The glimmer of the streetlights filled the darkened apartment. It was just after four in the morning; the sun would begin to rise in another hour or so. Constantine watched the play of the lights as they danced around the walls and disappeared.

He was sitting in the chair that was positioned in the corner of the bedroom area, his bare feet up on the corner of the mattress. Stretched out from corner to corner in the bed was Elizabeth, on her stomach, sleeping. It had become obvious the pain was greater then she was letting on, actually spilling over their mental link and physically affecting John. Any tiny movement he had made while sharing the bed had sent off another spasm of pain.

And it wasn't like he could sleep anyway. So he'd gotten up, grabbed an extra blanket and set up camp in the chair. Finally, after some silent crying while he'd stroked her hair, Elizabeth had fallen into a dreamless sleep. There wasn't really anything John could do for her. The tattoos would have to scab over before ice could be applied. Her entire back was an angry red from the work.

John remembered back to his own tattoos. His arms had ached for days no matter how many painkillers he'd swallowed. No matter how much liquor he'd imbibed nor how many packs he had smoked. It had hurt him when he'd moved his arms even a fraction of an inch. He could just begin to imagine what it felt to have your entire back and spine afire.

Constantine had not told her he'd undergone a similar ritual. It hadn't been mercury mixed in with the tattooing ink, but a paste of sulfur applied to the freshly inked symbols. The first dabs had slightly burned, but by the time the both sigils had been coated with the paste, he'd felt like his entire body was on fire. But he suffered in silence for his craft, just like his wife.

Twisting his right arm a bit, he looked at the sigil of the Red King inked into his flesh. The image itself had been pulled from the Speculum Veritatis, a seventeenth century work of Alchemical drawings created by Eugenius Philalethes. A mage could use it to summon a half-breed, angel or demon, or force them into visibility. It afforded the bearer some protection when used alone, but used in conjunction with a Seal of Solomon casting, the user stood a better chance of keeping the summoned spirit firmly locked bound and unable to do anything but what it was told. Instead of laughing at you, ripping your spleen out, then jetting back home leaving you to contemplate your stupidity as you died.

In essence, if they joined forces, John and Elizabeth would be an unimaginable weapon.

A silent sigh escaped Constantine. Elizabeth had ended up being part apprentice to him, learning enough that she could help him if needed, but could also stand-alone against any force that might attack. He'd insisted she'd learn a few things at first. Latin of course, for the incantations of the exorcisms, then he'd brought her up to speed on most of the world's religions and their different dogmas. Elizabeth had soaked it up like a sponge, almost as if it came natural to her. Which it had. John knew she had to be to closest thing to a natural witch he'd ever encountered. Never did Elizabeth really question her 'gifts', instead using them and helping them to grow, strengthen.

In the end, she'd been such a natural he'd had no choice but to start treating her like an apprentice. John hadn't really even thought of looking for another, especially after what had happened to Chaz. Besides, he'd already brought Elizabeth back once and made it a lot harder for someone, or something, to kill her. Plus it wasn't like he was going to die any time soon.

At least, he hoped not.

The first timid rays of the sun warmed the side of his face through the wooden shutters. Yet another sleepless night. Rubbing his eyes, John stretched a bit in the chair, being careful not to jostle the mattress. The unknown show of magic force was still a thorn in his psychic energy, taunting him. Something had sent it, maybe in warning, maybe something much more dire. He just couldn't put a finger on it.

Carefully he rose and padded to the shutters, pulling them so the light was blocked from the bed. Folding the blanket and tossing it back into the chair, Constantine headed into the bathroom to prepare. He had a social call to make.