Disclaimer: The Dark Tower series and Hellblazer comics still don't belong to me, oddly enough. But I'm sure Stephen King and Vertigo Comics are nice and will not sue.

A/N: I really need to work on my patience. This chapter is unbeta'd. The last chapter is unbeta'd. I need to stop posting unbeta'd fic.
I also need to stop writing fic when I'm supposed to be doing important coursework. Somebody crack me on the head, willya?
Enjoy! Concrit is absolute love.

1

"You believe in coming well-prepared, don't you, Inspector Deschain?" The policeman raised one eyebrow just the right side of insolence.

"Don't get fucking smart," Constantine retorted, glancing down briefly at the bagful of cigarette boxes in one hand. "Not the time for it, not the place. Look, I don't want anyone to get caught up in this who doesn't have to. Close off the street. Move out anybody there. And whatever happens, don't come looking for me. You can't deal with this bugger, and don't think you can."

"One terrorist?" The younger man cocked his head, looking slightly disdainful. "I don't know what you think, Inspector, but let me assure you..."

"One terrorist bastard who's left over a hundred corpses between Glasgow and here, without counting injury, mental scarring, and bloody massive property damage," Constantine cut in smoothly, pulling out his pistol and making a show of checking it was loaded, although he knew damn well that it was. "Don't push it, mate. You have five minutes, and then you come out and I go in. Got it?"

Sullenly, the policeman nodded, pulling out his radio and stalking away. As soon as he was safely out of earshot, Constantine snorted and sat down on the edge of the pavement, sticking a cigarette in his mouth and lighting up.

"I don't believe I'm holding a tuna sandwich hostage..." he said under his breath, laughing humourlessly.

Nor do I, Roland assured him, drily.

"Was that a joke, Deschain?" Constantine asked with a smirk, around the cigarette, as he began to sort the twenty or so packets from the bag into his pockets. "Because, if it was, you really need to work on that." Shaking the remaining boxes neatly into the bottom of the bag, he knotted it around his belt. Roland chose to ignore the aspersion.

Why are you doing this? he asked instead.

"I'm hunting the demon because that's what I do," Constantine replied cagily, avoiding the question.

With the... the fags? Roland persisted.

"For God's sake, just call them cigarettes. It sounds like an insult when you say it. Maybe it's just because you're so bloody American, but still..."

American? Roland asked, confused and momentarily distracted.

Constantine rolled his eyes. "Forget it. Tell you later. Or something." He looked up sharply, almost grateful for the distraction. "Heads up, Roland, mate. Here comes trouble. Again." Clicking his tongue sharply, he stood up, arms folded, and strode out to meet the policeman. "What is it this time? Don't tell me you're done, that was never five minutes just now."

"Welcome to America, Inspector," the policeman said with a smirk playing across his lips.

"Hm." Constantine tilted his head, looking distinctly unimpressed. "Make sure the street's cordoned off as soon as I get in. And if anything comes out, my phone's on. You know the number. It's not getting away this time." With that, he clapped the policeman firmly on the shoulder, turning and striding down the street.

The younger man watched him go, frowning deeply. Something was odd about this Inspector Deschain, with his arrogance and his in-your-face attitude and his smart way of calling your bluff. Bluff... that was it. He acted like a man who was bluffing, all bluster and an answer for everything. Sam Milligan didn't think for a moment that Inspector Deschain was what he said he was.

He was just about to get out his phone and make a few calls to that effect, when something else struck him, and he blinked.

"What did he mean, it?"

2

As soon as he had ducked out of sight of the police blockade, Constantine holstered his gun, pulling the water pistol out of his inside pocket. "Listen, Roland, the minute this is over, I'm going with you, all right? I'd rather not be here when that nice policeman calls homeland security and finds out I'm impersonating a government agent. I imagine that the consequences will be... unpleasant."

Of course, Roland replied instantly, rather surprised by the decision.

