-29-
"A Cold Reception"
And it was, quite literally.
At the edge of Hell, Dream summoned Matthew the Raven - after giving him a laundry list of instructions and supernatural entities for Lucien to cordially invite, Dream sent Matthew back to the Dreaming Castle.
And then, we went in.
I don't even believe in Hell, actually - which is why it was quite strange when Dream unlocked the gates, and led us into the worst place ever imagined by mankind.
At first there wasn't much to see - Hell had been emptied out and gutted. I was surprised there weren't any tumbleweeds rolling around in the dust, to complete the old ghost-town look.
But then we got inside the palace, once occupied by Lucifer himself.
The place was disgusting.
Grotesque, tormented bodies and mangled body parts - human and animal - were entwined into every part of the architecture. Some of the pieces were arranged into interesting sculptural elements, which might have been considered quite artistic if it weren't so horrifying and gross.
Chains seemed to be a big thing here too - chains, manacles, racks, iron maidens, electric chairs, cages, gas chambers.
Oh, and fireplaces - it seemed like you couldn't go a few feet without seeing another huge, ornate furnace. Charred bodies tied to stakes were posted in the midst of each cold, empty ash heap. None of the fires were going - I knew that if they were lit, this place would have been an inferno of orange, malevolent light, and very hot.
But right now, it was very dark. And very cold - there was frosty rime on every nightmarish surface.
Little did people back home know, when they said things like 'when Hell freezes over', that it had already happened.
We walked on a pathway made of human faces, which flinched and gasped as we walked upon them - I tried to step as carefully as I could, but Dream told me not to bother because they weren't actually people, just interactive decoration (which is good, because there's only so many times that you can apologize for stepping on someone's face).
The pathway spiraled upwards, and seemed to go on forever. I asked Dream where we were going, and he replied that we were headed to Lucifer's abandoned seat of power.
"His throne-room?" I asked.
"No - his office."
Office?
Sure enough, after that exhausting climb on that high, narrow and hideous joke of a pathway, we reached what looked like a modern top-floor executive suite.
There was a desk with a high-backed chair on wheels, a computer, a watercooler, a liquor cabinet, and a leather couch for guest seating.
Lining the walls were shelves of books, held together with strangely cute bookends shaped like black goats and kittens; hanging on the walls were some bland, pastel-colored modern art, and the back wall behind the desk was all glassed in, providing a panoramic view of the Hellscape.
Delirium immediately threw herself into the executive chair and began to spin around in it, making 'Wheee!' sounds.
Dream placed his cloak on a rack - a normal one, not the torturous kind - and sat slumped down into the couch. Back in his grey T-shirt and jeans, he looked thin, pale, and rather boyishly vulnerable. He looked anxious, and like he could really use a comforting hug - as I sat down on the other side of the couch I was almost compelled to give him one, before I remembered that I was still mad at him.
"Now what?" I asked.
"Now, we wait for the guests to arrive."
When I saw the guests fill up the hellish grand reception hall, I could understand the reason for Dream's anxiety - they were a pretty damn intimidating bunch of freaks.
But Dream himself more than matched up to them - he was wearing absolutely resplendent robes, with embroidered vestments depicting sleeping faces, figures in contemplation and repose, and various other esoteric dream-symbols.
And on his head, completely covering his face, was that ugly bone gas-mask.
On his shoulder Matthew the Raven perched; behind him the fairy Nuala stood at attendance (presumably to mind the long train of his ostentatious robe, making sure nobody stepped on it and tripped him up - and trying to untangle Delirium from it, who was playing with the train and taking great glee in rolling herself up in it). The word according to Matthew was that Mervyn Pumpkinhead had pleaded desperately to be allowed to come (on account of the 'booze and broads' - his words - that would be there) but he'd been told in no uncertain terms that his place was on the castle grounds, along with Lucien and most of the other palace inhabitants staying in their respective posts.
