Chapter 1
Better places to wake up in
The first thing John Constantine noticed when he woke up and tried to roll off the bed was the fact that there wasn't any bed. Cursing furiously under his breath as he rubbed his forehead where he had hit it against the bars, he gingerly sat up, disorientation washing over him for a brief, hesitant moment, and then he pragmatically scanned the immediate area for his tormentor. When he realized that the bastard wasn't anywhere in sight, he breathed a little easier, and allowed himself to slump back against the cage in relief. Right. Now to try and get out of here. Before he comes back.
With that depressing thought in mind, John scrambled up and looked closely at the lock – it was, as he'd observed before, annoyingly solid. Gingerly he reached through the bars and attempted to probe it, but with nothing to use as a lockpick, that wasn't much of a help. It didn't mean that he gave up, of course – John spent the next few moments alternatively cursing at the lock or trying to tug it off, then summed up the situation by viciously kicking the door and stubbing his toe. Pain and frustration.
Wearily he leaned against the bars. There had been a fight – there were several rather grisly, smoking remains of something that looked abstractly human, as well as a highly suspicious, neat pile of what looked like fine sand. The surrealistic quality of the carnage reminded him unwillingly of Emma…the artist that he had lived with, once, but before the memories got to him, he shoved them away. The clothing worn by the people helped – and also aided John in understanding where he was. Shite. Chain mail was the only thing not blackened out of recognition…and John Constantine slowly remembered the last place where he'd been with this sort of fashion. His ribs remembered, too, and ached, almost in protest.
"The Underdark," he said aloud, almost portentously, then added, with feeling, "Shite."
"Not the Underdark. I don't know where we are, but it's not there."
Startled, John whirled in the direction of the voice. It was somewhere behind him – but other cages blocked the view. He could indistinctly make out a human shape – and by the timbre of the voice, probably a female one. In the cage next to her there was yet another human shape. Funny that he hadn't noticed them before, but then again, he had been…occupied.
"How should you know?" The other human, by the voice, also female, spoke.
"I've been in the Underdark before. There's something about the…maybe you could call it ambience."
"Ambience?" the other person sounded curious and disbelieving.
"Ye-es…sort of like the nagging sentiment that there's a few million tons of rock ready to fall on my head without warning. I'm not getting it here."
"Any idea how to get out, luv?" John automatically asked, then squeezed his eyes shut as his ears caught up with his mouth. "Damn. Stupid thing to say. If you lot knew how to get out…"
"We'd be out already," the second female finished wryly for him. "And no, I don't even know why we're here. I believe we're…experiments due to our special natures. I'm a tiefling. My friend here's a werewolf. We just met a few minutes ago, after all that fighting, when her cage suddenly appeared here. You are…?"
"Human, luv, last I checked. Some people seem to find it surprising." Earlier memories of a certain ticked-off weapon master surfaced, and had to be stomped down. John didn't know what a tiefling was, and said so.
"Tiefling means that I'm plane-touched, sparrow. Have some demon or fiend somewhere in my family tree. There's an aura that normal people find mildly disturbing at the best. And no, I don't smell of brimstone, and the worst my breath can do is stink on some mornings."
"Sparrow?" John blinked. Now he was, to his relief, on more familiar ground. He'd certainly heard of demon-influenced families before. After all, if angels did it…
"I'm hoping you'd find it as annoying as I find 'luv', sparrow," the tiefling replied tartly, and then laughed merrily. Her voice was charmingly musical, a contrast with the werewolf's, which was pitched slightly lower than a normal 'female' voice, and seemed at times to carry some undertone of a primal growl.
The werewolf sniggered. "Anyway. Back to the question. Are the three of us the only remotely sane ones here?"
John looked around with a critical, callous eye. The other inhabitants of the cages were either dead, or seemingly so, or not worth considering as help in any form, even as decoys. Not all were prone on the floor – some slumped against the bars, gibbering to themselves, or just shivering violently. None responded to the question, anyway. But it might make sense to let some out…a distraction for anything else in here, perhaps?
