of the hand of a dead comrade and raised the blades toward his opponent. "Make your peace with Mohammed now, I'll send you into the pits to join him! Deus vult!"
With the power that ran through that specter's body, he could have reduced the bullheaded fool to ash in the blink of an eye. The wrath of Allah was with him, if he so chose to use it. But Allah abhorred needless bloodshed, and perhaps if just this one fool could be convinced to tell the European kings what power laid ready to guard Jerusalem, they would end their cursed crusades.
With his scimitar clutched close to his chest, the specter prayed, "Alsalam ealaykum," and ran to meet him in battle again.
-000-
Chapter One
It seemed like such a normal night off patrol. There had been sushi, laughter, and a terrible struggle for balance. A blade in the hand seemed so easy compared with one strapped to each foot.
"How are you so bad at this?"
"First time. Shut up, stop laughing."
"You can meditate while standing on your head and probably walk a mile on your hands." The first of the two, a young woman in a big, leather coat with hair short enough to tuck under her stocking cap, examined her partner. "But ice skating? Ice skating is your kryptonite?"
From the wall that surrounded the outside of the rink, the second shook her fist as she took one clunky step at a time. With her struggle for balance and petite frame, it was hard to look intimidating. "I'll push you."
The short haired girl glided past her, curved to turn around and stuck out her tongue. "You'd have to catch me first." As she spoke she pressed onto her heels a little to slow down.
Parents with their children, lovers and even a van of church teens all swooped up and down the Gotham's Bayside Skating Rink. The speakers played inoffensive music, little ones cried out of fear of falling, and snow fell gently from the sky. For most of them it was just a pleasant night out. For the two girls, it was another precious moment in a too-rare reunion.
Cassandra grit her teeth a little. Sadie was right, she was oddly bad at this activity. She couldn't pick up any decent momentum, the stress made her sweat a little, and the center of her feet hurt from the odd balance of the ice skates. But deep down, she didn't really mind any of those things. In spite of her struggle, she tried to pick up the pace. Sadie had slowed significantly and still seemed so far away.
"Come on," she said. "Go for it. You gotta want it!"
Was there ever any doubt about that?
When Sadie and almost stopped completely, Cassandra took a lunge. She was practically running on the ice and it made her already sore feet sting even more. But that was okay. She nearly tripped, but didn't, caught up to Sadie and wrapped her arms around her tight from behind.
Sadie smirked as Cassandra nuzzled into her. "Good job." With a few kicks of her own, Sadie led Cassandra toward the center of the floor.
A little pain in her feet, a struggle with balance, some sweat, none of those things really mattered. Sadie's winter break back in Gotham only lasted a few short weeks. If Sadie wanted to be at an ice skating rink, Cassandra wanted to be there too.
After a last, labored circle around the ice the girls finally peeled off their ice skates. The skating rink had been close enough to the bay to hear the splashes of the ocean and watch how building lights reflected off the water. As Cassandra stretched out her toes, finally free of their prison, Sadie bought hot chocolate and brought it to their seats.
"To winter break." Sadie raised her cup.
Cassandra tapped it with her own. "Toast." And rested her head against Sadie's shoulder.
"Seems like you have a lot more free time these days." Sadie sipped her hot chocolate. "Your dad not keeping you so busy anymore? Or is it just when I'm in town?"
Cassandra shrugged. "Hadn't noticed. Still feel busy."
That was a lie, even if it wasn't a malicious one. In the two years since Sadie had gone off to college, Bruce's already impressive dragnet had increased. Dick was a call away again, Barbara was often available to give a second opinion to anything technical. Tim and Stephanie, were never far away and Damian had adjusted surprisingly well with a little discipline. Bruce's once rarely seen cousin Kate wore a uniform of her own, Katana trained a new group of Outsiders, it seemed like there was just less and less to do. There was a faint thought in the back of Cassandra's mind that, maybe someday soon, Bruce wouldn't need so many people patrolling his streets. Maybe the wrath that had plagued Gotham for so long could finally fade away.
As Sadie laid a peck sticky with chocolate on her forehead, Cassandra couldn't help but figure that was a better way to spend a night.
The two returned to Sadie's car slowly, holding hands and taking one another's questions over sips of increasingly chilly cocoa.
