Disclaimer: I own nothing

Author's Note: I had no idea this would be as big of a deal to readers as it seems to be, but, Chas is alive, and Gabriel is indeed a woman. My deviation from the plot with regard to Chas is explained in detail in chapter 3, which will be posted before Christmas.

Chapter 2

"Take us to Midnite's," John Constantine instructed from the back seat of Chas' cab. At present, the famed Exorcist was occupying himself with rolling up his sleeve, peeling off what he deemed to be 'used' nicotine patches and replacing them with fresh ones. Four of the unsatisfying plastic stickers currently adorned his pale bicep, arranged edge to edge in a haphazard rectangle. The car dipped and weaved through the city's many shabby, dimly-lit alleyways, Kramer watching his mentor from out the rear-view mirror;

"I don't think that's how you're supposed to-" The young man's speculation was cut short;

"Shut up and drive."

They arrived at the nightclub shortly, Chas Kramer parking his taxi in an inconspicuous side-road, near the door. Constantine exited, and, with slender hope of actually getting in, so did the boy. Together, the pair walked towards the club's sunken entrance, red light and softly pulsing music pouring out into the night air.

"A frog in a cloud," the Exorcist informed the bouncer nonchalantly, bondage-clad guard lifting the red velvet rope without a word of protest.

"A crow with a lollipop," Chas dared, trying to sound as casual as humanly possible, and failing miserably. To his utter shock, the enormous man lifted the velvet rope, waiting for him to pass. "You mean I got in? Oh my God!"

The music inside the club pulsed with the crowd, dim red light filling the space with a sort of suffocating haze – the closeness of dark silhouetted bodies seemingly malevolent. It was packed tonight, Constantine mused, half-watching to make sure Chas wasn't doing anything stupid, and almost entirely with Angels. Slowly, John made his way across the floor to Papa Midnite's office of sorts, Chas not needing to be told to wait outside the blood-red bureau. The Exorcist opened the padded crimson door, almost flinching when he saw the Angel standing behind it, exiting the office. It wasn't a half-breed, timid and impure; this was a purebred, a full-blood Archangel. He stood taller than Constantine, maybe 6'5" with purest white skin and thick brown hair flecked with gold, falling to his shoulders in effortless waved tresses. He was very masculine, with features almost too sharp to be overtly attractive – and a stature and carriage that commanded power and doubtless adoration.

"Michael," the Exorcist spoke briefly, guarding his tone against revealing shock.

"Exorcist John Constantine," the Archangel responded, voice commanding victory. He did not speak with any hidden malice, but rather with a tone that suggested he would respect the mortal before him only once he'd proven himself before the One True God – if three words could speak such volumes.

The Angel passed without speaking again, leaving John to meet with Mr. Midnite alone - entering the rogue study, the Voodoo Priest looked almost unsettled.

"What's going on?" The Exorcist began, gesturing behind him to where the Archangel Michael was standing, only moments ago.

"A Demon has been set free from Hell."

"All this, for one Demon?" Constantine began, "There must be 50 Angels out there, Midnite-! Not to mention Michael; Jesus, it's been a while since he showed himself." The crimson-clad man drew a rather long drag from a cigarillo, indifferent to John's presence.

"He's a First Circle Construct, John. And something isn't right with him either… The way he was raised wasn't like anything the Angels have seen before, in a long time." The Exorcist shrugged,

"They'll deport him eventually." He paused, watching as his words earned a look of rare uncertainty from Midnite. Constantine waited a moment before he spoke, voice bearing a definite edge; "There's something you're not telling me."

"If the Angels deport him, John, things may not look good for us." The Exorcist had the gut feeling this had nothing to do with what the man was actually hiding.

"Are you talking about war?" The Voodoo Priest sighed,

"No. Not because of this alone." John smirked,

"Are you suggesting, then, that I go after this Demon, to keep things neutral?" Midnite took another long drag, exhaling in the man's general direction;

"I can't even suggest, John. But you know what to do." Constantine strode over to the man's desk, slamming his hands down on the counter with more force than he'd originally intended,

"I don't want bullshit, Midnite! At least tell me where I can find the Demon, its name-!" The ancient Priest rose from his seat, with vigour to match the Exorcist's,

"You know I can't ask those questions!" Disgruntled, John turned from him, glancing back over his shoulder once he'd reached the door,

"I'm not getting involved, Midnite," he half-scoffed in a foul mood, "not this time."

Outside the nightclub office, Constantine found Chas quickly; he was sitting at the bar, talking to a slender blonde in a black skirt.

"Chas-" the Exorcist called him from the young woman, pleasantly surprised when the boy obeyed.

"John!" The young man started, voice hushed despite the noise of the club, "That man who left as you went in, was that-?!" The Exorcist grabbed Chas' shoulder,

"Yes. Shut up, we're leaving." Kramer didn't speak until they'd exited the club, but the moment the pair hit the fresh coolness of the night air, he burst into inquiry;

"Did you fucking see that John? Did you? There were like a hundred fucking Angels in there John! That was, that was the fucking Archangel Michael, John!-" The Exorcist swatted the kid over the head – not hard, but enough to make him feel it;

"I fucking know, Chas. And be quiet." The kid moved to talk, but John spoke before he could.