It might sound inhumane to any other, but John believed in survival, namely, his survival. A particularly violent, bitter life, even for a Constantine, had hinged on this will to live. Even if he did something that seemed suicidal, there was always a way out, always a last card, a last cruel smile, and a last deal to make and betray. And with so many supernatural forces that would drool to think of his death, staying alive had become his one encompassing obsession. Actually, he did know that one day, some day, he would have to die. But hey, live one day at a time…
"I don't know about sane, luv. Been in an asylum before." John tried tugging at the lock again, half-heartedly. "But it seems so. The lock's solid on this cage."
"There isn't even a lock on this thing," the werewolf said disgustedly, and John heard her beating on her cage in frustration. "No door."
"And this thrice bedamned cage is magicked. I tried the 'Knock' spell on it earlier. No such luck." The tiefling flicked fingers against her door, by the sound of the irritable, metallic clinking, then heaved a sigh. "And I can't see your lock, sparrow, or I'd try it on yours…though I'm not sure if this cage was spelled up to prevent people inside from casting spells on things outside it, so I'd rather not try."
"Call me John. John Constantine." He grinned at his private joke. If he was stranded on the world he thought he was, the other two wouldn't get it.
A few of the British spy of the movie's gadgets wouldn't do much harm though.
"Y'vair Cirrhal is the name I go by at this moment," the tiefling acknowledged.
"The bard?" the werewolf sounded pleasantly surprised.
"Yeah. I walk out of the playhouse where I was performing for a breath of air, and the next moment, I wake up in a dungeon. I thought this sort of thing only happened in songs. Should have brought my notebook."
"Same thing happened to me – sort of. Was running through a forest and…well. They didn't even give me any chance to fight. My name's K'yanae Do'Urden." This last was spoken with a sort of flat finality, as if she expected everyone to know it, but wouldn't particularly appreciate explosive squeals of recognition.
"That explains a lot," Y'vair commented neutrally. "The werewolf bit, why you speak common, and why your skin seems rather lighter than what I'd thought…well met then, K'yanae! Now, our sparrow's gone rather quiet…"
John had been waiting rather patiently through all this, since he had no idea what was going on. He considered breaking the news to them, then sighed to himself. The feeling of absolute dislocation, though not unfamiliar, was as usual, extremely irritating, as though he'd left something important behind and was floating indeterminately in some sort of Limbo.
"Are you both from this world?" he approached the situation unobtrusively. The answer was obvious, so it should lead to a question…
There was a startled silence.
"I did hear…whoever he was addressing you as an out-worlder," the werewolf K'yanae said cautiously. "Oh dear."
"And to think some time ago I called my life boring," Y'vair chuckled delightedly, apparently not at all adversely affected by their current oppressive surroundings. "Welcome to Toril, John Constantine."
"I think I've heard the name 'Do'Urden' before," John frowned, then it dawned on him. "Any relation to Zaknafein or Drizzt Do'Urden?"
There was a sharp intake of breath from K'yanae. "Well I should have," she finally spoke, "Zaknafein's my father. Drizzt was his first son, long dead."
"Your father? Odd. Luv, unless I've been gone longer than I should have been, the last I saw of Zaknafein was in the Dreaming, and Drizzt was still a kid."
"The Dreaming? I've never heard of such a land, sparrow…and I've traveled quite a lot, gossip adores me."
"You've been inside it, if you sleep and dream, luv."
"I've never heard Father say anything about…wait, you met his dream-self in that place, then? With Drizzt?"
"No…augh. It's a long story. Can we try getting out of here first?" John felt that they were drifting away from what was important, i.e. getting out of the dungeon before the skullcapped bastard with a bad attitude came back.
"Sure, if you have any idea how to," K'yanae replied dryly.
"My music for a portal spell…" Y'vair sighed. "Damnit. And any summoned aid I can think of probably wouldn't even be able to help you bend the bars."
"Summoned aid I can think of would demand a soul in payment, or something too expensive." John wondered where the cat was again.
"You're a mage?" K'yanae seemed surprised. "Then can't you use the knock spell? It's simple enough. Or is your door warded as well?"
"I can't find any wards on it. What knock spell?" John remembered who and where he was. "Wrong world, wrong magic, luv. My magic ain't the showy sort. I think I can call a friend. If it's even listening."