Sadie asked, "Any chance you have a spare invitation to Steph and Tim's wedding? I think the mailroom lost mine. I know when it is, obviously, I just want it for sentimental reasons."
"Yes," Cassandra said. "Or get another one."
"Just please don't tell Stephanie I never got it."
"Why?"
Sadie feigned a guffaw. "Because she's busy enough trying to plan for it. If she knows my invitation got lost, she'll start thinking all of them got lost."
Cassandra laughed a little. "All right. Painting going well?"
"I had a whole module this last term on healthier stress relievers than pulling your hair out and turning to booze," Sadie said. "Thank God you got me doing tai chi and stuff or I might be bald and addled by now."
A smile crossed Cassandra's face but it was only for show. She'd seen what the drug-ridden of Gotham looked like, it was not a state she liked picturing her girlfriend in.
"I tried painting you something that would look like stained glass, but everything I made came out… I dunno, abstract."
That brought a genuine grin to Cassandra's face. "I don't know the difference."
"It didn't seem good for a gift. More of a pretty card design, I thought… maybe for a wedding invitation or something. Guess we're back to that subject now."
"Would you paint them for our—" Cassandra's heart skipped a beat as she spoke and she didn't finish the sentence. She'd made a promise, two years before. She wasn't supposed to ask questions like that.
Sadie shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe."
Cassandra released Sadie's hand and stopped moving as her heart missed a second palpitation. Sadie kept walking for a few steps before she turned around with a not entirely innocent smirk on her face. "Yeah? Was it something I said?"
Blood rushed into Cassandra's cheeks. "Told me I shouldn't talk about that—"
"Yeah, I know," she said. "But, y'know, it's my rule. I can take it back if I feel like taking it back."
"Do you… want to?"
Sadie stepped back toward her and took one of her hands again. "You haven't been carrying a ring every time I've come home and we've been out, have you? Because as endearing as that would be, it'd be kind of creepy too."
Cassandra shook her head, unsure if the question was a joke or not.
Sadie bumped her forehead against Cassandra's. "I'm saying I think I'm ready to work my way there," she said. "We still wouldn't be able to in Jersey, unless that case Pete mentioned ends up going through, but whatever. I'm having a blast at school, I'm doing what I love. But most of the year, there's still this hole in the middle of it all." She leaned in closer and the two shared a kiss. "And I think you're exactly the right size to fill it."
In the dark of a Gotham night mostly lit by streetlamps and snow on the ground, Cassandra felt a blazing warmth within. As Sadie turned back around to take the last few steps to the car, Cassandra clutched the little, silver cross around her neck and mumbled, "Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you."
Even something as simple as the drive toward the manor was lovely. Cassandra settled deep into the front seat and Sadie gave her a hand to hold the whole time. Every now and again she raised Sadie's free hand and kissed the top of it.
"Geeze, Cassie, I don't know the last time I've seen you swoon like this."
"Was a good night," Cassandra said. "Miss you when you're away."
As Sadie reached a red light, she leaned toward Cassandra and bumped her head against hers. That quiet, totally contented moment felt like it could last forever.
Then there came a sudden, constant blast of car horns. Both women jumped and looked to the right. A yellow blur rushed through the sidewalk as pedestrians ran and jumped out of the way.
Sadie flinched. "What the hell is going on over there?"
Cassandra leaned toward her window and squinted as a blast of what looked to be black fire came blasting out the window. The car jolted to a sudden stop, two men stumbled out from it and ran toward the building just beyond the sidewalk. Which Cassandra realized, with a sinking heart, was Saint Michael's Cathedral. Instinct brought her hand to her seatbelt and unbuckled it.
As she reached for the door, Sadie asked, "What are you doing?"
"My church," Cassandra said. "Want to make sure it's all right."
"Are you crazy? Call the cops or something, but don't just jump—"
"Stay here," Cassandra said. "Stay safe. Be right back."
Cassandra threw open the door and ran for the doors of the church. If someone wanted to make trouble there, they'd have to go through her. Unbeknownst to Cassandra, as she ran at the church in indignation, a figure garbed all in red slowly approached the car. By the time Sadie shook off enough shock to notice him, it was too late for her to lock the door.