"The Angels are there because a Demon was raised from Hell."

"Oh," Chas began, instantly calmer now that he had something intelligent to add; "I read about that – a Demon gains freedom by earning favour with Lucifer - when that happens, the Demon no longer has to serve Satan- they can walk among the living as they wish, and return to live in the city of Dis-" the boy grinned, "they can even take mates-" The last statement earned him a look of minor disgust from the Exorcist.

"That's not what happened, Chas. Apparently, this Demon was raised from Hell through unconventional means." The young man paused a moment in his speech, jogging slightly to catch up with Constantine's long, un-smoke-hindered stride.

"Necromancy?" John scoffed,

"Something like that." Chas shook his head,

"Isn't that supposed to be… illegal?" The Exorcist uttered a sardonic laugh,

"Yeah." Constantine opened the rear-door of the taxi, waiting for Chas to take the driver's seat before he continued, "Typically, it isn't too big of a deal, if a Necromancer brings a mortal back to our plane from Heaven or Hell – it's black magic, but most of the time it doesn't change anything. With Demons, it's different, sometimes anyway. Whatever Demon was raised from Hell doesn't belong here – and the Angels will do everything in their power to send it back, if it poses enough of a threat." Chas started the car, "This Demon was a First Circle Construct." Kramer gave his mentor a hesitant glance,

"He was alive for the War in Heaven?" The Exorcist chuckled quietly at his protégé's trepidation,

"He murdered Angels, probably thousands of them."

"So, what does this have to do with us, John?" Chas dared to ask, backing the car out of the alleyway where he'd parked.

"Nothing." The kid coughed in surprise,

"You mean we aren't going after him – we aren't going to deport him?" John scoffed,

"Nope. We're not crossing paths with a goddamn Archangel, Chas – and he isn't like Gabriel, either." The Exorcist's apprentice rolled his eyes,

"You're just not going to do it because there isn't anything in it for you." John smirked – something he'd been doing a lot more of since the Devil lifted his death-sentence.

"Sure."

†††

Vivian returned to her flat to find the Demon lying motionless on her chesterfield, his eyes closed.

"Balthazar," She called, making sure he was awake. He responded with a groan of dissent, accompanied by a small, unseen smirk,

"Do we have to do this now?" the man protested, though he opened his eyes. Vivian smiled with mirth, handing him a pair of generic boxers,

"Put these on." The only privacy she gave him was to turn her back and arrange the medical supplies on her breakfast bar while he donned the underwear. "I-" she stopped herself, not turning to face him. He said nothing, but walked up behind her, until she could feel the heat of his body radiating onto her back.

"I know." He spoke softly, never touching her. Vivian couldn't smile, not now.

"Lie down," she turned to him, "oh… here, let me take this-" gently she clutched the soft ivory fabric of her housecoat, pulling it from his shoulders. Thin, red lines stained through the cloth where his wounds had bled through; the Necromancer minded them as she removed the garment. Balthazar slipped out of it in silence, but she'd seen him wince at the pain cloth alone had caused his injuries. Wordlessly, the Demon stepped over to her massive sofa and laid down in a sea of soft brown leather, his arms folded over the armrest nearest her. The woman took a roll of gauze and several tubes of antiseptic from the breakfast bar before she neared the Demon. Vivian sat down at the crook created by his knees, so that she could lean her body over his and dress his wounds – it was the first time she had the chance to see them at length.

The gashes that laced up and down his back were the worst of his injuries by far. The deepest of them cut perhaps a centimetre into his flesh – skin forcibly parted by the sheer force of the whip's strike, and creature wielding it who knew not of love.

"Oh, what have they done to you…" Vivian murmured, resting her hand gently on the base of his neck. His skin was healthy and warm under her fingertips, pulled taunt over his muscles despite his time in Hell. The dirt and soot from the fires and tortures he'd endured had been cleaned from him, revealing his flesh to be paler than Vivian remembered it, but familiar just the same.

"What they always do," Balthazar answered, looking over his shoulder as he said it. Although the Demon possessed some power on the mortal plane, wounds inflicted in Hell would heal slowly; as with those of a mortal. The Necromancer said nothing as she began to dress the lashes with antiseptic and gauze, fastening her bandages in place with strips of white medical tape.

Vivian finished after several minutes, rising to her feet once the last of the bandages were in place.

"Thank you." Balthazar mentioned softly, pushing himself up from her chesterfield; he moved slowly and deliberately, as not to disrupt the bindings covering his back. The woman stepped into the kitchen. She opened her fridge, and removed a butcher-paper packaged cut of meat, unwrapping it and setting it down on her counter. Over a small bowl, the Necromancer effectively wrung blood from the flesh, cutting it vertically with a smooth-edged kitchen knife to draw as much of the fluid as possible. The demon stepped into the kitchen, having a fairly good idea what she was doing;

"Lamb's blood?" he mentioned, standing perhaps 3 feet from her.

