Chapter 5

Chapter 5

…bint…

With dismal finality, it began to rain, light and refreshing at first, a welcome change from the unforgiving sun, then, heavier, the chatter of fat drops on metal, this rhythmic pattering dance, grew louder until the rain was not rain but a gray veil of sleeting water that hazed out vision and caused morale to drop, even though Y'vair tried to keep up everyone's spirits by singing. Her voice, even unaccompanied, could be described as angelic, though none of the angels that John had ever met had ever shown the slightest inclination towards the artistic. Just the thought of, say, the Phantom Stranger breaking into song would be as odd as if Mr. E had suddenly decided to wear pink. Hers was music that touched the soul and caused the throat to constrict when it gave life to a melancholic song, caused the heart to soar when it rose in joy. Bards were apparently a very select group of people – you had to have a certain talent before you were even considered as one. Y'vair had a lot of it, as far as John's inexperienced ears could tell.

Still, the rain put a damper on everyone's spirits, pun intended. It drenched them to the skin in seconds, causing Hendak's men to mutter about rust, pooled at the back of one's neck, caused hair to cling annoyingly to the face, wet leeches, and trickled slyly down one's back. Boots filled with water, squelching disagreeably and John felt as though his toes would never be dry again. The panther looked like a giant, miserable black rat as it padded disconsolately next to John, giving voice to an occasional whimper.

They were trekking to Nalia's fortress, a trip that she estimated for five day's march. John had passed the time reflecting on what he would do once he got out of this world, and so far he had narrowed it down to three things. One, he would buy an umbrella or, if possible, just never get the hell out of shelter during a rain. Two, he was going to buy Silk Cut and maybe chain a packet to his coat in case he ever got sucked out into a damned alternate world which was deprived of cigarettes. Three, he was never going to walk so much at one go in his life ever again. If he had to, he would consider buying a car and learning how to drive properly. To say his feet and legs ached was like calling a gale a stiff wind, or the current presidency of the most powerful country in the world 'slightly confused', but we're getting a little ahead of ourselves.

It wasn't that he hadn't been trying to 'cheat'. He did attempt to, but not for the first time (though it was technically rather rare), synchronicity seemed to have failed him. On his world they would have gotten there by now, in less than half an hour if he'd really wanted it to be so…

Damn, if this didn't work, what the hell else didn't work? John wasn't really sure he wanted to find out. But the trick with wallets worked. Something was obviously going wrong, somewhere.

The slave stockade beneath the Copper Coronet had been fairly manageable, with only two rather tricky spots involving a confusion of large men armed to the gums, possibly even the back of the throat, but with the help of Hendak's men and some self-righteous knights that had been drinking in the Copper Coronet, they had done it. The children were safe in the Copper Coronet, the knights having declared (probably under all that alcohol, or maybe concussion) to protect them with their lives until Hendak and company returned. So knights were useful for something after all! Not mere tinned humans who went around bonking people on the head, and for variety, tried to poke each other off horses with a long stick…

So now they marched – the three of them, a panther, Hendak, Nalia and about ten men, woefully few in number, to try and retake a fortress full of trolls. He had devoutly hoped they weren't like the trolls on his world, but by Y'vair's description, they sounded a tad worse. John wondered when he had developed these sorts of suicidal tendencies, but he knew that if he were to try and run from this, he'd never be able to get back to his proper world. That didn't help his mood one bit, and neither did the cold, gut wrenching feeling that he had no idea what to do about Irenicus, other than a vague determination to find the bastard's exact position and character. For one of the first times in his life, he couldn't for the life of him come up with cards up his sleeve, but he could wait. Perhaps he'd just have to accept that this time, the deed had to be accomplished with pure, unadulterated force. The idea of it was unsettling, but deeply appealing in some primal way…

The cat looked up suddenly and growled softly, turning green eyes towards the trees, as if daring them to hide whatever it thought they were hiding.

"Oh, shut up," he muttered to it. "That's the sixth time you've done that, and I haven't seen anything. I'm beginning to think you're doing this for fun."

It bared its teeth at him, and blinked its large green eyes several times, deliberately.

"Yeah, yeah, blame me poor eyesight." His fingers dipped inside the growing pool of water inside his trenchcoat, and he grumbled inaudibly to himself.

"Talking to yourself, sparrow?" Y'vair loped up next to him, still managing to appear graceful even through the stinging rain.

"No, to the Giant Rat of Sumatra badly dressed as a panther," John nodded his head at the panther, who growled at him playfully, understanding the reference. "Haven't flipped yet, luv."