"Brilliant. Now, in the immortal words of somebody or other... let's roll." Pulling out the map, he unfolded it quickly, nodded shortly to himself, and gave the silly plastic gun one last pump before diving out of the doorway they were standing in and hurrying down the street, just a little further. Around them, office blocks stood tall, casting long shadows in the evening light.

Evening.

We have to hurry! Roland urged him, as the sun went behind a cloud for a moment, darkening the sky a little.

"Whatever it is," Constantine said grimly, "it can wait." Looking the place in front of him up and down, he cracked a grin. "Jesus fucking Christ, it doesn't get much more cliché than this. Abandoned warehouse? Really?"

Constantine, this is important! When the sun goes down...

"The fairy magic wears off and the princess turns back into a pumpkin?" Constantine suggested sardonically, putting his hand to the door. "Quiet. Let me concentrate."

Check the door, Roland persisted. At least check the door.

"No." Taking a deep breath, Constantine counted silently to ten, then hauled the warehouse door open.

For the second time that day, Roland was rendered speechless.

The stink was what hit him first. In the open, when he had seen the beast before, the wind had taken the stench away a little, and besides, he hadn't been paying attention to that. But in the confined space of the warehouse, which the massive creature almost filled, the smell was almost unbearable, like piss and poison and rotten meat, and he understood why Constantine had taken quite such a deep breath; without some sort of preparation, the stench would have knocked him backwards.

The creature itself was huge, too huge to see properly, and Constantine wasn't wasting time trying. But lodged firmly at the back of his mind, the gunslinger watched, and fitted together a sort of picture of the creature from the flashing glimpses. It held itself like a great ape, knuckles brushing the ground and fanged jaw jutting forwards. Its skin was a dark charcoal colour, scaled and dry, and its pupiless crimson eyes glittered with malign intelligence. Roland was reminded, suddenly, horrifyingly, of his brief visit to Thunderclap long ago. Of the Crimson King. Nausea filled him.

Then it roared, and all his thoughts were swept away by a wave of sheer volume. The sound echoed around the massive room, wild and angry and unchecked. Even Constantine was taken by surprise; he stumbled back, water jetting vainly from his toy gun and arcing through the air without touching the hide of the massive beast. He cursed, staggering back into the corner and taking several deep, gasping breaths as he flattened himself against the wall, grey eyes narrowed as he glared at the demon. Roland could see the reflection in the malignant crimson eye; touseled blonde hair flapping in a heavily lined face, a silly little toy gun pointed at the beast as though it could make a difference, and a look of absolute determination in those steely bombardier's eyes.

"Come on then, you fucker," Constantine hissed, his free hand fumbling with the butt of his second pistol. "Come on, if you dare."

With another earsplitting roar, the massive hunched figure swung a clawed hand at the tiny figure of its hunter, the air around it beginning to haze with heat. The talons, each easily as long as Roland's arm, scraped along the wall with a sound like an earthquake, and it was only a split second before they struck that Constantine ducked, rolling underneath the blow and coming up onto his knees directly underneath the creature's throat. The gun was in his hand before he had even struck the ground, and he fired off two shots in quick succession, first with the water, then with the bullets. The water hissed as it made contact with the beast's hide, seeming to burn; the demon roared again, clutching at his throat as the bullet hit home.

Without waiting to see the effect, Constantine leapt to his feet, ducking between the demon's forelimbs and sprinting for the metal stairs leading to the offices upstairs. "Roland!" he shouted out loud as his feet clattered on the steel steps. "Any idea what I should do now?"

You don't know? the gunslinger demanded incredulously, as the beast turned and howled. A fresh wave of sound and stink battered at Constantine, who stumbled back a step; under the creature's taloned feet, the concrete floor was beginning to melt, softening and hissing. With a muffled curse, the Englishman tugged open the nearest door and dived through, tossing aside the empty water gun and pulling out the pistol he had loaded with silver. Breathing heavily, he backed up against the wall, dropping into a sprinter's stance as the demon roared again and tore the wall away like paper.

"I'm ad-libbing," he confessed, and dived forwards as the demon's claws took out the floor from under him.