-000-
Stephen Montrose tasted blood in his mouth when the sound of snapping awoke him from unconsciousness. He shook his head and struggled to see clearly in the dark. With a test of his arms and legs, he confirmed he was bound to what he assumed was a cushioned old chair. And in the darkness, cut only by the dusty windows that let in the moonlight, he couldn't clearly see the only other living person he shared the space with. Though, based on the figure's pea coat and fedora-wearing outline and the totally featureless face, he recognized her anyway.
"Question." Montrose turned his head and wheezed. "Of course you'd turn up. Where the hell are we?"
"Abandoned motel across the street from where I found you. Let's make this quick, Kerning," the other said. "My office got a call of a missing college kid named Brock Aldrich two weeks ago. His mother reported finding a copy of the Crime Bible laying under his bed, I cooperate with my old friends in the police to track his cell phone's last known whereabouts. Within a mile of that location, I find you bloody and unconscious in an alley less than half a mile away. Do you have anything to say in your defense?"
Kerning eyed his opponent, still cloaked in shadows, and hoped to keep her from coming any closer. No matter how many times he'd looked upon her visage it always unsettled him. He looked down toward the floor, rolled blood and saliva in his mouth and spat at the floor. "I'll bet you'd have killed him yourself, if you'd known what he'd bragged about when he contacted us."
The figure crossed her arms. "That isn't important to me right now. The boy wasn't among the dead. Do you believe he's alive or not?"
"His mommy and daddy paid good money to keep what he did out of the courtroom. And that sweet little drunk girl's going to college from their checkbook next semester. The kid, he figured we wouldn't take him fingering a blacked out girl in the back of his truck all that seriously."
His words gave the Question brief paused before she said, "You're dodging my question."
"He'd been trying to get in with us for a while. We don't like college kids, they don't know how to keep secrets. But these guys showed up on our doorstep and shoved this weird book in our hands. Wanted to know what they'd have to pay for us to complete a little ritual. And if we knew any sinners we could offer up for it."
The Question stepped into the light, Montrose shut his eyes tight and turned his head away. A moment later he felt the blunt trauma of a Billy club smack him upside the face.
"Open your eyes," the Question said. When Montrose did nothing, she struck him again, he cried out in pain, and she commanded, "Look at me!"
The cultist grit his teeth, opened his eyes, and looked up. His integrator looked down upon him with an eyeless, mouthless, expressionless face that seemed to run seamlessly down her neck and into her button up. The effect was far more convincing than a simple mask. If this creature actually had a face at all underneath whatever it was he looked upon, he never knew it.
"I will deal with what he did, if what you're saying is true. But first you're going to tell me what you did with him."
Through grit teeth and a sustained battle with pain, Montrose said, "Their work required a sacrifice, and we told them they couldn't have one of our own. So we invited the little brat to come down for his 'initiation.'"
The Question grabbed ahold of Montrose by his hooded sweatshirt and jerked him close to her faceless visage. "And so you killed him?"
"We did as the book commanded us, five men in different parts of the room and a sacrifice in the center. The punk didn't even realize what we were doing until it was too late. The whole room went red and hot, I didn't even think it was actually going to work—"
The Question wrapped a leather gloved hand over Montrose's throat and cut off his words. "Is he alive or not? Nod for yes, shake for no."
With some struggle the bound Montrose managed to swallow, then shake his head. She then released her grip and punched him in the face. After his shout of pain, she said, "Murderers. And where are the rest?"
"Probably dead." Montrose hacked and wheezed before his breathing stabilized a little again. "If whatever that thing was that came out had anything to say about it."
The Question still had not released her hold on his coat. "That thing that came out?"
Montrose sneered at her. "Who would make a sacrifice if they didn't expect something to come out after they did?"
If Montrose could see a mouth on the Question, he'd have guessed it was half open to demand another answer from him when a series of loud, constant blares from a car horn reverberated from within the room. The Question stepped toward the window, as a loud crash followed the honks of the horn. Montrose craned his neck, but couldn't see more than a yellow flash as it passed the window. The screech of a set of brakes followed just afterwards. The Question remained at the window for a moment, turned toward Montrose, and said, "I'm going to need to look into that. I'll be back for you shortly."
Montrose scoffed. "Take your time, bitch, take your time."
She ran outside and left the cultist alone in the dark motel room. Montrose struggled against his bonds, but the Question had bound him well. It was just after his resignation to the situation he heard the creek of a door as it opened somewhere behind him.