Nuala was dressed nicer than usual - Morpheus had given permission for her to wear one of her dresses from Faerie, as well as her glamour if she wished; she'd taken him up on the dress (hemming it in so that it conformed to her tinier and less-curvaceous frame) but had left the fairy glamour off for her own reasons. Normally her skin was a sallow woody color, but right now she looked as pale and rigid as a board of fresh-cut pine - she was clearly quailing with fear over something, but I didn't yet understand what that something was.
I stood by him as he prepared to greet each of the guests. "You look like freakin' Cthulhu," I grumbled.
He turned to me, with those glassy bug-eyes. "How so?" he asked, totally sincere.
Great, I thought. So Cthulhu is real. I REALLY didn't need to know that. "Nevermind," I told him.
"All right," he said, peaceably. Then he turned his attention to his guests. "You are all welcome here," he said, in a booming voice that was in no way impeded by his skull-helmet. "I extend my hospitality to you all." Morpheus lifted up the gnarled key. "You who seek this key, and what it represents: the empty Hell that was once Lucifer's. Enter, and announce yourselves."
At the forefront of the procession were three characters who were obviously Egyptian, their bodies adorned with gold finery - I recognized their jackal-headed leader even before he spoke. "I am Anubis, Lord of the Dead of the Nile Delta," he said, a low dark voice emanating from his snout. His eyes were red and his fur was pitch-black - his ears were long, sharp, and pointed straight up to the heavens. "With me are Bast, Lady of Cats, and Bes, a household protection deity," Anubis said while gesturing grandly to the two behind him: a cat-headed woman, whose silver-furred female human body was covered only with her jewelry and a skirt of fine linen, and a burly dwarf with a pleasant face and a scimitar strapped to his side.
"I am told I sing most passing fair," said Bes, "and when I dance it spurs much merriment. I would sing and dance for the enjoyment of all here gathered, if it will please our most gracious host."
"I thank you, Bes - that would indeed be most appreciated as an addition to the night's festivities. It is an honor to welcome you and your companions, Lord Anubis." The Egpytian gods passed within - the cat-goddess lingered behind a little, to gaze at Dream coyly with gold-green eyes and purr at him, before sashaying after her companions with sinuously swishing hips.
The next grouping of European-looking gods were also three in number:
An older, craggy-faced man with one missing eye, dressed in a traveler's grey cloak, hat and walking stick, with a raven on each shoulder (Matthew the Raven seemed very excited to see them).
A thin and devious-looking man whose gold hair stood straight up like a flame, whose lips were scarred with numerous piercing-holes.
And the third was a huge man with blood-red hair and beard, whose body was insanely muscular (enough to make Schwarzeneggar and Stallone jealous), but not evenly so - this guy had built up his upper-body, his arms and shoulders in particular, to such an absurd level that it was a wonder he could still walk upright.
It would've seemed perfectly natural for him to tuck his comparatively-small legs up under himself and roll, like a big flesh snowball, as his method of getting around.
You know the kind of muscles that look like a massive, swollen blister, veins forced to the outside, and all of it about to pop explosively at any moment? That's the kind of muscles this guy had - and it was painful to behold.
The mysterious old traveler spoke. "I am Odin All-Father, king of those who dwell in Asgard. With me are my sons - Thor, of the Aesir, and Loki Sky-Walker - the child of giants, but Aesir by right of blood-brotherhood. These ravens upon my shoulders are Huginn and Muninn: 'Thought' and 'Memory'. I thank you for your invitation, Dream-Weaver."
"The pleasure is all mine, Rune-Lord."
"I would talk with you: you have something I need, and I have in my possession something you might want." Odin brought out a crystal ball, and inside that crystal ball was the image of a bunch of tiny figures, engaged in battle - I recognized them as some of Justice League members and their costumed cohorts. "I am a brave god," Odin continued. "There is only one thing that frightens me."
"Ragnarok."
