TALES OF THE DEMON by Dien Alcyone
Hullo! This is my DC Comics fanfic, written for DC Anthology, which can be found at: http://danthology.cjb.net/ Due to hints from friends and readers, I am diversifying in the places where it's featured at... hence, this! I hope you enjoy.
Summary: Etrigan/Jason Blood fanfiction, in an 'issue' format.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The Demon and certain characters in these pages are owned by DC Comics. I'm just playing.
TALES OF THE DEMON #2 ~ "Bella Roma"
by Dien
FIVE MONTHS AGO
The room was rich and sumptuous, oak paneling and priceless tapestries on the walls and a thick carpet on the floor. A few paintings-a Cézanne, a Monet, and a da Vinci-hung upon the walls in tasteful positions. An aged and bejeweled hand poured steaming tea into fine china from a pewter teapot. Voices spoke quietly.
(Translated from the Italian)
"…Yes, Father, I understand the necessity. But nonetheless, is it so necessary to send… well… could we not find someone a bit more… circumspect?"
A soft chuckle followed. "You disapprove of my choice of Capella, Andre?"
"No, of course I do not 'disapprove,' Holy Father. It is only that I wish Capella was not quite so, ah, conspicuous."
"And you also wish she was a bit more, hmm... submissive, no?"
"…I…Well, yes, Holy Father. She has quite a record of being insubordinate-a 'problem child,' as it were."
"Of course. 'Insubordinate.' A diplomatic way of putting her refusal to acquiesce to some of your more… personal requests, hmm?"
"Father! Surely you do not imply that I--"
"Spare me your bluster, Andre. I am old, not blind or senile. Regardless of your feelings regarding Signorina Capella, she will be the one we send to America. She is capable, skilled and ruthless enough to accomplish the task. And if she should fail… well, you yourself said she is a 'problem.' I imagine you would not be too discomfited if Capella does not return from this mission. Do we understand each other, my son?"
"… Perfectly, my Father."
GOTHAM. NOW.
It had taken a while, but the apartment was finally cleared of accrued junk mail and other undesirables, such as several now-out-of-date invitations to Hallowe'en events hosted by Gotham's elite. Blood scowled in disgust. Every Hallowe'en, it was the same; they all wanted the status of having a famous demonologist at their party, as if it somehow made their absurd little masques and phony séances genuine. If it wasn't for the fact that maintaining such contacts with the rich and influential was occasionally useful, he'd long ago have unleashed Etrigan or a few choice spells on the whole idiotic, childish lot.
Jason sighed and sat back in one of the comfortable leather-upholstered wingback chairs, remembering to move a sleeping Harry out of the way first.
His thoughts drifted back to the conversation the other day with Batman. "When you spoke of that being 'all the demon did'… is there something else I should know about, Jason?"
"You're asking me? Remember, Batman, all I know of Etrigan's actions is what he deigns to share with me. So as far as I know, yes, that is all."
Jason snorted. Etrigan settling for only a cross? That will be the day. I wonder… should I have told the Batman of the likelihood that Etrigan did more than that?
If you have something on which you wish to take me to task
Hesitate not. As Scripture says--if you'd receive, ask.
The voice of the Demon whispered in his mind, and as always Blood was filled with a surge of resentment. Not even his thoughts were free of Etrigan…
Merely wondering if the blood I found on my hands when you returned me to our body is human, dear Etrigan, he thought back, putting as much sarcasm as possible into the tone.
And should I, who've feasted on angels, devils and kings
Accept anything less than the joy that human flesh brings?
Butcher, Jason observed, but couldn't work up any real indignation. By now it was almost routine--Etrigan's acts of depravity, the internal feuding that would follow… it was too much work to summon up real anger or disgust over something that had happened so very, very often over the centuries. Etrigan laughed at his half-hearted accusation, made more for tradition's sake than anything else.
Laugh all you want, Etrigan. Maybe I'll attend a Mass today. How do you think you'll like that? Just think…Holy Water. You'll feel it, I won't.
I may even get the priest to give me a blessing--
Jason, you should know better than to threaten me
For if you do as you say, then the next time I'm set free
I'll not stop in unleashing a fiery tide
Until a hundred innocents have died, growled Etrigan threateningly. Jason merely smiled in the morning sunlight and closed his eyes. Etrigan could make all the dire promises he wanted--this was not Hell, it was Earth; Blood was the stronger here, and moreso than he'd been in centuries. He had some influence over Etrigan even when the demon was in control, now.
The thought was a pleasant one. The demonologist stood and went into his study, closing the door behind him. During his sabbatical, work had been piling up--though his 'To Do' list varied a bit from the average person's.