"What the—who's there?" Montrose heard only the soft footsteps of boots on the carpet after he asked. "How'd you even get in here? Have you been listening to that whole thing?"
The soft footsteps grew just a little louder and, without being able to see the walker, Montrose sensed it getting closer.
"Look, I don't know what you people want, but we did what you asked us to do. You didn't tell us who you are, so I couldn't even spill anything about it. Why don't you just cut me free and we can be done here?"
The footsteps stopped, and Montrose felt something cold against his neck. After just a moment of internal questioning, he realized what was about to happen.
"No—NO! Question! Question get back here! He's here, one of them is here! Please! Please don't let him—"
The figure cut his throat from ear to ear. Montrose felt no pain and could only muster a few agonized gurgling sounds. As his attacked slipped the knife away and Montrose watched his life flow down from his neck, the assailant uttered the last three words Montrose would ever hear.
"Da pacem, Domine."
-000-
For the passengers aboard the Airbus a330 from London to Gotham near seats 32 A and B, the flight could not have landed fast enough. International travel had its own share of aches and pains by itself, but the two blonde men in those seats seemed to radiate unease and discomfort. One had twitched and mumbled constantly, quiet enough to seem easy to ignore but too sporadic to keep a mental shield up for. His companion had seemed all right initially but sounded like he'd start a fight with the stewardess when he stood up to cram his trench coat into an overhead compartment. Whoever the both of them were, their fellow passengers hoped never to encounter them again. And, the longer he spent with his client, the more John Constantine hoped the same.
"Evil hands are at work now, Mr. Constantine." The client rubbed his hands together and he bit his under lip had enough to threaten blood as they two boarded a tram within the Gotham airport. "Monsters, demons, devils, they may well be ants to what is to come."
"What about angels then?" Constantine hoped to throw the madman off his balance, maybe that would make him pipe down. "Plenty of those apples are rotten too, you know."
He glared toward Constantine as he slipped his hands into his white and red jacket. "I'm an angel, you know."
"Uh huh. Of course you are." Constantine felt an involuntary spasm of his own as the train lurched to a stop. He needed a cigarette.
His client sputtered again. "It's a title! I'm not being literal about myself, but them, him—"
"All right, all right, shut your gob," Constantine said. "Thought you wanted to avoid detection."
A transatlantic flight with a twitchy bloke who kept making the sign of the cross every five minutes was usually more than Constantine could tolerate. It was only the healthy advance the man had provided that brought him this far. There was someone the so-called angel needed to see about Judgement Day, and apparently he was desperate enough to run to a dark magician for protection. Once he reached some old church in Gotham, the rest of the money would be in John's pocket and he could head right back for home.
Constantine finally got a little breathing room from his client when he went to sign for the rental car. The magician stepped outside into the brisk, snowy Gotham night and slipped a cigarette into his mouth. Security took his lighter back on the other side of the Atlantic, he had to improvise. With a rub of his fingers and an incantation, he produced a tiny flame, held it to his Silk Cut, and took a long drag.
"Bloody rapture wankers." He mumbled the future of the scenario to himself under his breath. "The end of the world didn't happen this time, but not because we were wrong. We weren't wrong the last time it didn't happen either. God just works in mysterious ways. Now that the thought that the Lord was wrong passed through all yer heads, make sure to be extra generous in yer tithing today, you sinful lot." He took another deep inhale from the cigarette and smoke mixed with his visible breath. "Next time call that wanker in Chicago why don't you? He's got a number in the phone book, only one in the city claiming to be a wizard—"
Constantine glanced up from his frustrated rant long enough to catch a glimpse at a figure that stood within the short term parking garage across the street. The figure was a tall, pale man with a jet black beard and hair and a blood red cloak could have been his only garment. As a powerful wind whipped through the air and tossed the bottom of Constantine's trench coat about, the hair and cloak of the pale one seemed totally unperturbed, as if he was a heavy statue. Cars passed behind him and their stare-down was momentarily interrupted by a family that stepped in their way. Whatever the motionless thing was, Constantine was beginning to suspect no one but he could see it.
"Mr. Constantine? Mr. Constantine?"
The magician flinched and turned toward his client. "What?"
"I have the car keys. We need to hurry. We need to—" His client frowned as he noticed Constantine's fixed gaze. He looked up to where Constantine was so focused. The statuesque figure revealed the life within him as a sinister sneer came across his face. As he did, the client went pale with horror. "God save us—move, MOVE!"