3

It was rather like riding a rollercoaster, Constantine thought, as his flailing arm hooked onto the demon's stubby horn. Only this rollercoaster was painfully hot, had two-foot claws, and was trying to kill him.

Ignoring the searing heat that bit into him, he managed to holster one gun – the silver one, if he was keeping track right – and with the hand thus freed, to reach up and grab the nub of horn properly, In the nick of time, too – just as he did so, the beast's claws swung up to strike. Gritting his teeth, he shoved himself into a wide swing, hanging on for dear life as the creature tossed its head in an attempt to dislodge him. Its claws landed, instead, firmly in its own skin. The roar of pain almost made him let go.

He forced himself to focus, the heat of its skin burning now as he took aim, closing one eye carefully, and fired once, twice into its open crimson eye, the gun crashing in his head.

"Come on, you ugly bastard," he urged it, as it staggered back, clutching its eye. "That's three-one. One own goal," he added, then yelped as it tossed its head again, more violently, and his grip gave way. He crashed painfully into the metal stairs, his gun clattering out of reach, and barely had time to thank whatever gods were listening that they had broken his fall before rolling out of the way of downward slashing claws.

Constantine! Roland shouted in his head, and he looked up, dizzily, trying to get his bearings.

"Wh't? Wh't y' w'nt?" he mumbled, stumbling to his feet.

Jump!

Constantine shook his head wildly, trying to disappate the rippling, blurring distortions on his sight, and did as he was told. Lunging to his left and under the rail of the staircase, he grabbed his last remaining gun with one flailing hand as the ground rushed up to meet him. Behind him, the metal of the steps groaned and crunched as the demon ripped the whole thing clean out of the wall, flinging it after him. His shots went wild, silver clanging on iron and on burning hide as the gunslingers fell and the staircase fell after them.

"Fuck!" he shouted, as he landed, with a nasty crunch, on his right arm, and stumbled back, out of the way, as the crash of metal on concrete filled the warehouse.

The gun! Roland urged, as he staggered to his feet. Get the gun!

"I'm not left-handed!" Constantine complained petulantly, and when he laughed, briefly and grimly, blood from his split lip dribbled between his front teeth like some kind of obscene visualisation of the hacking, painful sound.

Broken? the gunslinger asked, as the Englishman dived forwards, skidding and dodging on the smoking floor with blows raining down around him. Constantine nodded curtly, bending and scooping up the pistol with his left hand, and, as the demon roared again, in triumph now, he took aim at the spot of burnt hide where the water had struck before, and pumped the trigger again and again, until at last he was met with a dull click.

"Shit!" he yelled aloud, his finger still working reflexively on the trigger, and scanned the ruins of the stairs with increasing desperation. "Roland, where the fuck did the other gun fall?" For a moment, he was afraid that the gunslinger wouldn't answer either; that it was already too late.

There! called Roland suddenly, and Constantine, faint with relief, let his head be turned. The gun lay, innocent and unburied, only feet away. With a roar of pain, he leapt for it, yelling out as his broken arm collided with the edge of the stair rail, and, holstering the first gun quickly, hefted it and levelled it at the beast.

His breathing slowed, the cold sweat that had broken out on his skin fading away. Filled with the icy calm of a gunslinger in the heat of a battle, he knew the shots he had to take. One to the eye already clouded where he had shot it before, another to the other eye, and a third bullet to the throat; it would leave him with an empty gun, but it would leave the beast stunned, if not dead.

No mistakes. He could not afford mistakes.

Raising the gun, he took aim.

Behind him, Sam Milligan took one look at the roaring, foaming beast with black blood bubbling and hissing from its scaly throat, one sniff of the decaying, bitter stench, and collapsed backwards in a dead faint.

4

"Son of a..." Constantine fired, the recoil of the pistol unfamiliar in his left hand, just as the creature halted its headlong dash and spun to the unconscious policeman. The bullet rebounded harmlessly off the creature's spiny back, richocheting back into the wall. "Fuck!"