"Yes." Vivian lay down her carving blade and drew a kitchen knife from her cutlery drawer - the same sort she'd used to summon Balthazar from Hell. She reopened the incision she'd made on her forefinger earlier – tiny wound only now just beginning to heal – and coaxed several drops of her blood into the bowl. Vivian glanced at the Demon, meeting his eyes briefly before he offered her his hand. She took it in her own, slicing his index finger just enough to draw several drops of his own blood – dismissing the irony of injuring him now, if only slightly. The blood she sacrificed was for a ward – to paint on her doorframe so that none who wish her or Balthazar harm may enter.

Vivian paused for a moment after letting his blood fall into the bowl, still clasping his fingers in her own; his hands were surprisingly soft, considering the practical eternity he'd spent in Hell... and for the torture he'd endured, she pitied him. Quickly she brought his fingers to her lips, kissing the tips of them lightly. The small cut she'd inflicted had already healed – he was a Demon after all, she reminded herself. No sooner had the woman done this than Balthazar closed the gap between them, taking her head in his hands. She became instantly aware of his bare chest pressing against her own as he kissed her, and of the warmth radiating from him, through her shirt, bringing the thin cotton up against her skin…

"We should set up the barriers…" Vivian began breathlessly, feeling his mouth on her neck.

"It can wait," he replied in a silky tone reserved only for sex and the torment of John Constantine. Fluidly, the Demon clasped her shoulders and pushed the woman against the cabinets – firm without being violent.

"You're free." Vivian said it simply, softly, both knowing exactly what she meant by it. Balthazar scoffed, not surrendering an inch between them,

"Hmm, yes…" he purred, tone never changing. He pressed harder against her, face buried in her hair as he pushed her sweat pants down her thighs, garment falling in a pool of fabric at her feet.

"You don't have to," the Necromancer protested weakly- he could smell her lust, and any dissent on her part was purely foreplay.

"Oh, I assure you," Balthazar began, lips brushing her ear as he breathed the words to her, "I want to." The Demon pulled back, only enough so that he could touch his face to hers – he was several inches taller than her, and their difference in height now hinted at his dominance. Fiercely, Balthazar pulled her shirt over her head and cast it aside with the rest of her clothing, until she stood naked before him. Vivian shuddered with rapture, watching the Demon's cunning grin twist into a snarl, his eyes growing very, very black. He forced her to the floor, legs tangled in the discarded clothing littering the kitchen.

†††

September, it seemed, would offer no relief from the stifling LA heat. The air was thick with late-afternoon sunlight, daylight and moisture forcing the stinging, smoggy haze of Los Angeles down so that people had no choice but to breathe it. Alone, a Hispanic woman paced across a cracked sidewalk, passing faded buildings laced up and down with decrepit fire-escapes. She walked unhindered by the muggy, mid-September warmth, though her dress clung to her body - revealing her figure, petite and once beautiful, now blemished by a life of child-bearing. Bags of pale skin hung under her dull, lifeless brown eyes, skin botched and unhealthy. The shoes she wore were old and weary-looking, with soles rubbed thin and color faded to blue-grey from years of unrelenting use. Still, she padded quickly over the uneven concrete, only coming to rest once she stood before her Church. The Cathedral stood proud amidst the relative ruin of her East Los Angeles neighbourhood, a construct of flawless gilded stone against a backdrop of yellowed tenements.

Inside, the air was hotter and more suffocating still.

"Mrs. Ordaz?" the Priest mentioned, rising from the first row pew. The building was completely empty save for the Father and herself.

"Father Francis," her voice was thick with a Spanish accent, but her English was almost flawless besides, "my girl, my Anita, she… she sleeps, she won't get out of bed, and when she does she speaks so foul to her Papa and I – she… she speaks, sometimes in… nonsense, her brothers and I don't understand what she's saying… She has never done this Father, and I'm afraid that if I send her to a hospital, they'll say she's crazy…" The woman drew a feeble breath, "She's not crazy, Father… I think she, she's fantasmas… she's possessed---" Father Francis rested his hands on the woman's shoulders, silencing her;

"It's a good thing that you came to this Church for aid – but I'm afraid there's very little I can do to help you – I don't want you to think that I don't believe you, Mrs. Ordaz;" he added carefully, "Satan's presence among us is very real. I simply don't have any experience dealing with this sort of thing…" his voice was unwavering, save for pity and empathy, "But, I do know of someone who may be able to help you. Do you happen to have a slip of paper and a pen?" The woman nodded, rummaging through her purse with shaking hands to produce, after some time, a blunted pencil and the receipt from a Laundromat. Father Francis managed to write a name and number in neat cursive on the back of the delicate paper,

"His name is John Constantine. If the Occult has anything to do with what's happening to your daughter, this man will be able to set it right."