The creature in red lunged toward the pair, the screams of travelers confirmed to Constantine that whatever had rendered him unseen before was gone. And, judging by the way gravity didn't coax him back down, it seemed the thing could also fly. It was the point in which the creature drew a whip of fire out from its cloak the cynical magician stopped being surprised.
"Your master was a rat, Arlington!" The creature swung the whip of flames toward Constantine's client, who only barley managed to evade it. "And you will pay for his sins!"
Arlington, as if he saw no other way, ran into a nearby taxi cab and pulled out the driver.
"No, no!" The cab driver tried to struggle against Arlington, but he possessed great strength for a man of his relatively meager stature. "That thing will kill me!"
"It's me he wants!" Arlington turned and shouted to Constantine, "John, hurry up, get in!"
Constantine hazarded a look toward the demon in the red cloak as he swung the blazing whip toward him. A surge of energy rushed through the magician's hands as he raised them, clawed in opposite directions, and formed a shield sufficient to absorb the impact of the fire.
"Hate this country." Constantine rushed toward the cab. "Been back here thirty minutes and I hate it all."
Arlington slammed onto the gas pedal and peeled out of the airport with a wretched screech. The demon in red held his mad glare and flew toward the speeding taxi. Constantine slipped his head out the window to watch the creature's pursuit. Arlington had put some distance between them and the demon, but he was catching up quickly.
Constantine rolled up the window and grit his teeth. "Turn off the heat. Turn up the air."
Arlington flinched. "What?"
"Never mind, I'll do it." Constantine grabbed at the temperature control and cranked it as low as it would go. Though the temperature fell immediately, it would still be a few minutes more before it would be optimal for Constantine's purposes.
A devilish hiss came from the back window as the demon swung his whip of fire and it clashed with the rear window.
Arlington jerked the wheel to and fro as best he was able as he turned onto the highway. Other cars honked and swerved around him, only some of whom were aware of the monster on their trail.
"It's winter out there!" It wasn't cold enough to elicit the chatter of teeth, but Arlington's did anyway. "Turn the heater back on!"
"Don't you dare touch the temperature." Constantine held out his hands to the ducts as they blasted cold air toward him. He cringed a little as he absorbed the ever more chilling air into his body and began to utter an incantation. He was interrupted when Arlington swung the car to the left and the blazing whip took out the rearview mirror on Constantine's side. The turn nearly threw the magician into his client. "Jesus Christ! Take it easy!"
Arlington glared in his direction an extra second before he turned back toward the roads. "You will not take the Lord's name in vain."
Constantine rolled down his window again as the icy energy flowed through his body. "That's what I love about all you religious types. You really got your priorities straight."
The demon in red increased his speed as Constantine leaned out the window with a shiver through his body. The creature pulled back its whip of fire and took another crack in the taxi's direction. Constantine met the attack with a burst of icy energy. For the first time since Arlington had appeared, the demon lost his smile as the blast of frost extinguished his whip and threw him backwards into an oncoming truck. A honk and a crashing sound was good enough for Constantine to turn back around.
"C-c-can we please turn the h-heat back on now?"
Constantine sneered. "You whine too much. You didn't just channel all that cold air through your body now did you?" The magician looked back out the window as Arlington continued to increase his speed. The demon would be on their trail again soon enough, he knew it, but the attack had at least bought them some time.
As Arlington sped toward Gotham, his shivers of cold began to subside, but he couldn't stop an occasion twitch. "Mr. Constantine?" There was no answer. "Mr. Constantine, I need another favor."
"Then you're gonna need to put a lot more pounds in my pocket."
"Please… I don't have any more money on me." Though everything Arlington said seemed to drip fear and paranoia, a sudden calm came over his voice. One that had the effect of making him sound even more terrified. "This could be the world, Mr. Constantine. Only a few of us know what's coming, and I may not survive this night…. Please?"
Constantine breathed a deep sigh, felt around in the pocket of his coat and found another cigarette. Again he tried to ignite it with a quick burst of magic, a much harder task with his body heat still a few degrees below normal. When he finally lit and took a drag from the Silk, he asked, "What?"
"I need you to promise to deliver this message if I should fail to," Arlington said. "You magical people, you can take oaths like that and be bound to them, can't you?"