"Is that a part of out-worlder language, sparrow? Saying 'luv' all the time to females? But you don't say it to her." She inclined her head in the direction of Nalia, who was speaking with Hendak somewhere in front of them.

"That's because I don't like her, luv." John murmured. "That feeling of 'I'm so very high born, but I'm deigning to help the commoners, oh look at me' strikes me whenever she speaks to us." He dropped the strangled, public school student's voice that he had adopted. "Whereas I like you, except for your tendency to refer to me as a drab little brown bird."

"You are a drab little brown bird," she grinned. As he blinked, she expanded on her metaphor; "Brown coat, dull colors, and sparrows are cute."

John's intended retort that she wasn't very tall either by any standards keeled over and expired ignominiously on the tip of his tongue, as his brain decided to change tack to see if the other approach annoyed Y'vair. Somehow he doubted it would, but it was more enjoyable…though usually, for some reason, when he tried it on stewardesses he just got slapped. "Was that a compliment, luv?"

She pushed wet strands of hair out of her eyes, a gesture he found rather endearing. The hood had been removed, after they'd fully introduced themselves to Hendak and his men – they were uneasy around her, but not outright hostile, which Y'vair claimed was fine by her, with a tired set to her jaw that may or may not have been a symptom of resignation. "Looked in a mirror lately, sparrow?"

"If I had one now, a word I would use to describe myself with would probably be related to 'damp'." John squeezed a section of his trenchcoat, watching water dribble halfheartedly onto the grass. Actually he did know what she was implying, but it amused him to provoke her into saying it out loud.

"You are exasperating," Y'vair chuckled throatily, demonstrating that she knew exactly what he was up to. "I…"

Yoshimo, uncharacteristically showing up at the wrong time, appeared at John's shoulder. "Having a war party?"

"Parties should not be in these conditions," Y'vair patted her scabbard, unruffled by Yoshimo's sudden appearance. "At this rate, before we even reach the place all our weapons would have rusted themselves fused to their scabbards. Or maybe even disintegrated."

"Something's still following us, did you know?" Yoshimo said conversationally. Whispers tended to attract attention. "Movement in the trees. I hate trees, especially if there're lots of them in once place at one time. Too many places to hide in."

The cat made a noise like a snigger, and bared its teeth at John. I told you so…

"Yeah, okay…so whoever it was, or whatever it was, followed us from the city. Hasn't attacked us yet, so we leave it alone. Which reminds me. You said something about bribing Cowled Wizards to tell us where they put their prisoners…?"

"Yes…" Yoshimo pulled at his hood. "This blasted rain! Oh yes, we could do that – but if we knew where he was, we hardly know what to do with the information, do we?"

"Not yet, mate." John said cheerfully, even though it's hard to be cheerful when soaking wet in a consistent downpour. Y'vair glared at him, green eyes flashing, then shrugged.

"To pass the time, sparrow, want to learn magic?"

John stared at her, then laughed out loud, at Yoshimo's astonished expression, at Y'vair's wicked grin, at Hendak and the rest, staring at him, at the absurdity of the question, at the way his world had inverted since birth, before birth…deep felt, a welcome release from the pain and the pent-up misery of the past years – for if one thing can be purifying, a no-strings-attached cleanser for the soul, it is mirth. To mock the world is to accept its pain.

"No one's asked me that for a long time, luv." John subsided into chortles. "No one."

"Too long, then," Wet auburn strands plastered themselves to her cheeks as she ran her hands through her hair, for a brief, absurd moment resembling a feline, sleek-furred, some sort of horned Bast, though without the unattainable unearthliness of the Goddess of the Cats.

**

The rain stopped a few hours before they decided to set up camp. Y'vair's teaching didn't seem to work, even if he did understand what he was supposed to do. She didn't see anything wrong with his tries, even if he felt like an absolute prat when nothing happened. It was as though he were one of those not 'gifted', as she put it, even though she said that she could sense he had something, the way he managed to read those scrolls. And he had demon blood, and he was a Constantine. Merlin had demon blood, enabling him to be the greatest of his age…John was never particularly sure how much power he himself had, and took pains never to find out. If he found his limits, so would his enemies...that which has been defined is often less intimidating than that which is mysterious, after all. Those who openly flaunted their power always met rather violent ends…one reason why he didn't choose to live luxuriously, something he could do if he put his mind to it.

Better to live on a knife-edge between the Silver City and the Pit, playing one against the other, and feel absolutely alive in the keen danger, the sharp knowledge that one step could lead to an extremely painful and violent death. Most Constantines eventually fell off the knife-edge, because they were Constantines, and that was how they would end – violent lives and violent deaths – John was grimly certain that it was how he would go, in the end, a slip, a misstep, a fall, but that didn't mean he didn't try to prolong his life. That had its price too, of course – everything to do with magic had a price. He never really lost sight of that, but he liked to gamble, too much, perhaps? Perhaps.