"Indeed. Ragnarok. Too much of my time has been spent hatching schemes to circumvent the darkness ahead of me and mine. I pick at it, irrationally, as a man picks at a sore." Odin nodded at the crystal ball. "I created a world - a notional dimension - and in it, I fashioned a tiny Ragnarok, to be fought day in, day out, forever. To my great surprise, this little world of mine gained outside warriors - ones I had not created, from Reality. One of them has your essence in him - a fraction of your soul." The image in the crystal focused in on a man in a 40's style hat and suit, with a strange gun and a gas-mask.
"I see. After the banquet, we shall discuss the matter further."
Odin fixed his one eye upon me. "Is this your new consort, Dream-Weaver?"
"AND IF SO, WHAT IS SHE?" asked Thor, looking me up and down. "IS SHE A GODDESS? A WITCH?"
"She is nothing but herself."
Thor and Loki both grinned at me then, an uncomfortably greedy glint in their eyes. "Ah, so a mortal then," mused Loki. "And nothing approaching the status of a wife or consort, I'd wager. So what's the appeal? Is she that good between the sheets?"
"Don't you dare talk about her that way!" cried Nuala.
Before Loki could come back at her with some nasty retort, Thor clapped a huge hand over Loki's mouth. "You were warned not to speak, wolf-father," rumbled Thor.
"I can clear up the confusion for yeh," said a familiar voice, who belonged to a man who was moving past Odin. He was a clean-shaven man wearing a powder-blue suit that matched his eyes, and white gloves; his hair was a bright peroxide-burned white-yellow, gelled and styled just so, and from one ear a diamond stud earring glinted.
"This right here is the demon Rosacarnis," he said. "And she's mine." He grabbed me and kissed me, right as I was about to say his name.
His disgusting tongue made a full sweep of my mouth's interior, his saliva tasting like a piney, herbal-flavored booze-soaked ashtray.
I shoved him back and slapped him, right in the offending kisser. "I WILL DESTROY YOU, JOHN CONSTANTINE!" I roared.
"HA! SOUNDS LIKE A DEMONESS TO ME!" Thor said. "BUT METHINKS YOU ARE WRONG TO THINK HER YOURS! SAY," he said, bending over and grinning at me with big, white square teeth, "IF YOU'RE IN NEED OF A REAL MAN…"
"Then come see ME, of course," said Loki, slipping out of Thor's grasp and getting between us. "I'm half fire-giant - I can take the heat, little firecracker."
John touched his lip with his white glove, smirking ruefully. "That was nothing but a love-tap," he insisted. "She's just mad I'd already sold my soul three times over before I met her, that's all. Nothing left to sink her teeth into." I noticed that his accent was softer - not completely gone, but also not as roughly chopped-up and bordering on unintelligible garble, as it had been for me before.
It made me wonder if ANYTHING about this guy stayed consistent, or whether he was able to change his stripes at a moment's notice.
"Oi, thunder-man," said Constantine, "you're barking up the wrong tree with this one - if it's pussy you're after, I suggest you toddle off in that direction."
"WHERE?" Thor boomed, looking in the direction that Constantine was indicating - and then he threw back his head and laughed hard enough to shake the whole place. "AH, I SEE! THE WOMAN WITH THE CAT HEAD! YOU ARE MIGHTY FUNNY, JOHN CONSTANTINE!"
"Constantine," said Odin, gazing at the suit-wearing human chameleon. "That is a name that has reached my ears before… you and your ancestors have a reputation that rivals that of my own blood-son Loki."
Loki's eyes lit up, and he shined that light all over John. "Is that so...?"
Odin nodded. "It is my understanding that it was he who first incited a rash of panic soul-trading on Mammonstreet, making him responsible for the crash of the Infernal Dollar; the demonic economy has yet to recover."
"Oh that was nothing, mate," piped up Constantine. "Compared to wot I did to the triumvirate of Hell."
"Ah, yes… the Lesser Devil's displeasure with you is now legendary. I believe he considers you a grave threat to him."
"Can't see why - I hardly raised a finger to him."
"Yes, but the finger you chose was most impactful indeed - it wounded his pride considerably, far greater than if you had simply stabbed him through the chest with Gungnir."
"Respectfully, I have other guests to greet," intoned Dream.