First, replenishing spell components. Supplies of several vital ingredients had gotten low, and he faced the unsavory choice of attempting to buy tongue of frog at the local supermarket or having to deal with local witches in order to obtain it. Oh, for the Middle Ages, when apothecaries abounded and nobody was stupid enough to ask questions of warlocks.
Then there was the correspondence. He kept a network of contacts--witches, minor demons, druids, and so on--who kept him informed of developments. Several of their letters needed replies, which would then have to be magically sealed to ensure rival magicians would be unable to read the correspondences. Sigh.
There were several reports of a few covens springing up in Gotham that were decidedly unwanted--especially as their ritual of choice seemed to be human sacrifices. They would have to be dealt with, preferably without summoning Etrigan.
A rumor that the 12-year old son of Gotham's leading banker was demon-possessed bore investigation. If proven true, steps had to be taken to exorcise and destroy the demon.
Then there were a few of Gotham's social events that he did have to attend for appearance's sake. A possible werewolf sighting on the east side of Gotham had to be checked out.
One of Gotham's many museums was planning a diamond exhibition soon, the authorities completely unaware that one of the gemstones was a powerful relic of Atlantis. So that had to be attended, in order to keep the diamond from being stolen by anyone aware of the stone's real worth.
And, of course, there was the small matter of checking up on his multi-million dollar investments and business concerns, handled for the last few months by his employees and assistants.
Jason exhaled in frustration. This was impossible. Grabbing a long coat, he left a note for Harry explaining he'd gone for a walk and headed out.
The late December air was cool and dry, a biting wind whistling through the streets and pushing dead leaves along the sidewalk until they lodged in the slushy drifts left over from the snowfall. Blood stopped and ordered something called a 'Triple Java Mocha' from one of the sidewalk vendors, wondering if any actual coffee beans had been involved in making the beverage he was handed.
He took a sip and sighed regretfully, tossing the rest of the cup in the next trashcan he passed. "Hopefully this will be one of the more short-lived trends," he muttered to himself.
Despite the disappointing coffee, the morning was turning out to be enjoyable. Weekends in Gotham City were always interesting, and even if it was a bit quiet for a Sunday afternoon, there were still enough people out and about to make watching them amusing.
He found a bench near one of Gotham's cathedrals--actually, the one whose crucifix Etrigan had mangled--and sat down to observe the city.
An ice skating rink was nearby, a few children and couples moving around with more enthusiasm than skill. Holiday decorations were up, which was of minor irritation, but he smiled in the knowledge that it irritated Etrigan much more. In the street, two trucks, one carrying Christmas trees and the other full of distilled water, had hit each other with messy results. The two drivers were standing next to their vehicles and loudly vilifying each other as the police arrived. Behind him, the bells of the cathedral rang one o'clock.
The parishioners started to leave the building in a slow stream of people, Jason idly watching them. Old grandmothers who probably hadn't missed a Mass their entire life, small children rebelliously loosening collars now that church was over, families, and…
Jason stopped in his casual perusal, his blue eyes widening slightly in appreciation. The woman who had just exited the cathedral doors, several stocky men accompanying her, would have stood out in any crowd, let alone the mundane congregation of St. Matthew's of Gotham.
She was probably in her late twenties or early thirties, of average height and possessed of a stunning figure that was shown off to good advantage by the close-fitting, short black dress she wore, with a leather jacket for good measure. She walked with consummate skill in her high heels, drawing quite a few glances from those around her--avid ones from the men, murderous ones from the women. Her jet black hair fell down her back in waves, unbound except for a filmy black scarf tied over her head. Sparkling dark eyes looked out with amusement and condescension from her flawless olive complexion. A dazzling, though arrogant, smile shone from under an elfin nose. Her every move spoke plainly that she was a striking beauty, knew it, and had only refrained from seducing every man in the congregation because they weren't up to her standards.
Jason wondered with a smirk how many of St. Matthew's priests had had heart attacks at the sight of her.
My, oh my, my jailer's eye has alighted
On the Jesuits' daughter, in whom they've delighted.
Here on a mission, and roaming from home--
For this bella dulce was sent here by Rome.
The Vatican's heart-breaker, the poor monk's test--
Stay away from this one; Etrigan knows best.
Oh, this is rich. What, you're afraid she'd break my heart? Blood retorted to the demon, shaking his head in amused disbelief.
I said she was here on orders papal
Her schemes and ambitions may prove to be fatal.
But don't listen to me, what do I know?
I'm just your demon. If you'd talk to her, go.