John was jerked out of this reverie by the smell of wet cat, which was right up there with wet dog, the Lord of Flatulence and other such demons of his acquaintance under his list of 'Things You Don't Want to Smell When Daydreaming'. He looked down, to see the panther sitting patiently in front of him. "What?"

It patted his sodden boots delicately, then padded off a little before turning back, one giant paw cocked in the air and growling urgently.

"Fine, play Lassie all you want, cat, but I'm not going to follow like some wuss. I want to stand still for a while. I'd sit down, but I'd ruin me coat further." John closed his eyes and concentrated on his legs and feet. Maybe if he ignored them enough they'd stop screaming bloody blue murder at him.

The cat growled, this time right next to his ear. The smell of wet panther was overpowering, but he stubbornly kept his eyes closed. "Go away. You can come back when all those berks playing builder finish with their toys."

"'Berks', sparrow?" Y'vair purred into his other ear. His eyes snapped open, and since his head had been drooping down in an inclined position of rest, he got a rather interesting view, the description of which will not be mentioned because this story is going to stay below the 'R' rating for this chapter, at least.

"Uh." He focused on an amused Y'vair, leaning leisurely on the part of the tree next to him. "I realize I'm not familiar with the customs of this world, but trying to give people cardiac arrests has to be one of the odder traditions."

"I hardly know what that means, sparrow," Y'vair purred into his ear, "But if you're interested there are other…arrests…"

She was interrupted in the midst of this (to John) extremely promising exchange (my, this is getting to be a habit) by the cat, which growled loudly and pointedly at them, then tried to do the Lassie routine again. Follow me, follow me, I'm a smart animal

"Go away," John hissed at it in the vain hope that it would obey just this once. No such hope – it opened large jaws and bared teeth, giving the implication that if need be, it might just decide to drag them there.

Y'vair snickered, then pushed away from the tree after the panther. "Later, sparrow."

John shook his head, resigned, and then reached for his tobacco pouch. At least some things were looking up…he rolled a cigarette, and fished around for his matches.

The sodden box that his fingers picked up barely looked like matches. Trying to be optimistic, he attempted one match anyway…but no flare of light. With annoyance, he threw the box away and quickly caught up with Y'vair. "Help me with a light?" he asked hopefully.

She wrinkled her nose. "Sorry, sparrow. I don't really like the smell of smoke. Can tolerate it, but don't like to." She paused, then added, as an afterthought, "If you did learn this world's magic you could…"

"Yeah, but I can't."

"By the gods! You know, I, like, never even thought of that!" Y'vair feigned shock, her voice rising a few breathing notches into what John normally classed as the voice of a classic bint. She stole a glance at his expression of annoyance, then laughed, a sound that was definitely not like tinkling bells or a silver waterfall, but a rich medley of notes, it seemed, musical notes of pure-toned mirth. Her voice was a direct representation of her mood, like the words of a poet or author often are tools of their minds for self-expression. Despite himself, John smiled, though as always it had a somewhat cynical cast to it.

The cat sneezed at them, and then broke into an easy lope, such they had to walk briskly to catch up.

"Where are we going now?" John asked it. It ignored him, not a very surprising reaction whenever it was going to show him something dramatic, like that time it killed…no, dismembered a goblin and dragged the thing into a back alley just to try to give him a heart attack. In cat terms, the inscrutable smirk and the rasping sounds that ensued with his horrified "Jesus Christ!" were probably equivalent with a human laughing his or her butt off. It had a warped sense of humor…John had a feeling he didn't really want to see what the panther wanted him to see. He really shouldn't have allowed it to wander off earlier. The gods knew what disgusting thing it had mutilated in its patient quest to try and keep him out of 'trouble'.

Then the smell reached him abruptly, quick as a politician in need of money, sharp and coppery, the foul taste creeping up to the tip of his tongue and at the back of his throat, the scent – and presence – of blood. There was a distinct lack of a certain type of noise though – the droning buzz of insect's wings – so whatever it was had just died. Vaguely he tried to remember if he'd smelt any blood on the panther's breath. To make a bad situation worse, he could hear some sort of faint pattering, as though the rain was starting again. Great, just great

"This has to be another of your sick jokes, you…you canine," he glowered at the panther. The look he received was profoundly withering, but the cat padded on through the trees that cast slowly lengthening shadows as the sun prepared to set, then it suddenly stopped and sat down, so abruptly that John nearly trod on its tail.