Odin nodded and moved on, with his sons in tow. Matthew the Raven asked Dream if he could go hang out and talk with Odin's Ravens, and Dream gave his permission. Matthew was ecstatic, and the three of them were flying around together for the rest of the evening.
John slid in near me, casually lighting up one of his Silk Cuts like absolutely nothing had happened.
"So," he said to me, "how do you like it?"
"Like WHAT?" I demanded to know.
He gestured to himself - down the length of his ensemble. Seriously?! He was really going to fish for compliments from me right now, after all that?!
"I thought it made me look like a poof, but she was quite insistent," he said.
"Who was?"
"The Fashion Thing."
"I have no idea who or what that is, John."
"You'll see her flying around - can't say if she'll be the Mad Madonna Witch, the Mad Yuppie Witch, or something else altogether, but she'll be on a broomstick for sure." As if summoned by his words, a woman in a top-hat, tailed suit and fishnet stockings flew past on a broomstick, blowing a kiss at Constantine and then letting out a banshee-scream of hysterical laughter.
"Strewth! She wore the Zatanna outfit - the one I mentioned to her as having fancied," marveled John. "I think she likes me."
I raked my eyes up and down his frame, very quickly, and with as much contempt as I could muster. Then I looked away again. "You look like a highschool Prom King."
He blinked at me, looking genuinely touched, and smiled. "Oh... well thank you, Rose."
"You're NOT welcome. It was meant as an INSULT."
"Nah, that's not a PROPER insult - now me Dad, he had a good one, a real gem: he'd refer to me as 'THAT ARTY-FARTY LITTLE PONCE.' Only he'd say it even more aggressive, like - really gave it that extra amount of bite."
"Sounds like me and your dad would get along."
"Ah yes… you would at that, if the old bastard hadn't gotten himself killed."
"Oh. Gosh, I'm-"
"He could have taught you a thing or two about punching a fella, too - me, in particular. He was a SPECIALIST in that."
I immediately started to feel bad. I shouldn't have hit him - no matter how gross his mouth was, or how presumptuous he was being with me.
And then I got a little angry at myself, wondering why I was allowing him to make ME feel bad for reacting to HIS douchey behavior.
"He's DRUNK," hissed Nuala. "After you left, he did almost nothing but order gin and tonics."
"Hey Nuala? Catch," he said, and flicked something from his pocket at her. "Hang on to that for me, will you?"
"NO!" she said, and angrily kicked it back to him with her little foot.
He stooped and picked it back up. "Alternate earring," he explained to me, even though I hadn't asked. He took on a look of wicked pride. "Cold iron."
Now, don't imagine that the stream of guests had stopped while all this petty shit was going on between us - Dream was still diligently and formally greeting each one, including Lord Kilderkin of Order (manifested as a cardboard box, held reverently in the hands of his servant) and Shivering Jemmy, Princess of the Shallow Brigade, representing Chaos (who was a child-sized clown made of balloons).
"I IS VERY IMPORTANT!" Jemmy's helium-voice squeaked emphatically. "We is always more fun than the Order people. Cardboard boxes! Hmmph! Nobody clever be's cardboard boxes." She lifted up an empty jar with a cork top. "Here, you'kin have this jar of pickles for free - 'cept I eated 'um all up already. TEEHEE!"
Dream accepted the stupid thing, graciously. "I thank you for your generosity, Princess Shivering Jemmy."
Delirium stopped playing with Dream's robe-train and greeted Jemmy excitedly, since it was clear that they knew each other quite well.
Amongst the other standouts was a handsome Japanese god, in a richly-decorated samurai kimono with a sword hanging in his sash. He had a folding fan in his hand. "To his shame, this one is Susano-o-no-Mikoto, of the Floating Kingdom of Nippon," he said to Dream, "'His-Brave-Swift-Impetuous Male-Augustness', son of Izanagi, 'His-Augustness-the-Male-Who-Invites'. It should, perhaps, be mentioned that this one comes alone, as an individual - one has not come as part of his pantheon."