You have to help him, Roland told him firmly, as the demon sniffed the air sharply, raising one clawed hand to strike the hapless policeman.

"Help him?" Constantine retorted, taking aim at the back of the demon's head. "I'd like to do him in myself!" But he fired anyway, the bullet glancing neatly off the base of the figure's thick skull. "Oi, you ugly son of a bitch! Unfinished business here!" As the demon's head spun to face him, he kicked off, launching himself into a sprint directly at it – or, rather, at the door directly behind it.

You know what you are doing, I hope? Roland said, a note of worry creeping into his calm tone.

"You know what?" Constantine smirked, stooping to pick up a chunk of concrete, which he hurled with all his strength at the hulking figure. "For once in my life, I actually do!"

5

What do you need me to do? Roland asked, as Constantine spun on his heel in the middle of the street, fumbling to reload his gun one-handed.

"The door," Constantine grunted out, ducking to one side as the demon lunged. His handful of bullets scattered across the road, and he cursed under his breath. "When we go through, I need you to hold the door open for me." He glanced back over his shoulder at the floating section of beach behind him, catching a glimpse of Detta Walker's hate-twisted face and Eddie Dean's prone, limply struggling figure beyond, then turned back quickly, dodging neatly as the beast slashed at him hard enough to crumple the wall behind him like paper. "How long d'you reckon it'll take this bugger to force its way through? Hold the door open exactly that long, then shut it and let me deal with it."

You want the demon to follow us through? Roland demanded incredulously.

"You want the demon to wreak this sort of havoc all over the world?" Constantine countered, finally managing to load the gun. "'Cause I don't, and if it isn't coming through, then I'm going back. Weigh the balance, mate. You, Eddie, and Detta, or the whole damn world?"

Roland stayed silent, carefully not saying that he, Eddie, and Detta might very well represent the whole universe in this equation. Still running for his life, Constantine took it for assent.

"I can hold it off a few minutes, once it's through," he assured the gunslinger, sounding a lot more certain than he was. "It's just a matter of willpower. That'll be long enough to cut your lad loose, and we can worry about what comes next when it comes."

It has to be before sunset, Roland told him urgently. Sunset's when they come out.

Leaping aside from the crash of rubble, Constantine glanced briefly up at the darkening sky. The light was fading to the grey-blue of a city dusk, the sun reddening over the ragged silhouette of the city.

"No pressure, then?" he said wryly, holding back from asking what in the name of blue fuck Roland meant by 'they'.

Behind the demon, the small, ragged figure of Sam Milligan was moving, as he began to struggle to his feet. Constantine cursed again, under his breath, and raised his gun as metal and concrete rained down around him. "Let's see PC Plod there try to explain this to his bosses," he muttered grimly, and fired. The beast's massive, ape-like head spun with phenomenal speed, its wounded eye bleary and semi-blind, but still undeniably focused on him. Claws dragging into the by now bubbling tarmac, it threw back its head and roared.

Now?

"Hell, yes!"

His shattered right arm screaming pain at him, his head pounding, and blood clogging his hair and his eyelids, Constantine turned and leapt through the open door, arms and legs flailing as he landed on fine, harsh sand. Picking himself up, he stumbled a few steps out of reach, turning back to face the door with his gun in his hand. The plastic bag at his belt finally gave up the ghost, splitting at the seams; cigarette packets and bullets rolled away, scattering over the beach.

In the moment before the demon shoved its slavering, stinking head through the door up to the shoulders, Constantine took in everything he could. None of it made any sense, not really. Feet away from the open door, two Detta Walkers lay struggling on the sand, glaring eye to eye, hands clawing at each others' throats as though nothing in the world mattered but the other's death. Behind him, the thin young man called Eddie Dean lay wild-eyed and staring on his belly, a rope stretching from his ankles to his neck. And then, his back against the door, all his effort put into holding it open, strained a man who could only be Roland Deschain. From the ice-blue eyes that Constantine had seen reflected in the hotel mirror to the heels of his ragged boots, he was exactly as Constantine had imagined him – except for the two fingers missing on one hand; except for the red lines of blood poisoning raging up his arm.