I think I might at that, Jason mused, wondering at Etrigan's strange misgivings. Their usual twisted psychology was working again--anything the other showed dislike for was instantly appealing, and vice versa.
Now all he had to do was figure out some excuse for speaking to her. As the lady and her guards--for such they had to be--made their way to the sidewalk, an opportunity presented itself. They were speaking among themselves in Italian--one of the many languages Blood was fluent in.
"Gianni, go get the car," she was saying to one of the men. He left to obey, and the remaining two men and the woman stood waiting at the curb, only a few feet from where he sat.
"How did you find the service, Signorina Capella?" one of the men asked quietly. She shrugged irritably, pulling her leather jacket tighter around her against the cool winter air.
"American. No worse than expected. It would be no true holy quest if we were not obliged to make some sacrifices, no, Francisco?" she replied with a combination of hauteur and humor.
"If you ask me, dona, simply being in this miserable weather is sacrifice enough," the other muttered.
"No, Emilio, it is good for the body. The cold increases the circulation and makes the cheeks rosy," she said with an impish smile and laugh. Her guard didn't look convinced.
"Excuse me," said Jason in Italian, standing, "but I couldn't help but overhear your conversation and having the rude manners to interrupt. You're from Italy, signorina?"
Turning startled eyes upon him, Capella nonetheless smiled easily at Blood and said in slightly accented English, "Why, yes, signore. May I compliment you on your Italian? You speak as a native. I wish I could say so about my fluency in your language."
Jason smiled. "Please, use Italian--it's a much more beautiful language, signorina. Just as Italy is a beautiful place."
Her smile grew broader as she continued in Italian. "Have you been often to my homeland, signore?"
"Yes, most recently a few months ago. I own some property in Sicily. It's so nice there this time of year."
"The Mediterranean is magnificent any time of year. Tell me, what part of Sicily? I have some relatives in Palermo."
"Ah. All my properties are near Cattania, so I doubt I've met any of your charming relations. The next time I'm there, however, I shall be sure to look out for people named…?"
"Ah, the signore is bold enough to ask my name and we've barely met," she said with a low laugh. "You must have the warm Italian blood in you someplace. Forgive me; I am Angelina Capella. And you, sir?" she asked, holding out her hand.
"Jason Blood," he replied, smiling. He considered taking the outstretched hand and bowing over it with a kiss, a la Renaissance, but her two burly watchdogs were beginning to look surly. He shook it politely instead.
At his name, a different expression flashed over her exquisite face. Her supermodel smile wavered for an instant, the dark eyes narrowing with keen intelligence and slight uncomfortability, but in a second the mask of the brightly charming, alluring lady abroad was back in place.
"I've heard of you, signore! I am flattered to meet the renowned occultist."
"The pleasure is all mine, bella. But perhaps a good Catholic girl like yourself shouldn't be talking to a man whose primary interests are devils and iniquity?"
Her slight flush let him know he'd hit the root of her uneasiness on the first try--as well as found a way to circumvent it. Signorina Angelina Capella did not like being called 'a good girl'.
With a toss of her head, she murmured, "Oh, that is all the priests are interested in too, so it is no matter. Besides, I could always convert you, Signore Blood."
"I'd make a terrible Catholic. And please, call me Jason."
She smiled that 1000-watt smile again, and despite himself, Jason's heart skipped a beat. "But of course, Jason. And you must call me Angelina for our remaining two seconds of conversation, because here comes my ride." Laughing, she turned from him and walked to the curb, where a sleek black Bugatti was pulling up, the dutiful Gianni at the wheel.
One of her flunkies opened the door for her and she stepped in gracefully, stopping midway to turn and wave at Blood. "Arrivederci, my new-found friend. Perhaps we'll meet again while I'm here in Gotham City, hm?"
"I'd be lucky to be so honored, signorina Angelina. Ciao."
"Ciao, mi amico," she said with a laugh, rolling up her window. The two thugs--his assessments of them, he realized, were getting less and less kind--gave him a few parting glares, then got in the car themselves. He gave his best infuriating smirk at them, then a genuine smile for Angelina Capella. The Bugatti drove off in a small shower of water from the gutter.
Jason walked back home with much to think about. Etrigan remained surprisingly quiet. Any other time, this would have been cause for sudden worry, but he wasn't paying much attention to the demon.
The name Capella tugged at his mind like a dog worrying a bone. Something familiar... something he should recognize. He mused darkly that it would probably be much easier to remember such things if Etrigan didn't take such perverse joy from destroying his memories.
The rain began to fall again as he neared home, and while the cold hadn't bothered him, being wet did. He was glad to get inside the shelter of the building.