"It's alright mate, I came by meself too," quipped John, although absolutely no one was addressing him. "Sole representative - and member - of the Working Class London-Based Magician's Guild, that's me."
Susano ignored him, bowing slightly to Dream - who bowed back - and unfolded his fan before him as he made ready to enter. But as he passed, he said to Dream quietly: "It might come to pass that one could discuss certain matters with his venerable wisdom, the shaper of dreams, in a private place."
"That would honor this person greatly, Lord Susano-o-no-Mikoto."
Susano was not the only god who came alone - he was followed by a being made of red flame. But the light of this god - and his attitude - was very subdued compared to all the other beings in attendance. As it turned out, he had reason to be worried.
He bowed his head at Dream. "Endless of all who Dream - I am Rao, the solar deity who presided over the sun of Krypton."
"I know who you are. Welcome."
"You are most gracious to invite me. And for allowing my sole remaining worshipper to live on in your realm. I owe my continued existence to you."
"I am partly to blame for your people's destruction. It was the least I could do."
"I'm sure you know that I am here on behalf of the lost souls of Krypton."
"Yes."
Rao hesitated. "The isle of The Dreaming called The Phantom Zone, which served as a refuge for my worshipper … it was not the paradise that was promised to him. It deteriorated into a wasteland, no doubt because of your imprisonment."
"No doubt."
"The conditions are driving him mad - his belief in me could be distorted beyond recognition, or lost altogether if his memory erodes. Could you find it in your heart to restore the Zone, or at least allow him to join the general population of Hell, thus preserving both his sanity and mine?"
"On behalf of Zod, the person who was responsible for the death of my sister, the first Despair? Or the god who encouraged him, in order to enact his own revenge upon her? No, I think not."
Rao looked very afraid. "Forgive me, Dream of the Endless. If you desire his death, even though it would be the end of me, I shall forfeit us both - only let the souls of Krypton's damned have a protected place of their own in Hell, regardless of who becomes its warden."
"It will take the rest of eternity for him to die. Only then will his pain cease. As for you, it may very well come to pass that your worshipper outlives you - or, you may suffer alongside him, at the mercy of his shifting perceptions and mental tumult. Regardless, the conditions of your existence are fitting, and I am satisfied. Do not ask any further favors of me, Rao."
Rao nodded, and entered the banquet hall, shaking and shamefaced.
"Did I just hear correctly, that a sun-god was afraid of dying?" I asked Dream. "I thought gods were immortal."
"Mythologies take longer to die than people believe," explained Dream. "As long as people remember them in some fashion, they linger on in a kind of dream country that affects all of you. But yes, one day they too will see my sister; she will take them to the Sunless Lands, and from there to their permanent eternity."
The next guests that arrived for Dream to greet were a contingent of very strange people: at the forefront was a tall woman with very pale skin that had a silvery sheen, and silvery eyes to match. Her ears were pointed, her lips looked like they might be naturally the color of plums, and her dark eyebrows swept in an upward arch like the top outline of a butterfly's wing.
Beside her, keeping her delicate hand held aloft, was a man with ram's horns crowning his fair golden hair - he had a long, chiseled, serious face that was almost too beautiful for a man, with eyebrows that angled sharply upwards like his consort.
With the two of them was a jovial fellow with a smarmy, self-satisfied smile, whose long pointed ears poked out from the curtains of his long curling hair, and a creeping, furry humanoid creature that looked like a malevolent Dr. Seuss character.
"Welcome to you, Auberon of Dom-Daniel, and to you also, Lady Titania."
"Greetings, Shaper," said Auberon, in a smooth and authoritative voice. "Your invitation has provok'd much speculation amongst our people. I must confess, we thought we were quit of this and any other plane besides our own, forever."
"Is anything forever?"
"Ho ho ho!" laughed the furry man-thing, which only further exacerbated my impression of him as a non-green cousin of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. "They say the seven Endless are forever, mighty Dream. You and the other six, until the death of time itself. What say you to that, King of Riddle-Realms?"