The Englishman took a step forwards, regaining his balance and fixing his attention on the raging demon. Narrowing his eyes, he lowered his pistol and captured the beast's mind.

It was all he knew to expect, a raging cesspool of anger and rage and inhuman darkness. He couldn't hold it for long, but then, he hadn't expected to. He didn't have to.

Just for long enough.

The beast froze, half-in, half-out of the door, and Roland seized his chance, lunging aside on legs like wet rope to grab up his gun from where Detta had abandoned it.

For a moment, as Constantine's knees began to sag, as Roland stumbled into a run towards the dark, choking figure on the strand, as the demon shifted, ever so slightly, and one clawed hand came into view, the whole world seemed to stand still.

On the horizon, the orange-red sun shivered, as if in fear, and sank.

Did-a-chick? Did-a-chum?

They were coming.

6

They tumbled out of the rising waves like a black tide, swarming towards Eddie, who screamed as lobster-like claws clattered at his face. And then Roland's gun thundered, louder than their questioning cries, louder than the sound as Constantine threw back his head and roared, louder than the rush of winds and waves and sand, and time came flooding back.

"Get him out of there!" Constantine yelled, his own gun discharging in his hand as the barrier he had built up with his mind smashed apart, and the demon crashed free.

The woman who was neither Odetta Holmes nor Detta Walker screamed incoherently as she became whole again for the first time in years beyond counting, two women melding seamlessly into one. There was no transition, no moment of change, but suddenly, she was there, and Roland's gun was in her hands, and thunder split the air.

And then Roland yelled, and Eddie screamed again, and the whole of that little world was filled with a single, meaningless roar as the demon and Constantine fell at the same time, collapsing down the beach between Detta and the lobster-things click-clacking their way up the sands.

The beast was up again almost before it had fallen, barely even noticing the four-foot monstrosities clinging to the thick hide of its arms. Constantine was slower, and had barely managed to struggle to his feet, fumbling for his gun, when the demon roared again and flung its arms up, as if in frustration. He had time to wonder whether the creature realised just how dangerous the clacking, black things it had dislodged were, how good the missiles it had thrown were, before they were flying through the air and right at him.

He stumbled back, still sunk into a sort of half-crouch as he sought desperately for his gun, and straightened up just as the first of them came within reach of his exposed face, claws clacking, beak opening and closing in that absurdly plaintive question; Dod-a-chom? Did-a-chick?

Detta's bullet whistled inches from his nose, exploding the monstrosity into shards of shell and whitish meat. Its remains showered into him, sharp claws and armoured plates slicing into his skin, but the killing force was gone, and no claws ripped at his skin.

Leaden with exhaustion, weak and dizzy, he raised his gun, shooting again and again as though he was in some kind of trance. He barely registered the thunder of the other guns, or even the demon's roar of rage as another lobstrosity lunged, hanging on, all claws and death, to the bare, burned spot on the hulking figure's throat. He didn't see Roland stagger back up the beach, dragging Eddie after him, and collapse against a stone, breathing shallow. He didn't hear Detta/Odetta screaming her own defiance. All he saw, heard, felt was the crashing of his own gun; he was no longer even sure how many of his shots caught the clacking, questioning monstrosities, and he no longer cared.

The gun gave a dull click. Empty.

Without even taking a breath, he flung it aside, fumbling in his coat pocket and half-falling, half-running down the beach towards the gently lapping tide. The creatures still swarmed along the strand, but they kept their distance, fear sinking, apparently, into their primitive minds.

"Come on, you fucking son of a bitch!" he heard himself roar, his voice sounding distant and echoing to his own ears. "Come and get me! I hope you fucking choke on it! I hope these damn things feast on your flyblown corpse, you ugly, stinking fucker!"

The demon narrowed its dull crimson eyes, as though suspecting a trick, and lunged forwards to where he stood, a lone figure in a ragged beige trenchcoat, arms spread wide like the crucified Christ.