He didn't know exactly how to call the cat…Guenhwyvar, was it? But a large part of magic was believing that the mumbo-jumbo worked, so well, no harm trying. Hopefully. John shut his eyes and concentrated on the patches of darkness that blossomed across his vision, then tried to reach outwards again, to the Dreaming. There was the now-familiar sensation of mental detachment, a loosening of pressure, almost, in his mind, and his breathing slowed, physical body relaxing, clenched fingers uncurling, head drooping down. He was not surprised to find that the wall before the Dreaming was still there, as solid as ever. This time, instead of pounding against it, he tried to call through it, to the cat. Maybe it'd gone inside there when he got kidnapped. Maybe the wall would allow creatures from the inside to come out, or maybe he could just try to get it to call the Dream King.
Scratch that. Aid from that particular family wasn't really worth having. The price was usually too high, or so unusual as to make him regret it later.
Hopefully he waited, and strained dream-eyes in the hope of actually catching some sort of glimpse of the Dreaming, some flicker of blue sky, or the beautiful hues of Fiddler's Green, perhaps, or maybe even the gloomily gothic, stately castle. No, just a dull gray, impenetrable, vastly extensive barrier between the Dreaming and the half-awake dusk which was a sort of void. It was dangerous to his sanity for him to linger too long, as the link to his body might be broken, so he returned to his body regretfully. Damn the Dream King – why couldn't he have made his gift tamper-proof?
He opened his eyes, and heard a blessedly familiar rumbling purr around knee-level. The surge of joy, totally unexpected, made his knees weaken and his throat constrict... "Cat!" he sank down, putting him about eye-to-eye with the huge black panther which was trying to poke its large nose through the bars. "Where did you go? Never been so glad to see anything in my life…"
"What did you call, sparrow?" Y'vair called from behind him.
"A friend, like I said, luv." John reached out and rubbed the panther behind its ears, and the purr deepened ecstatically. "Missed you too," he murmured in a softer voice. Then louder, "Can you get me out of here?"
The panther glanced at him mildly, as if reproaching him with huge green eyes for his lack of faith, then reared up and shoved at the doors with heavy paws. The old hinges creaked in protest, like his joints did sometimes on a cold day when the heater broke down. John grasped hold of the bars of the door quickly, and the panther growled as it pushed its entire weight against it.
It took several tries before the hinges finally gave, and the cat immediately sprang on him, enthusiastically licking his face, huge paws firmly planted on his chest. John swatted at its nose halfheartedly, and his head throbbed with renewed fervor as it banged again against the bars, but the cat ignored the gesture. It weighed at least twice as much as John did, anyway, and John had a feeling that even if he tried to hurt it, his efforts would be of as much effect as if a fly were to attack a human. "Gerroff! Augh…stop that! Right now!"
Finally the panther padded out of the cage, stretching luxuriously. John wiped his face on his sleeve, sneezed and followed, also stretching, then cracked his knuckles. "Right. Where are you two?"
"Well, if you walk a little…" K'yanae suggested with exaggerated earnestness.
"Hey, you want my help, luv, you'd better be nicer to me." John grinned in their general direction, his good-humor returning. Freedom, even conditional freedom in this case, did that to a person. Eventually he reached the cages which housed K'yanae and Y'vair. They weren't all that different from his…maybe he could stage a repeat performance.
"I doubt you'd be able to force this cage open like yours, sparrow," Y'vair tapped the bars of her cage, as if reading his mind. "There should be keys around here somewhere."
"As to mine…we could try bending the bars. They're just about strong enough to keep me from bending them, but with your help, it might work." K'yanae nodded to him. Seeing his look of cynical skepticism, she grinned cockily. "Being a werewolf has its perks."
John shrugged. "What harm can it do, luv? At the most, I'd just pull a muscle." He took hold of the bars she gripped.
"Have you no faith, out-worlder? Right. One…two…three…" K'yanae's amber eyes seemed to flare, and John could have sworn her hair tried to grow longer as the muscles in her seemingly slender arms bunched. Her low snarl of effort was definitely not human, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck try to rise to attention. At his feet, the panther growled softly.
They paused for a breather as K'yanae thoughtfully examined the slightly bent bars. John took the opportunity to further examine his companions as he breathed heavily and as the panther decided to lie down on his foot.