"Robin Goodfellow," warned Auberon, "mind your manners. We are my Lord Shaper's guests, and I will NOT have him insulted by a hobgoblin."
"Nay, good Auberon. It is a fool's prerogative to utter truths that no one else will speak."
"If that is so, then let my chosen fool speak the truth of our purpose here," said Auberon. "Cluracan."
The smarmy elfin-man, who up until then was looking around with amusement, snapped to attention. "Yes, my King." He cleared his throat. "Lord Shaper - by ancient compact, Faerie must pay the teind - our tithe - to hell, every seven years. We are forced to sacrifice to them nine of our wisest, our most beautiful…" suddenly he took a look around Dream at Nuala - who had very subtly been scooching further behind Dream's cloak to hide. "Sister?" said the elf-man.
"Hello Cluracan," she replied, unhappily, having to emerge somewhat.
"Sister! It is good to see you," said Cluracan, warmly.
Titania looked down at Nuala with undisguised disdain. "Nuala, is this a deliberate insult? Clothe yourself immediately!"
"Her appearance is in accordance with my wishes, Lady Titania. It was I who removed the glamour she wears, for I mislike little magics in my realm."
"Oh, I see," said Titania, realizing she'd made an ass of herself. "Well, that's fine then. If you ever find my little gift too troublesome, Lord Shaper, do not hesitate to send her back to Faerie."
"It's been so long since I've seen your natural face, my sister, I had almost forgotten what it looked like," remarked Cluracan. "Do you miss the realm of Faerie, my sister?"
"No," she said, choking on the word. "N-Not at all. I'm comfortable serving in The Dreaming."
"Comfortable," echoed Titania. "Your 'comfort' is of no consequence to anyone, Nuala."
John extended his hand toward Titania. "Lady Titania, my name is John Constantine. Can mortal lips kiss the hand of someone as lovely as yourself?"
Titania's own lips curled, and she offered her silver hand elegantly - but as he took it, she gasped and recoiled, as if it had burned her.
John blinked at her innocently. "Wot's the matter, Queen of Faerie?"
Titania glared with searing hate, before aiming her eyes at Dream. "And do not hesitate to send THIS one either." Then she picked up her skirts and huffed past.
Constantine smirked, and we all looked at his hand - in between the white-gloved fingers was the iron earring. He tucked it quietly back into his pocket, looking pleased with himself.
Robin Goodfellow cackled. Auberon's grim mouth became an amused smile, as he silently turned to follow his upset wife.
"Glad to see you in such good company, sister," said Cluracan, wrapping his arm heartily around John's neck and giving him a kiss on the cheek. He returned his attention to Dream. "I fear that if I do not complete my message, Lord Shaper, my King and Queen may subject me to banishment, beheading, or something more lingering that involves boiling oil."
"I would not have you risk the ire of Titania and Auberon. Speak your piece."
"Thank you. Anyway, as I was saying - we've had a nice long reprieve from the onerous teind since the Morningstar up and left, for there was no one with the authority to oversee the harvest, and nowhere for our sacrifices to go once they'd been collected.
All these puissant beings are here to persuade you to grant them the rights to Hell. But it would be to the benefit of Faerie if Hell were to remain empty. We therefore beg you: give it to none of them.
Of course, it's not just a favor we'd be asking: there is much that Faerie can offer you." Then he made a sweeping bow, and swaggered off after his people along with Robin Goodfellow.
Nuala looked at John with a contrite expression. "John, thank-"
He put up his hand. "Nah, don't. I didn't do it for you - I just can't stand when people put on airs, shovin' their power in everybody's faces. Just amusin' meself at their expense, that's all. Nothin' to be thankful for." Then he looked up and saw who was next approaching. "Shit. Speakin' of…"
Two angels, each with a shining pair of wings as tall as they were folded up, glided toward us. I think their wings were mostly decorative, because I don't think their feet actually touched the floor as they moved. Their hair was fine and white as snow, and always flowing away from their impossibly-perfect faces.