"Wha?" John stopped in time, or he would have been minus one leg and underweight to boot. "There's nothing here."

Y'vair plucked at his sleeve, and pointed upwards.

With a sickening sense of dread, he looked.

The pattering sound had not been rain, but the sound of dripping blood. Hung like laundry out to dry on the trees, blood trickling off in rivulets that pooled off frozen fingers and boots and knees, orifices, to form grotesque liquid rubies that fell and splashed against reddening grass, were several dark elves. Five of them – the part of John's brain that hadn't been battered down by the visual shock noted dryly – one female, four males, one of the males a mage. All of them had been viciously attacked by creatures wielding sharp weapons, possibly swords – some stab wounds that looked like dagger wounds yawned, crimson rips, weeping pits.

"Christ!" he managed to say, when his mouth remembered that it could function. "Bloody hell."

"What an analogy," Y'vair commented weakly. "What kind of monster…sword wounds and dagger wounds…drow…oh gods." She squeezed her eyes shut, set her shoulders, then squinted. "I'd think…recently murdered, by one person."

"One person?" John blinked. "How? I've met dark elves before, and they fight like buggery…"

"The…style is the same in all the kills. Skilled and strong," Y'vair took shallow breaths – the stench was stronger here. "And by the…height of the deeper slashes, those that should be about chest-length of the attacker, I'd think the attacker was human-sized. Too tall for an elf – an average sized elf, at least." The thought of it was rather frightening. Whoever did this might have been the one following them – though murdering the dark elves close to their camp added plus points for said person being friendly, John was rightfully never very sure of this. After all, the First of the Fallen had killed the other two Lords of Hell just to get his soul, and not out of the evilness of his heart…

"This the one who had been following us?" John asked the panther. It sniffed the air, then nodded slowly. "Bloody hell."

"John Constantine? Y'vair?" Yoshimo could be heard calling to them, somewhere in front of them. "Where are you? There are bandits around when the sun begins to set."

"We're here," John called. "Someone slaughtered dark elves and decorated the trees with their corpses."

"What?" Yoshimo appeared, and looked. He blanched at the gruesome sight, and averted his eyes immediately, drawing some sort of symbol in the air which looked automatic, perhaps some religious sign against evil that was, by John's experience, quite useless. By unspoken decision, the three of them plus one panther moved somewhere less…bloody. "By the gods. I have never seen such viciousness before…even if they were dark elves, they…"

"What were dark elves doing here, anyway?" Y'vair glanced back where they had come from. "Those had spider insignias – minions of Lloth, and not Vhaeraun of the surface - they should be in the Underdark. They don't like the sunlight, and their weapons and clothes don't like the surface atmosphere either."

John sighed. He had a bad feeling as to the exact reason why…and he had been dreading it. The Goddess couldn't have cottoned on this fast, could she? But then again, he had no idea as to the exact power of Gods on this world.

"Made powerful enemies this quickly, sparrow?" Y'vair attempted to joke, but her expression rather spoiled it – she was coolly serious – if he tried to lie his way out, he was going to regret it.

John sighed. Telling the truth wasn't as fun as making up stories. "I've been to this world before, or a reflection of it – that you know."

"You didn't exactly specify what you did, other than you ended up in the Underdark…oh. What did you do?" Y'vair leaned against a tree.

"It must have been serious, if she sends a priestess and a mage after you," Yoshimo concurred.

"I didn't do anything to her!" John protested. "The Zaknafein on that world stuck a knife in her throat. Not me."

"Stuck a knife in her throat?" Y'vair mused. "But she is a Goddess…"

"It was not an ordinary knife, luv," John rubbed his eyes wearily. "It was the knife used for the first murder on my world. Gave it certain properties – probably reduced her power somewhat. Didn't stay to find out, I can tell you."

"So in less than a day you managed to earn the mortal hatred of a Goddess of a race renowned for their ability to kill painfully, to assassinate, to torture," Y'vair twitched her tail, her hair like a veil across her eyes so that her expression could not be revealed. Then her lips curved into a wicked grin. "I like that."

"I don't even know why the stupid bitch of a Goddess is trying to kill me here," John groaned. "Zaknafein didn't stick a knife into her here…"

"I heard somewhere that Gods share certain aspects of themselves throughout the worlds," Y'vair interrupted.

"Which means that you have reduced the power of Lloth on all the worlds." Yoshimo still looked stunned at the supposed enormity of what John had been an accomplice in doing, his eyes rather glassy. "You are the most disruptive person I have ever met, with all respect, John Constantine."