Y'vair wore what looked like a leather tank top and patched trousers over a decidedly voluptuous figure. It was quite obvious she was not human either – human eyes couldn't be that shade of emerald green, nor should it have silver flecks in it. Human hair couldn't be so silky, like cat's fur, or that shade of rich dark chocolate that matched the lightly tanned skin. Humans didn't have furred ears pointed in the manner of a household feline, not slender like an elf's, and humans unquestionably did not have polished small ram's horns curling out from their skulls, so dark as to be nearly black. He stared at her, and she snickered as she noticed – it was about then that he realized she had a tail as well, resembling that of a lion, of a dark tawny hue with a tuft at the end. John was amused to find a bit of him describing Y'vair as rather attractive but no rare beauty, and stored that thought for later.
K'yanae rather resembled her father in way of features, especially the determined set of the jaw, but was beautiful – all elves were beautiful – though in this world, unlike Faerie, they were beautiful because they were born that way, not because of a glamour. She wore a rather bedraggled light cream dress, with an elaborate pattern involving daggers (trying to follow it hurt John's eyes) stitched underneath the bodice, and a matching pattern ran on the hem of the sleeves and dress itself. She was lithely slender, and her keen amber eyes were currently glaring at the bars, as if daring them to defy her. A mane of bone-white hair tumbled over her shoulders, with a few wisps brushing at her long eyelashes. She absently pushed them away.
"You look out-worlder, sparrow," John realized Y'vair was speaking to him. "I haven't seen such clothing before."
"I have," K'yanae looked up. "Long time ago. During a bit of problem involving Baldur's Gate and several powerful creatures. Yet another long story…we could write an anthology of them! Heh, hold that thought. John Constantine…perhaps you would like to go and find Y'vair's key. The three of us might be able to bend this enough for me to get through."
"Right you are, luv." John agreed. He doubted he would be able to, even if he managed to get out of the dungeon alive, find his way back to his world by himself. He needed people who were familiar with the customs and ways of Toril. And besides, even as a small, ignored part of himself shook his head at this, he might like to know the two pretty ladies better…
**
After some exploration he found a room north of his cage that wasn't locked. The only other door that was open led to a corridor where he could smell blood and death, and drifting from it, the sounds of fierce fighting. Being a pragmatist, he turned on his heel and inched away as quietly as possible.
The room was small and crudely furnished – a table and chairs, the worse for wear, and a few cupboards. More importantly – a rack of weapons, with some sets of armor draped carelessly over spaces, and some sort of hulking, primitive statue next to the wooden door. John stepped into the chamber tentatively, half-expecting explosions, spontaneous eruptions of small armies, nasty traps…but nothing. He was almost disappointed, and sauntered towards the nearest cupboard, but froze when the statue quivered.
The panther sniffed in surprise, then padded over and cautiously patted the statue with a paw. Immediately it straightened as much as it could, causing the panther to let out a startled snarl, and it opened tiny, lifeless red eyes.
A golem.
John swore, and prepared to make a run for it, but the construction didn't move – only stared ahead with unseeing eyes. It now appeared more organic than before, somehow, even though it still seemed to be composed of a roughly hewn block of rock hued a rather repulsive shade of greenish gray. Experimentally, he put his hand down on the nearest cupboard and opened it.
Nothing happened – still the monster stared ahead. John let out an audible breath, motioned for the cat to watch the thing, then began to search through the cupboards in earnest. He didn't really expect to find anything of use, other than several neat bundles of throwing knives which he secreted in the pockets of his trenchcoat, and a plain dagger which he put in his belt, hoping he wouldn't stab himself accidentally in the thigh. He considered for a moment, then relieved the cupboards of slings and a bag of shot, as well.
John felt like a kid in a candy store, for a moment – that is to say, tempted but with an overwhelming feeling of insignificant helplessness – too many items, too little time... For a briefer moment, he felt rather invincible – the sort of invulnerable sensation one gets when one is armed with at least two different types of weapons. However, he had been alive long enough to recognize the feeling for what it was, and refused to indulge in it.
And then he found something – an odd, dull bronze device that could look, in a certain (dim) light to a seriously drunken person, like a key. He turned it around in his hands – there were strange little carvings, that made the key look merely functional, instead of the intricate bit of art that it would have been seen as in his world. John shrugged, and looked back up at the unmoving golem.