They were dressed in the whitest fabric, draped diaphanously around their golden bodies, all of which seemed to faintly glow with an ever-present light.
"We are here to observe," said one of them, his voice musical and soft as a whisper, his eyes colorless like clear water.
"Yeh, you people like te watch, don't yeh?" growled John around his cigarette, his Scouse accent returning swiftly and fiercely. "'Specially after yeh've done a spot of SMITIN' people, right mate? But I've got a question: who's supposed to be watchin' the watchmen?"
John threw his cigarette down in front of the angel, and I couldn't help but feel like this was his version of throwing down the gauntlet.
The angel looked at the still-smoking cigarette on the floor. His face didn't change at all; but somehow, as his eyes moved from the cigarette to John, the angel's scorn came through loud and clear. "I am the angel Remiel, set over those that Rise. My companion is Duma, angel of Silence."
"Good stuff. I'm John, and I'm a bastard."
"Who are you, unclean soul?" Remiel whispered at John.
John grinned, showing his teeth. "Funny you should mention that - I'm the snake wot bit your Mary."
The angel looked horrified. "God forgive you," he breathed.
"Wot 'bout you? Did the almighty give yeh this little assignment in Hell as punishment fer killin' 'er, then?"
Constantine had told me about having run-ins with demons and Hellspawn - but he'd never said anything prior to that about having personal beefs with members of the Heavenly Host.
I guess I thought an exorcist demon-hunter like Constantine and angels would just naturally get along, seeing as how they were both playing for 'Team Good' against 'Team Evil'.
But it sounded like some kinda shitshow happened over an ex-girlfriend of Constantine, and he blamed the angel for her death.
I didn't really know what to expect from an angel being accused of wrongdoing by a mortal - the image of flaming swords and righteous wrath came to mind - and so I held my breath to see what would happen.
"It was better for her to be embraced by the redeeming arms of our Lord than to live tainted by your demonic seed," said the angel Remiel, who was indeed looking a little smitey just then. "Yet another innocent soul, among the many others claimed far too early due to your wickedness."
"That was NOT on me, you miserable fucking prick," said John, pointing at him. "I thought you'd simply turn up yer nose and flutter away, not throw a giant cosmic tantrum that got all of your loyal servants killed."
"Had she been allowed to conceive-"
"Wait hold up," said John. "She was PREGNANT?"
"She was," answered the angel. "And the child would have been the spawn of a devil. Would you really have wished that upon either of them? Would you have wished that upon yourself, to have a child that could be used by your mortal enemy as a pawn against you?"
"A weed got planted in yer garden, so you blew the whole thing up. Brilliant… sounds like a bloody pure and righteous solution to me, pal. Just like when your seven arch-goons killed Tali - one of your own - and HIS half-demon child. Gotta say, at least you're consistent… but whatever happened to you people being 'pro-life'? Not when it's inconvenient for you, eh?"
The angel Duma reached into his robes, and pulled out of its folds a book, which he handed to Remiel.
John groaned. "You're not getting the bloody Bible out are you?"
"Yes, I am. I think you need it."
"Got all the bog roll I need."
"This is the Word of God!"
"The EDITED word of God. Your mob of devotees had those little books locked away in Rome for a thousand years. D'you know how much they chopped out? Changed? Made up?"
"They were Holy Men."
"They were WANKERS. They screwed everything that moved, killed anyone who messed 'em about, an' fed off the suckers they preached to."
"How DARE you-"
"Shut up for a minute, will you? Ever wondered why he's a God of Vengeance in the Old Testament, an' Love in the new one? Why 'an eye for an eye' becomes 'turn the other cheek'?
And they couldn't even do it properly, could they? They threw out most of the gospels, but left four of them in there that sound like they're written about four different fellas: a story-spoutin' hippie with a pedigree, a hard-as-nails demonhunter, a fairytale-type chosen hero, and a holy-rollin' prophet.
And what about the ultimate takeaway? 'Love me or you'll burn in hell.' That sounds like a spoilt kid!"