"You're not paying me enough to bind me to anything." Constantine's concern, of course, had absolutely nothing to do with money.
"I'm begging you—you stand to lose yourself too. If you say no and I fail, you'll have sealed your fate. I swear—"
Lose myself? Constantine thought. What the hell does that mean? "All right, all right. If it'll shut you up." Despite the fierce response, Constantine was not the type of man to be annoyed into taking a magical oath. It was not irritation that drove him, he could sense the very real fear that emanated off of Arlington. And, even if he found it questionable, it did indeed frighten him. "You got a knife or some such?"
Arlington blinked as he turned off the highway. "What?"
"Gonna need blood," Constantine said. "Some of yours and some of mine."
"What? You're—you're going to do witchcraft with my blood? I thought—"
Constantine scowled. "You thought you could make a deal like that and not be involved. Well you were wrong. That's how you make a pact like this, we both need to participate."
A shudder ran through Arlington's body as he reached into his jacket and produced a pocket knife he had somehow slipped past security. "What else?"
"Terms. Solid terms," Constantine said. "If you leave any wiggle room, you're not getting my blood."
"All right, all right." Arlington swallowed his stammers. "If I should fail—"
"If you should die."
Arlington flinched. "What?"
"If you run away out of cowardice, you'll have failed and left me with your dirty work. Death is the term."
"What if I'm captured?" Arlington began to stammer again. "I can't help that."
"If you're dead or captured… and you weren't just handing yourself over for either."
"Why would I—"
"I don't take chances. Not with blood bonds."
Arlington's already terrible spasms only seemed to get worse with each qualifier. "Fine. If I am, for whatever reason outside of my own will and control, unable to deliver my message, you will deliver it in my place."
"The recipient?"
"Father Garret Day. Tonight he's waiting for me at Saint Michael's. The priest there could give you his contact information if you miss him." Arlington pulled off the interstate as he spoke and the slower traffic of in-town Gotham only made his twitching worse.
"And the message?"
"Do you have something to write it down?"
"It'll imprint, magic bonds do that."
"You need to tell him—" Arlington paused and cleared his throat.
"The one who lives but should not be,
Heir to angel and man, Nephilim is he.
Seeks to pierce the wrathful one,
By the head of Destiny.
Should he hold such, he'll bring demise.
Cinders will be mountains, valleys and skies.
For behold, all God's beauty and creation,
Is damned to darkness in his eyes."
Constantine remained silent for a few seconds before he asked, "The hell is that supposed to mean?"
Arlington assured him, "It will make sense to the priest."
"If I'm going to deliver it, I outta know what it means!"
Arlington swallowed hard and glared in the rearview window. There was still no sign of the demon, at least for the moment, and Saint Michael's would only be another few miles. "I can't tell you that."
"Then I can't agree to this oath."
"Please!" The plea forced another jolt through Arlintgon and he momentarily sped up, almost into the car in front of him. "You don't understand, this is vital information. I can't just leave it with a nonbeliever—"
Constantine spoke in a snarl. "I believe you're a damn idiot, that good enough for you?"
Arlington opened his mouth to rebut but didn't get an opportunity. Something smashed into the roof of the taxi hard enough to put an indent in the ceiling. Constantine flinched backwards, Arlington screamed. The terrible red creature lurched down onto the hood of the car, the fanged grin on his face again. Arlington hit the brakes and brought the car to a fast stop, but couldn't throw the beast from his place. The demon pulled back his fist and thrust a punch into the glass, cracks spiderwebbed across the window.
"We're so close!" Arlington said. "So close—"
Constantine leaned across Arlington's body and started honking the horn. "Get on the sidewalk."
Arlington's pupils dilated. "Are you insane?"
"Wee bit." Constantine grabbed the wheel and jerked it toward the sidewalk. "Floor it and beg your god we're not about to play pedestrian bowling."
Arlington didn't want to cooperate but his survival instinct made his foot smash right into the gas pedal. The demon struggled to maintain his balance and walkers screamed, cursed and jumped out of the way. The creature pulled back his fist for another punch and shattered the windshield. With just space enough to reach in a hand and half of his arm, the demon took ahold of Arlington's shoulders and dug his claws through hoodie and skin. Arlington screamed, jerked the wheel to and fro as a horrible feeling like fire coursed through the demon's claws and into his body.