The elevator hummed softly as it carried him back to the 13th floor, leaving it easy to slip back into his thoughts. Capella... Capella. 'Chapel' in English. Etrigan had called her 'the Jesuit's daughter' and mentioned she 'was sent here by Rome'.
All of the facts seemed to build up to... something, but what? Jason scowled in anger at the demon who had taken so much of his mind over the centuries.
Harry, awake now, looked up as he entered. "Boy, your walk must not have done you much good. You look like somebody stole your favorite crystal ball or something."
"I don't have any crystal balls. They're terribly inaccurate," Jason muttered as he hung up his coat.
"It was a joke. Not that you'd recognize one."
"I have a sense of humor, Harry--"
"Yeah, just a little darker and sicker than most people like it. Come on, when was the last time you tripped on a banana peel for the sake of gratuitous laughter?"
"When was the last time you did?"
"Uh... no legs, remember? Besides, I'm the perfect sight gag already."
"No argument here."
"Yada, yada. Shaddup and go fix me a drink, wise guy. Anyway... your little stroll put you in a bad mood, huh?"
Jason paused as he headed toward the kitchen. "No, actually, I had a very nice walk and talked to a very nice person which left me in a very good mood, and then I started thinking about how I probably won't remember it in forty years thanks to you-know-who, and that put me in a bad mood. Bourbon or tequila?"
"Voldemort's stealing your memories? My goodness. Tequila, please."
Jason turned and stared at the cushion. "Who? Volde-what?"
"Nevahmind. Inside joke. Pour."
Jason shook his head and poured. "You want lime with this?"
"Sure. So... tell me more about this 'very nice person' you met?"
Jason fixed another drink for himself and carried them back to the spacious living room, sitting down in one of the chairs and setting his feet on the coffee table. Next, he took his time setting down Harry's glass and adjusting a straw so that the cushion could drink. Then he took a leisurely sip from his own glass and even more leisurely settled himself comfortably, while Harry grew visibly more and more impatient.
"Interesting. Very interesting," he mused at length. Harry struggled to contain his temper; after all, flying into a rage when you're a pillow is neither productive nor dignified. "And?" he finally burst out with.
"And what?" asked Jason calmly.
"And tell me a little more...!"
"Hmm. Well, Etrigan doesn't like her. I don't know why."
"Ohhhhhh. It's a her, is it? Jason Blood, ladies' man, Act Two, huh?" replied Harry with a smirk. Jason only smiled. The best way to deal with Harry Matthews was let him stew until he couldn't help but ask questions.
The seat cushion gave another valiant attempt to act indifferent, but his curiosity won out. "So tell me about this chick!"
Blood rolled his eyes. "She's not a 'chick.' She. Umm. She's.... none of your business." Smirking, he took another sip of the expensive bourbon.
Harry fixed him with a reproachful look, as only a former-salesman-turned-seat-cushion can. "Jason. That's not fair."
"What?"
"I keep no secrets from you. I tell you everything that goes on in here--"
"Oh, yes: 'Jason, while you were gone, some dust settled and the paint dried.' Top secret stuff, that."
"Oh, like I have a wide number of diversions here?? C'mon, Jase!"
Blood leaned back in the chair and smiled, letting Harry fret for a few more seconds before taking pity. "She's Italian. Her name is Angelina Capella. She travels with three guards and attends Mass regularly. She has relatives in Palermo."
"Is she pretty?"
"Stunning."
"Did you get her number?"
"Mmm. No. Do license plates count?"
"Puh-leeze. Well, what about an invitation to share pasta together, a la Lady and the Tramp?"
"Sorry?
"Cheez, it's useless trying to talk pop culture with you, you know that? Are. You. Two. Going. Out. On. A. Date? With kissing?"
"No. Her guards would probably stuff me into a trash can if I ever looked at her again. They weren't too friendly. However, she did say she might call on me while she's here in Gotham. Charming woman."
"Hmph. Well, you coulda done worse, I suppose. Still, not even getting a telephone number.... I think you're losing your touch, pal."
Jason sniffed. "You're just jealous you didn't get to talk to her."
Harry sighed. "Damn right, brother. Damn right."
ELSEWHERE-THAT IS, A BUGATTI AUTOMOBILE
Angelina Capella smiled secretly to herself as the car moved through Gotham's streets. She had come to America on a mission--but it didn't mean she couldn't enjoy herself while she was here. It was good to be out from under the eye of the Vatican--and more specifically, from the eye of Andre Romani, who as head of the ancient society of the Jesuits, was her increasingly insufferable superior.
