whoa! Didn't expect so many reviews so soon! Bad news, guys-internet access will be somewhat limited after this chapt. Sorry, but there will be some significant time between updates. Hopefully, this will tide you over...for some time...


Chapter One- Blood and Arms

Red and blue lights flashed crazily on the brick and concrete. Police and forensics were all over the block, rushing around. The press hadn't arrived yet, but they were expected to arrive soon, therefore procedures had been sped up to be ready for cameras.

With all of the activity, it wasn't all that surprising that someone dressed in a plain black suit with a plain black tie, looking a little scuffed as if he'd just woken up (many people on the scene had done the same, answering a phone call at one in the morning), walking as if he knew exactly where he was going and why, had just lifted up the yellow 'CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS' tape and walked right into the crime scene without the slightest problem. This was exactly what John Constantine did at 1:30 am that Wednesday night. He did not fear any opposition, at least, not until he'd spotted the group of people gathered at one particular spot on the side of the road.

The small group was made up of three forensics-as they were identified by the yellow initials, CFT (Crime Forensics Team), on their backs-and two men who, judging by the heavy coats in Los Angeles, were detectives. Constantine made the correct assumption that this was where the next body was, or had been found. He hoped that the body was still there-the city morgue would have been a hell of a lot harder to get into. He walked purposefully toward the group, his made-up answers already running through his mind. He had to sell his alias to the detectives, or face not only jail time, but possibly a longer sentence in a place he had absolutely no intention of staying in.

He didn't see the body first…he only saw a part of it. It was by chance, really; his eyes just happened to cast downward at just the right moment. The very moment a CFT woman was putting it into a plastic bag. Constantine saw it, and he froze, his eyes captivated in horror. It was dirty, with mud and grime and blood all over it. But there was no question that the CFT woman was bagging a human arm, Constantine assumed it was a woman's, based on the painted black nails. Constantine eyed where the arm had been removed…it was not a clean cut. It was ragged and bloody…like it had been ripped off.

John steeled himself for whatever he would find ahead, and moved forward.

The forensics and the two detectives didn't notice John right away, giving him time to take in the sight of the body. It was another woman, and another prostitute judging from her immodest clothes and heavy makeup. Her body was flat on her back, her legs turned to the right and bent slightly. Her blue eyes were unseeing, but staring up at a certain angle, like she'd died watching her attacker walk away. She did not have arms, at least, not anymore. They had been ripped from her shoulders. White bone peaked sickeningly from her bloody shoulders. There was blood everywhere-she'd probably tried to save herself, but had obviously failed. John noticed that his very feet were inches from a puddle of the girl's blood. She was a girl-looking not much older than 19, maybe 20. Too young to have died such a horrible way.

"Hey, who're you?" a harsh voice brought John out of his dark thoughts and observations.

He looked up to find the two detectives looking at him. One looked rather confused; he was Caucasian, with the pinkish tan of someone who's seen too much sun over the years. The other, the one who had addressed John, looked more concerned; he was older than his partner, a black handlebar mustache was turning gray, standing out against the dark skin.

Constantine cleared his throat. "Detective Johns," he replied casually.

The elder detective looked him over like a hawk. "From what precinct? This is our turf," he asked apprehensively.

Constantine shrugged. He lowered his voice to answer, "I'm from Sacramento, actually."

The two real detectives exchanged looks.

"And you're here because…?" the younger detective asked.

"We had another incident about a month ago, really similar to the past two you've had lately," Constantine replied, still keeping his voice low for effect.

"And you were thinking about telling us at a crime scene?" the elder detective said incredulously, an eyebrow raised.

Constantine shrugged. "Hey, I just do as I'm told, and my lieutenant told me to check out how things were going down here. My flight got in just a few hours ago. I grabbed a ride with an old friend of mine-he's in uniform now, looking to retire," John gestured vaguely towards the dozen or so squad cars, "and we heard the stuff over the line. Came over as soon as-"

"Wait, wait, wait," the younger detective interrupted, holding up a hand, "Who's your buddy?"