"Hello?" he tried. A part of him seemed hell-bent on getting into trouble this day…
No response.
John turned to go, and made it out of the threshold before he heard a hollow voice behind him – with some sort of tinny echo that could come from someone speaking from inside a large, thick ceramic pot. "Are you the master?" The words were slow, as if unwillingly dragged out, and grated on the ears like chalk over a blackboard as a stone mouth moved and scraped over itself with the effort of speech.
He winced in sympathy, for his poor ears, then decided to gamble and bluff with no cards. It was pretty fun, most of the time. "As a matter of fact…er yes. I am your master. Follow me…have something for you to…do."
His luck appeared to have given up on him with disgust for the time being. The golem did not budge. "No…orders to move."
"Fine, be that way," John saluted it mockingly, feeling light-headed, then sauntered away. The panther shook its head with mock resignation as it followed its master out of the chamber back to Y'vair and K'yanae.
**
The key fitted Y'vair's cage with oiled ease, and the door sprang open. Immediately the bard leaped out of the cage, then stretched, before snatching the key from him and scrutinizing it. "Hmph. That was fast."
"You don't like the service, luv, you don't use it," John bantered. "You can waltz back into your cage, and I'd lock up after you, no special charge."
"No thank you but I'd pass, sparrow," Y'vair grinned. "But really. Where did you get this?"
"Cupboard in a room over there," John waved a hand in the direction from which he had come from. "Nothing inside but an unhelpful golem. Very easy…either that torturing bastard wants us to get out, or he can't bring his little brain into contemplating the idea that we might be able to get out…"
"Hello? Someone's still in a cage, here," K'yanae tapped her foot on the ground impatiently.
"Priorities, priorities," Y'vair chuckled. "Um. Let me try a spell."
"Try?" John feigned horror, but she stuck her tongue out at him, then began to speak in a voice quite different from her 'normal' one – this one had exaggerated cadences and a sort of sonorous pomposity that John associated with most mages with this spell magic. A blue, soft cloud seemed to twirl out from her fingertips and suffuse her skin, and she stopped chanting.
"Oh. It worked." Y'vair looked relieved. "I was beginning to wonder if it was only the cage that would be warded…but apparently not. Your go now."
"What spell…" John began, but the chanting was complete before he could finish his question, and the blue cloud touched his skin. He blinked – nothing actually seemed to feel new, so he stared at Y'vair.
"What spell did I do? A simple strength one. Lucky that I decided to learn some before the playhouse – sometimes audiences get a little rough, and the sight of a few of those trying to get too fresh flying headlong in the air tends to dissuade the others." Y'vair caught hold of the bars that K'yanae indicated. "So, sparrow, are you going to gawk, or are you going to help?"
The bars gave very easily. K'yanae padded out delicately, reminding John of the cat, and nodded her thanks. "Right. Did you see weapons around here?"
"In that room. I think I'd let the rest of them go." John walked over to the first cage, and unlocked the door. The occupant did not seem to notice, as he continued to shiver and sob to himself, little, pathetic racking sobs.
"Altruism, sparrow?" Y'vair seemed amused, as she glanced around quickly. "None of these lot would appear to be of mind sound enough to even help us open doors."
"Hardly that." John unlocked another door. This time, the occupant sprang to her feet with a maddened shriek, knocked him over in her haste to get out, eliciting an angry growl from the panther, and ran away, moaning and gibbering to herself. John stopped the cat from bounding after her as he got back to his feet, rubbing his knee where he'd barked it against the railing. "Quite mad. But if there're a lot of these poor sods running around, there'd be a bit more confusion, so it'd be easier for us to get out." His smile was cold, but managed to be innocent all the same.
"Very clever," K'yanae approved. "Now, these weapons you were talking about…"
"They'd probably sold our things," Y'vair commented as John led the way, the panther purring to itself as he scratched behind its ears affectionately.
"I doubt he'd be able to sell my collar, but he's probably thrown it into the sea, if he'd any sense," K'yanae rubbed at her neck. "If he had kept it around here, Father would have found me by now…"
"Collar?" John shot her a curious glance. "This isn't some kinky…"
"Sparrow, do pull your mind out of the gutter," Y'vair admonished him, playfully wagging a finger. "The collar of the werewolves has nothing to do with that sort of thing."