"I shall take that as a compliment," John wished he had a light for his cigarette. Yoshimo grinned, a quick flash of white teeth. "Should we tell the others?"

Y'vair rubbed around the base of her horns, reaching underneath her hood – perhaps it was some glamour or such that caused people not to notice the additional bulges in the hood. "If Nalia decided to split from us, we'd never get the help of that mage of hers."

"Would she? She needs our help…" Yoshimo said doubtfully.

"Perhaps she does, and perhaps not," Y'vair mused. "Asking for help is one thing, but finding out that the person you've asked seems to have many…prominent enemies that are much worse than a fortress full of trolls is another thing."

"So, what if the drow attack camp, luv? Act all surprised and innocent? 'Why, I ain't ever seen them black skinned things in all me life!'?"

"Drow usually do not deign to speak with 'surfacers', sparrow…and since they are considered a psychotic bunch…"

"And there's still the matter of our little serial killer to deal with." John gestured graphically. "With him prowling around us…"

"So far he hasn't chosen to show up, and he did kill the group of drow for us," Y'vair argued, "So maybe he's not drow. He's probably too tall to be one, and I doubt you've managed to annoy anyone else to that extent here…"

"Me, I'm good for picking enemies," John quipped, "The strongest, the vicious, those who know how to hurt me…just because he killed those elves doesn't mean anything, luv. Might just be trying to keep me for himself."

"So…can the cat track down this killer?" Yoshimo glanced at the panther, which was still vainly trying to dry itself.

"If you really want to find him that hard, we don't need the cat. Synchronicity works better – if it is working at all," John added, as a nasty afterthought. "Damn."

"You sure you want to see this killer?" Y'vair fingered the hilt of her sword. "I personally don't want to meet him if he's capable of killing five dark elves by himself."

"Can your magic just…show him?" Yoshimo said doubtfully. "I've known magic users who could do that."

"Can't remember how to," John shrugged. "I could lead, but there's the chance that magic would just lead us straight to him without time to hide, or just not work at all. Wrong world."

"We'd just get back to camp," Y'vair decided, "If anyone notices a blood-smell or stains, we can say it's the cat's fault."

"They'd buy that?" Yoshimo asked doubtfully.

"It plays enough of those stupid pranks," John agreed. "I haven't forgiven you for the goblin one, you stupid cat."

The panther gave them a dirty look.

**

No one noticed anything strange about them, so they slept and when the next day dawned, a cold, gray dawn through the thick mist, they woke barely refreshed to prepare for the next march.

Only…Nalia gasped in shock. Almost overnight the trees seemed to have thinned out in front of them, and rising out of the mist, as though floating on a cloud, was an austere fortress, high stone walls forming an ugly, squat structure that had obviously built just for function and not for beauty. Its only apparent entrance was closed tightly by a raised drawbridge, and the main wide pathway to the bridge was lined with bloody stakes, each with a skull impaled on it, a grisly ornament.

"How…" Nalia blinked, and whirled to face them, with a bright smile. "Magic, is it not? Powerful magic…"

"Finally decided to work, after sleeping a while an' all…" John lied, still feeling shocked, but barely managing not to show it. Magic for him usually never worked in such a dramatic manner, and usually not when he was asleep…it was definitely becoming several springs short of a functional clock.

"Fantastic! We can get this over with more quickly, then," Nalia said brightly. "Good morning, everyone!"

"…'good' morning yourself…" John muttered. "…fine day to get hacked to pieces, chewed up, or torn apart…"

"How do we get in?" Hendak frowned at the fortress.

"I left the captain of the guard and the remaining men in a stockade around here…come, let us take down camp and find them!" Nalia said enthusiastically, overjoyed at the thought that they were just going to go in and engage many eight-foot-tall creatures that could only be killed by fire. What an entertaining way to start the day.

"…bint…"

--

Little Notes and References:

Stewardesses: In Books of Magic, whenever he seems to go to 'chat up' a stewardess, he returns to Tim with slap marks on his face.

Killing the Lords of Hell: The First of the Fallen killed the other two, which I can't remember their names, for John's soul, because he managed to trick all of them into curing his lung cancer by selling his soul to all three of them without the others knowing of it. When he 'died' and they came to collect, they realized at that time that letting him die would sunder Hell itself, so they cured him. Later however, the First got too pissed off with John and did that.

Lloth: Er yes, you didn't think Lloth would forgive Constantine, did you? Even if it's not on her world, Zaknafein did hit her in the throat with the Knife. So there would be dark elves chasing Constantine around, just to make it that more interesting for him. If you haven't figured out who the serial killer of drow is, well, you will, eventually.