"God damn it, piss off!" Constantine jerked the wheel to a sharp right. As he did, the taxi crashed into and tossed up a hot dog cart. The food stand flew upwards, smashed into the demon, and knocked him off of the car. Constantine looked backwards, pumped his fist and shouted, "Yes! Choke on it!" After a moment reveling in victory, he turned his attention back toward Arlington, whose shakes had grown more violent than ever. Constantine leaned in to examine the wound and muttered, "Bloody hell."
Arlington demanded, "What? What did he do?"
"You, uh, you're going to have to bear with me here. Hold that wheel, keep honking." Constantine made a series of hand gestures and muttered a few words of broken Latin under his breath. He again rolled down the window, stuck one hand out the window, took ahold of Arlington's arm with the other and shouted, "Valeo!"
Out from Constantine's fingertips billowed a great blast of black fire for a few seconds before it burned out and Arlington finally brought the taxi to a rough stop outside of Saint Michael's Cathedral.
With some struggle, Arlington asked, "What… what was that?"
"Well, you know. Just some hellfire running through your veins. Don't use that arm, if you can avoid it. Let's get in there already."
-000-
"I am so grateful you could let me use the church on such short notice, George. And I really am glad to see you again, even on such short of notice."
"Of course, of course. I just wish it could have been under less mysterious circumstances."
"You have family in the old Irish mob, George. I'm sure you can appreciate that sometimes, mysterious circumstances are necessary parts of the road to salvation."
The aged and portly Monsignor Ryan sat at his desk across from Garret Day, a younger, but still weathered priest who would surely soon lose the last of his red hairs to white. Between the two, on top of the desk, sat a half-sleeping miniature poodle. The two had met during a few trips to the monsignor's ancestral Ireland and had exchanged letters on and off for years, though Father Day was usually on the move and his correspondence could come from anywhere.
"You said you had some business to do with an old parishioner of yours," Monsignor Ryan said. "Can you tell me any more about that?"
A small smile crept over Day's face as he stroked the dog between them. The tiny poodle looked up and snarled at him for a moment, but quickly thought better of it and allowed him to continue. "That's a good boy, Snowball. You know me." He turned his attention back toward Ryan as he scratched behind the dog's ears. "Are you familiar with the Order of Purity, George?"
Monsignor Ryan scratched at his last, thin hairs and bald spots. "Only a little. You're a fraternal organization, a bit like the Knights of Columbus, aren't you? But more exclusive?"
Day chucked. "In the simplest terms, I suppose. The more conspiracy minded might be more inclined to say we have more in common with the Freemasons, or the Illuminati. Or perhaps the Knights Templar, if you wish to consider Mother Church's past."
The conversation's strange turn had given Monsignor Ryan pause. "Is that how you think of your brotherhood?"
"Perhaps, even if I wish it were not so." Day's scratches behind Snowball's ears coaxed the dog to roll onto his back and show his belly. The younger priest obliged the dog's silent request and rubbed it. "The Templars have been gone for centuries, at least that's what I'd prefer to believe, but some remnant of them remains even today. There will never stop being holy warriors."
"Do you think we will always need holy warriors, though?" Monsignor Ryan studied Father Day slowly and mindfully for any change in his expressions or body language. "I think I know someone who fits that description myself, and I think they would perhaps be happier as a peaceful emissary, if that was practical at this point."
Father Day chuckled and pulled his hand away from Snowball and folded both hands as if he was saying a prayer. "Perhaps that day will come, but I fear it is still a long ways off."
The two priests sat in silence for nearly half a minute before a scream of, "Father Day! Father Day!" echoed in through the nave.
Monsignor Ryan flinched. "What was that?"
Father Day sighed and rose to his feet. "Forgive me, George. It seems my contact has arrived. I advise you both slip out the back door and run, he may have been followed."
Monsignor Ryan's mouth went dry and, with some struggle, he tried to ask, "What… what are you—"
"I didn't believe you'd let me use your church if you knew my true purposes." Day opened the door of Monsignor Ryan's office and gave his friend a last, sad smile. "Peace be with you, my brother."
Father Day stepped out from the office, hands slipped into his pocket, and walked down a dark hallway to the cathedral's entryway. An eyebrow rose almost involuntarily as he took note of the blonde haired man in a trench coat who was trying to stabilize his breathing next to Abraham Arlington.