"How was I to know, luv?" John grinned impishly.
"It's for storing things," K'yanae said, as they rounded a corner, unlocking more cages and watching the maddened creatures either ignore them or rush wildly away. "Useful when one changes to the wolf and back. You don't bring your clothes with you, so unless you have the collar…let's just say it's bloody embarrassing to be naked in public."
"I think all of these…people are special, in a way," Y'vair pointed at the fast-retreating back of an elf that had leathery, bat-like wings on its back which were scratched and torn in dozens of places. "Wonder what he was looking for. This is quite like a circus of freaks."
"Freaks?" K'yanae unlocked another door and stepped back. This one didn't move.
"Oh?" John inspected the remains of what could conceivably have been one of those satyrs that literature liked to describe. Sad tufts of brown hair and cloven hooves could be seen in all the gory mess. The panther tugged gently at his trouser leg, not liking the smell of violent death.
"Present company, of course, not included," Y'vair chuckled. "Is this the room?"
"Yeah, luv. That's the golem over there."
K'yanae looked through the cupboards, then picked out two large daggers that she hefted. "Passable…I miss my old daggers."
"I miss my old sword," Y'vair commiserated. She took a short sword at random from the rack and glanced at it, put it back with disgust, and picked up another one. "These are quite badly kept. What a waste. Ah…this one is acceptable." She belted a scabbard to her side, then picked up one of a few sturdy-looking staves. At K'yanae's inquiring glance, she jerked her head at the silent golem. "If there're more of those around…well, swords just glance off them, and clubs are too heavy."
"Good point," K'yanae approved, picking one for herself and handing another to John. "Unless you'd like a club."
"Me no caveman," John furrowed his brow and hunched his shoulders. He laughed at their blank faces. Didn't they know what evolution was?
Probably not. Both females shook their heads wryly at him, then continued picking through the things in the room.
"Hmm. Do you wear armor?" K'yanae looked at the suits.
"No. I like my trenchcoat. I don't even know how to wear armor, luv." John leaned against his staff. The cat made a sound that he'd learnt to associate with a feline version of a snigger, and he rolled his eyes at it.
"Want to learn, sparrow? It might help." Y'vair watched K'yanae put on a set of studded leather. "Though chain mail's very heavy. The last time I tried on a set, I had to sit down."
"Speak for yourself, luv. Why aren't you wearing any armor?" John gestured at her clothing.
"Hmph. I've never found a set of armor that wasn't restricting in some way, and for certain spells, you need to keep your dexterity. Besides, I find it uncomfortable to have to play music and wear such restricting clothes." Y'vair mimed spellcasting with her right hand, twisting it gracefully in the air. "Gods, I miss my harp. K'yanae, what are you doing?"
K'yanae was pressed against one of the walls from which a painting hung, rather incongruously. It depicted sunny hills and brilliant skies, perhaps rather sadistically. "I think there's something behind this painting…the architect of this dungeon has no blessed imagination. Look, there's the wire, and now that I've cut it off and disarmed the trap, the painting can be lifted off…" she tried to pull off the frame, frowned as it wouldn't budge, then comprehension dawned. Using a dagger, she cut out the canvas and dropped it.
Inside was a compartment filled with more throwing daggers, which K'yanae somehow managed to pocket, as well as potions which her werewolf nose identified as healing, and one of those belt pouches. This one had money in it. K'yanae glanced at John, then at Y'vair, then made a show of tossing the pouch to Y'vair.
John grinned at them. "What, luv, you don't trust me anymore?"
"I don't trust you, period," K'yanae chuckled as she sorted through the items. "There's a distinctive smell that wolves can pick up."
"And what is it?" Y'vair buckled the pouch around her slim waist.
"No offense, John Constantine, but you smell like a weasel. One that has fangs." K'yanae tossed Y'vair some scrolls. "Here. Maybe you can use these."
"I've been called worse names," John shrugged, not at all offended. "Those things scrolls? Maybe I can read them." The carelessness of his comment struck him a moment later. This was another world, and he doubted that…well, but they all seemed to speak the Queen's English, so maybe the language would be the same as well.