Broken arm flopping limply at his side and tinging his vision with roaring red pain, Constantine sidestepped neatly as the massive beast lunged, pulling his hand out of his pocket at last. Something glinted silver in his fist.

As the demon wheeled around to face him again, he let the silver object drop a little out of his hand. The crucifix swung lightly to and fro from his fingers, the chain catching the last rays of dying light.

"Go fetch," he told it firmly, and flung the necklace with all his strength into the obsidian sea.

For a moment, as he continued to back away into the now waist-deep water, it looked confused, suspicious. Then, with a wild roar, it plunged into the water after him.

7

In the gathering darkness, Constantine's scream of pain was chilling – but not as chilling as the other, wordless scream that split the moonlit air. In the sea, in water barely deep enough to reach the Englishman's waist, the demon was sinking. No, not sinking – burning. Burning away, as though the sea was acid, not water.

Constantine lunged at the thrashing creature as it floundered and hissed; his hand scrabbling at the spines of its back, he hauled himself out of the water. Shaking his leg wildly, he managed to crush the lobster-creature that had caught him against the demon's heaving side. It was a young one, only a foot or so long, and that, he thought dimly, had probably saved his life – or his leg, at least. But the pain was stabbing and throbbing, and if he couldn't get away before the monstrosities massed like a black tide on the beach got over their fear of him, it wouldn't make much difference. Unless he could get away before then, he was a dead man walking. Or falling.

The beast under him shuddered, rearing back in pain, and he tumbled down its back, grabbing one-handed onto the nub of its shoulderblade and struggling to hold himself up, a good ten feet above the hissing, roiling seawater. One crimson eye, wide and mad with pain and rage, swung around to look at him, and he blanched slightly.

The stink of rot had been replaced by one of burning plastic, acrid and sour. It clutched at the back of his throat, making him gag, and the pain throbbing through his whole body made his chest tight, his breathing ragged and difficult. It took him several long, dragging seconds to pull himself together long enough to pull himself properly onto the demon's back, the whole of his right side now numb with pain, between his broken arm and the large chunk of flesh torn out of his thigh. The beast's hide was blisteringly hot, and he could feel the skin peeling off his hand, but it was better than facing whatever else might be lurking in those dark waters. It took him a moment to gain his balance, and a split second later, the demon roared again, throwing its head back, and dragged itself, slowly, painfully, back onto shore. The movement sent a crash of water storming over the dark surface of the sea, edged with pinkish, bloody foam.

On land, the full extent of the damage was obvious. The beast's clawed feet were scorched to the bone, its belly blackened, and chunks of rotten-looking flesh laid bare. Bone and muscle and hide had fused into a mess of wet ash that stank to high heaven. As the figure tumbled gratefully off its back, it opened its fanged mouth and let out a curiously human scream; a scream of futile rage, agony, and fear. Mangled limbs lashed wildly, dissolving into black smears on the dark sand, and some dark, tar-like residue oozed from its underside. Its grey hide glistened in the moonlight like some huge beached whale, dark and cold and bound with ropes of sheer pain. As it howled again, dragging itself up the strand slowly, painfully, the black tide of lobster-things descended.

Constantine didn't stop to watch. Blood dribbled down his leg, his arm, his face as he staggered up the beach again. He didn't stop to pick up his abandoned gun, or to retrieve the bagful of cigarettes and bullets from where it had fallen. He couldn't stop. He could only go on half-stumbling, half-crawling, until the plaintive did-a-chum? of the lobstrosities faded behind him, and then, shattered arm hanging limply at his side, he collapsed face-down where the door had been.

He took a couple of deep breaths and glanced over at Roland, who was sitting, glassy-eyed and clearly just as close to unconsciousness, inches away from him, then let his head flop back against the sand again. In the seconds before he let the pulsing, roaring pain drive him into unconsciousness, he turned his head to the gunslinger, taking another deep, rattling breath.

"Holy fuck," he managed, spitting blood, "you even look like an archaic John Wayne."