"It isn't for us to judge…"
"I said SHUT UP! I'll judge! I'll judge whatever I soddin' well want! That's all the pricks've left me!"
"Who?"
"THE PRICKS WITH THE POWER! All I ever wanted was for the world to be free of your kind - whether you were in Parliament or Senate, Heaven or Hell. Whether you wear the wings of doves, or bats… or no fucking wings at all.
Maybe that's pointless - maybe the people are too small and scared to be free. Maybe they want you there, shitting all over them. But for whatever it's worth, you were ALWAYS the enemy. All of you.
I tell you what, the next time you're talking to your God - you tell him from me, right, you tell him Constantine WON'T GIVE IN. You tell him no matter how bad or sad it gets, how much it falls to bits on me… how many holes there are in me worthless soddin' life…" He lunged forward and gripped the Bible in the angel Remiel's hand. "I'll never plug 'em with this bollocks!"
I grabbed his arm. "Constantine," I said. "Let it go."
"Let it go?! You don't know a thing about wot he did!"
"No, I don't - but please don't get into some sort of fistfight with an angel. Not here."
"If any sort of combat should take place on these grounds, I will have no choice but to remove all offending parties, John Constantine."
"So just let the BOOK go for now, John."
John lowered his eyelashes at me, and reluctantly released his grip on the Angel's Bible. The angel Remiel brushed off his Bible where John's fingers had been, and glided past. "Be watchin' yeh," said John.
And then the demons arrived.
They sauntered toward us: a red, muscly demon with gold eyes and a long prehensile tongue hanging out of his mouth; a floating dimensional crack leading to a void filled with sets of fangs and glowing eyes; a thin demon with two mouths and head protrusions; and a pouty-lipped, wasp-waisted Morticia Addams-wannabe wearing a spider-choker and a dress of spider-web lace.
The floating void filled with disembodied teeth and glowing eyes spoke. "I am Azazel, formerly a Prince of Hell," it said, with all its mouths moving in unison to the words - apparently they all belonged to the same entity. "With me are the Merkin, Mother of Spiders… Choronzon, who was formerly a Duke of the Eighth Circle... and Nergal, once a god of pestilence and death in ancient Babylon."
John and Nergal locked gazes, and John became rigid, his face ashen. I'd never seen him show his fear like this before - I always knew it was there, buried under layers of sarcasm and false bravado, but to see it so overtly made me nervous as hell.
Which was appropriate given the circumstances, I suppose.
"We come as ambassadors, representative of the whole of daemonkind," said Choronzon, with both his mouths, "seeking natural justice for the poor, dispossessed creatures whose homeland has been ripped from them, and for the lost souls of Hell who belonged in our care. We seek the return of our lands."
"That is to be expected," said Dream, calmly. "You shall be given the opportunity to make your entreaties later, after the refreshments." He gestured for them to enter.
The spider-lady gave John a come-hither look as she passed - nothing too surprising there - but it was a little disconcerting to see the muscular one giving him much the same look. "Nice to see you again, John," he said, licking his ear with that disgusting long tongue of his, and making John flinch. "Blood of my blood…"
"Leave him alone," I said, even though I instantly regretted drawing this guy's attention. He leered at me, his fangs and yellow, slitted eyes glinting. His hot breath had a heavy, sour reek, like an animal freshly gorged on meat. He said nothing, and walked on past.
I shivered. I could feel that Nergal was way more powerful than a couple of flunkies like Brute and Glob - and if John was scared of him, that was a pretty good sign that he was a force to be reckoned with. I just hoped Dream could - and would - deal with him, if he became a problem… and preferably before someone like me or John got hurt.
"I'm glad you're playing along," said John to me, quietly, "but don't oversell it, darlin'."
I couldn't fathom what he was talking about - I wasn't 'selling' anything. I just had some mild concern about the rape-eyed demon-stalker getting to first base with his ear in front of everyone, and indicating that this might just be foreplay for something worse he was planning to do later on.
I just couldn't understand how John thought, sometimes.
But I did know one thing for sure: it was going to be a long, cold night in Hell.