"Right." Y'vair handed him one. "This one's rather basic. It's called a chromatic orb. Boring, boring spells." She tucked the rest into her pouch. "Can you understand it? Don't read aloud from it – that would just cast the spell and banish the words from the parchment."
John blinked. The words weren't in any language he knew, but they seemed to suggest shapes…puzzles even, little geometric mazes, and as he stared at it, trying to fathom the meanings, the words seemed to flash once, like a lightbulb blowing a fuse, then the words faded away from the parchment, like colored water off glass. Helplessly he looked to Y'vair.
Both K'yanae and Y'vair were staring at him.
The silence was so heavy it could have crushed the furniture.
John broke it first. "What? Did I just grow donkey ears?" He made a show of patting his temples, as if searching for the offending furry growths.
Y'vair chuckled, then her expression grew serious again. "You learnt the spell. Didn't you say you…but you're out-worlder…"
John decided to try yet another variation of what he liked to call the James Bond attitude. "I'm a Constantine, luv. Magic's in our blood. It's a damned curse sometimes." His niece Gemma didn't know how lucky she had been, to stop before she could seriously begin.
They seemed to buy it, though John had no idea what had happened. He didn't feel different…there wasn't any new, portentous knowledge he could discern in his mind, he wasn't outwardly changed, the panther was shooting him a are we going on, or are we going to stand here all day look. As far as he was concerned, nothing important had occurred. Usually the first sensation of magically obtained knowledge was the impression of having been knocked over by a speeding train, at the stage where one was sailing through the sky with the ground in sight and the killer headache just about to start, and he didn't feel that…
"In your blood?" Y'vair narrowed her eyes. "Hmph. Were you born with the ability to cast spells, sparrow?"
"No, I sort of picked it up as I went along," John shrugged. If he were to try and talk about his past in detail, the salient points themselves would take up the better parts of days.
"For a moment there I thought you would be a sorcerer, though those sort can't learn spells from scrolls…ah, what the hell. Come on." K'yanae carefully opened the door next to the golem. "Better let me go first. May have traps around here."
Y'vair nodded. "Careful."
--
Little Notes:
Emma: Before the big mess involving several magical forces and the Swamp Thing, Constantine…okay, okay, I'd look it up. Fine. In 1985, Emma got killed in New York by the Invunche – a servant of the Brujeria, due to some mess called the Crisis on Infinite Earth. If you ask me, her death was pretty…gruesome.
This sort of fashion: For those who can't be bothered to read Rebel Heart, John landed in the Underdark on his first trip to Toril, and met a rather ticked-off Zaknafein. This Zaknafein was a member of the Constantine family – perhaps a parallel one, but of L'Ilythiiri. He's different from the Zaknafein on this version of Toril, who is (yes, this is confusing) the Zaknafein of that extremely long-winded Rewritten series, who managed to end up as Duke of Baldur's Gate and a werewolf. K'yanae is this Zaknafein's daughter.
The Dream King: The Dream King, in this particular time, is Daniel, after Morpheus sort of committed suicide.
The Dream King's Gift: Daniel gave Constantine, in Rebel Heart, the ability to move himself physically or mentally into the Dreaming whenever he wanted, and seek sanctuary there.
The cat: Yes, Constantine has Guenhwyvar. Or maybe you could say that Guen has Constantine. I sort of took pity on the poor sod…he keeps getting beaten up in physical fights. Not to say that he doesn't take revenge…
Sparrow: The fact that Y'vair uses this word and is also a tiefling should give away who I based her on. Yes, Haer'Dalis of BG II…I can't stand the form of address, actually…so I figured Constantine probably wouldn't care for it either.
Constantine's Magic: On the world of Vertigo, Constantine's magic mostly has to do with synchronicity. When he really wants something to happen, it happens…something like that. For example, as he's demonstrated several times, if he wants money he can walk onto the street, pick the richest man he can see, and walk up to him. The man would give Constantine his wallet rather cheerfully. Actually I'd have figured Constantine as a sorcerer – magic's part of being a Constantine, after all. But I'd have to work out the details – I know sorcerers can't learn from scrolls.
Gemma: Gemma, Constantine's niece experimented a little with magic in 1992, the usual boyfriend-related problem, but Constantine put a stop to that quickly.