She didn't even mind so much his endless attempts to get her into bed--the Virgin knew she'd had to put up with that ever since she had first begun to rise among the otherwise male-dominated hierarchy. It was expected, now; and while she certainly had not been above using her body for advancement in her career, she belonged to no man and would not be commanded. Capella had made the point several times to Father Andre, but the man was, she thought privately, too stupid to comprehend it.
The celibacy of the priesthood, she thought darkly. Now there's a notion. Holy Saint Peter must have been off his rocker when he came up with that one. She caught sight of her own moody reflection in the window and smiled involuntarily. It was no time for dark thoughts, not when Romani was thousands of miles away and all of Gotham lay outside her window for enjoyment. This city was beautiful, in its own darkly brooding, American way--surely nothing like her hometown of Firenze, or the magnificence of Rome, or even the charm of Assisi and others--but something handsome and dangerous in its own right. The artist in her--the bright young girl she had been--longed to leave her three young guards and her orders behind. She'd take to the streets, sit among the pigeons and sketch the skyscrapers.
Or perhaps, signore Jason Blood. A faint smile lurking at the edges of her mouth, Capella thought of the courteous, strangely compelling man who had spoken to her in such delightful, old-fashioned Italian. She counted herself a good judge of character, but admitted he was bit of a challenge. Biting cynicism and intelligence were her first impressions, but she also detected cold aloofness and a rare amount of self-discipline--steel under the urbane exterior.
Rumors, of course, abounded about him--after Bruce Wayne and Lex Luthor, he was one of the more talked-about figures of high society... all the more intriguing because he eschewed most of the society requirements. He was rarely seen at public events, threw no galas, dallied with no supermodels, and his appearances in the supermarket tabloids were confined to Nostradamus-style predictions, rather than 'Wayne Seen At Drunken Hollywood Orgy-PREGNANT!'
The rumors didn't do him justice, Angelina mused. They failed to mention his charismatic eyes, charm, and--
"Dona, we've arrived," Francisco's quietly intruded on her thoughts. Irritably, she brought herself back to the present, and to business. With her customary poise, she exited the car and led the way up a flight of stairs to a shabby-looking apartment. Her three faithful retainers arranging themselves solidly around her, she rang the buzzer.
After a few moments, the door cracked open an inch. She exhaled in impatience while a uneasy brown eye looked her up and down, its owner finally inching the door another crack wider, then opening it all the way.
"Ah. You are... Señorita Capella?" the thin young Hispanic at the door said nervously.
"Sí, señor," she said brusquely, secretly thankful her Spanish was much better than her English. "The Holy Father of all the world sends you his blessing and greeting, as well as thanks you for your assistance to his holy servants. If you would be so kind as to let us enter?"
"Yes, yes, of course," he said anxiously. Gesturing them in, he briefly introduced a visibly pregnant young woman simply as 'Juanita,' then asked, "The padre--he, he said that the Pope was sending priests to bless the house and keep--keep It from c-coming for me, and that I'd be paid--"
"Yes, Señor. Yes. All in good time. Now, please describe for me... carefully... what you saw the other night, Antonio Gutierrez."
He took a deep breath and began.
ELSEWHERE. (YET AGAIN.)
Etrigan exhaled slowly, watching the heat from his breath steam in the frozen air. This barren, icy waste was no less a part of the Pit than any other, though a singularly uninhabited portion. This was frustrating, because he desired having something or someone to hit, and the only things to hit in this hell of a hell were the ground and the air-satisfying targets neither.
The one-time Prince of Hell wrapped his tattered cloak around him and gazed with fiery eyes into the chill distance. Quietly, not to be heard over the bitter wail of the wind of this place for that was impossible, but to break his own inner monotony, he spoke.
So things move in their appointed course
Spiting my feeble attempts to change and sway.
Prophecy gathers, defying demons' force
And what unheeded warnings they might chance to say.
I gave my all, I tried my best,
But should have known it futile.
The players all gather, the pieces are set
I can but play my part, howe'er brutal.
I know not how the scene will play--
The script was writ by greater hand than mine.
The third time's the charm, or so they all say
Third Act draws nigh, a performance divine.
Our lines all unpracticed, we puppets must dance
For Fate holds our controlling strings.
Well, I'll act--how I'll act--do a soft-shoe or prance
Just as long as I'm not asked to sing.
THE MADE-ENTIRELY-OUT-OF-TOILET-PAPER NEXT ISSUE BOX: Things seem to be heating up in Gotham with the onset of winter--or at least Cupid seems busy. But what the devil is Etrigan going on about? What's Capella's big top secret mission? Stay tuned next month for answers (maybe) and.... John Constantine!