"You made it," Father Day said. "And I see you have brought company."
"He was vital," Arlington said over deep breaths. "I'd be dead now if not for him."
"Damn straight." Constantine stood up straight, fished another cigarette out of his pocket, and stepped over to a ceremonial candle. "So, according to the eleventh commandment or some such, you need to leave me alone while I do this. 'Thou shalt not cut off a man's smoke after he's proven he's a hero' or something."
Father Day opened his mouth to object as Constantine took a long drag of the cigarette, but was interrupted when not one, but two new figures rushed in through the front door. The first was a young Asian woman dressed for the winter night outside, the other was—and Day struggled to swallow the detail—some faceless creature garbed in a pea coat and a fedora. It became clear a moment later, when the Asian woman flinched at the sight of the faceless one, they hadn't intended to come in together.
It was the faceless one who spoke first and confirmed the small detail of her gender in the process. "Which one of you was just plowing down the sidewalk?"
The blonde haired man looked her up and down for a moment before he asked, "What are you supposed to be, a cop?"
"Used to be. And I still have friends on the force."
"Hm. In that case, that was him." He pointed toward Arlington with his thumb.
"Hey!" Arlington rose his hands in defense. He was about to argue further, but the Asian woman cut into the conversation first.
"Why did you run in this church?" She settled her glare on Arlington and the man in the trench coat.
Father Day spoke up before the blonde could respond. "All right, all right! All of you, settle down. First things first. Abe, were you followed here?"
Arlington gave him a bitter nod. "A demon, we think, attacked us on the way here."
"Then it is likely the rest of the Order of Cantonna is nearby. I've put word through to the Order of Dumas, but it's anyone's guess who will arrive first. Quickly, Arlington, you follow me. The rest of you should retreat out the back doors, if you still can—"
Before he could finish the thought, the doors of the church were forced open again. Father Day stumbled backwards behind Arlington as three new figures stepped into the cathedral. On the left and right stood two tall men, garbed in black uniforms with blood red crosses that ran down the center of their chests, their faces covered by tight, metal helmets. Between them stood a shorter figure, who the two appeared to look to for orders.
Father Day's heartbeat began to race as he glared at the one in the middle. "Nijah."
The figure in black spoke in a feminine voice. "Brother Day." There was a tiny tinge of some Middle Eastern accent, perhaps Arabic, in her voice. She looked toward Arlington. "And the Order's Azrael. Fine work hiding from Azmodus on holy ground. What have you told him? And who are the rest of these people supposed to be?"
Arlington stepped to the front of the group as the red and white jacket he wore began to glow in the pale light of the candles and distant bulbs. The coat's red highlights slithered like snakes into the center as his bulk began to shift and grow. Arlington's chest grew in size and definition as a suit of plate armor between him and the white jacket. His blue jeans similarly shifted to white over plate armor and the red highlights formed a huge, red cross upon his chest. As the glow began to dissipate, Arlington pulled what looked to be the handles of a pair of swords out from over his back. A dazzling orange and ethereal white light burst from the handles and took the shape two serrated longswords. Despite his best efforts, a few shakes ran down his freshly-burned arm.
As if to follow his lead, the three in black pulled what looked to be handles of their own out from behind their backs. The man on the left bore a handle that erupted into what looked to be a mace made of lava, the one on the right's handle extended into a burning spear. And the woman in the center ignited a similar orange sword to the one Arlington held.
"You are a threat," Nijah said. "The rest of you should run, I have no interest in spilling innocent blood. These two are all we're interested in."
After a moment of quiet, Cassandra stepped up to Arlington's side and took on a combat stance. "A threat to what?"
From behind Nijah, one of the men shouted, "A threat to the work and words of God! To a greater, shining future!"
Cassandra's eyes narrowed to a glare as she planted herself firmly in place. "Heard a killer say that in this church, years ago. Didn't let him get away."
Whether pushed by Cassandra's words or their own internal drives, Constantine and the Question stepped up to Arlington's side and between the Nijah and the priest.
She raised her blazing sword toward them and said, "Very well, if we have to go through all of you first, we will! Deus vult!"
The two behind her echoed the call, "Deus vult!" And the seven rushed to meet one another in battle.