"Frank," Constantine replied making up the name on the spot.

The two detectives exchanged looks again. For a moment, John thought he was busted. He'd thought that the late hour would have worked to his advantage, making the detectives a little off.

Damn it, there has to be at least one Frank… He thought to himself desperately.

Than the elder detective spoke, "No way. Frankie's retiring?"

A wave of relief filled all of Constantine's being. He slipped back into 'character' though, replying with a shrug, "Yeah. He didn't tell you guys?"

The younger detective shook his head. "No. Never woulda thought…"

"Well he did have those heart problems," the elder reminded the younger.

"Oh yeah…"the younger detective turned more directly to Constantine. "Detective Phelps," he introduced himself, offering a hand. Constantine took it.

"I'm Detective Herts," the elder Detective offered his hand, which Constantine also accepted, "Yeah, I heard about that girl on the news the other day. Looks like we've got someone real sick on our hands," he added with slight apology, "Sorry about grilling you. Was afraid the Feds were movin' in on us, you know?"

Constantine nodded neutrally. His attention turned back to the victim-he did not have time for the socializing, and he couldn't risk making a slip and revealing himself.

"Name's Kristi Rolletti," Detective Herts said, noticing Constantine's stare, "We got lucky; she had her license on her. The other girl didn't. Wasn't until her parents saw the new report that they called in, ID-ing her."

"How'd they recognize her?" it slipped out of Constantine's mouth. He'd seen the picture in the news report. You could hardly tell the thing on the screen had once been human-how could anyone have recognized the girl, even her own parents?

"There was a birth mark on her neck that the parents saw on news," Detective Phelps explained.

"So…" Again, Constantine turned his attention back to the body, "Died of blood loss, right?"

Herts nodded. "Well, obviously the M.E. still has to have a look, but there's not much to check out. We found her right arm by her body, her left arm down the road. We think her attacker ripped that one off first. She tried to run, but the blood loss slowed her down. Then the psycho caught up and ripped off the other arm. Left her to die, but even if he'd waited, wouldn't have had to wait long."

Phelps nodded in agreement. "Sure are some monsters out there," he said quietly.

You haven't got a clue, Constantine thought to himself.

"Well, we've already swept the scene, Johns," Herts said, raising and lowering a shoulder. "No finger prints-not one. We thought we was wearing gloves, but no trace of talcum powder from elastic gloves, and no imprints that would have been made from knitted gloves. No DNA either-the other girl wasn't raped or anything. Chances are this one wasn't either."

Constantine mulled this over in his mind.

Phelps looked over his shoulder to see the M.E.'s on the way, the gurney and body bag in company.

"Well, M.E.'s here. Guess that's all we can say for now, Johns. It's late-probably won't perform the autop. until morning," Phelps said.

Herts nodded. "Yeah. My wife's gonna chain me to the bed until about that long-she hates it when I go in the middle of the night."

Phelps turned to Constantine. "Guess we'll see you back at the station, Johns. Hey, but you can rest easy-no earthquakes around here."

"Oh, yeah…" Constantine gave a fake laugh. He'd heard about the earthquake in Sacramento vaguely on the news.

"Right. Have a good night, Johns," Herts said with a wave.

"Not likely…"Constantine muttered darkly as he watched the M.E.'s put Kristi Rolletti's armless, bloody body into the black bag.


The bowling alley's lights were on, but the doors had been locked hours ago. This was expected by Constantine; Beeman was a night-owl like himself. They say that there is no rest for the wicked-imagine how little there is for those who fight the wicked.

John simply slipped the key from his coat pocket and unlocked the door. He quickly went in and didn't waste time looking around the seemingly empty bowling alley-Beeman would no doubt be waiting in his 'office', per usual.

And indeed, amongst the pin machinery, way in the back, was a lanky, bookish man surrounded by shelves of books and strange objects, all of which relating to the occult.

Beeman turned around in his chair, his beady eyes behind his thick glasses looking at John expectantly.

"You're late," he said, though he sounded like he'd expected that too.

John shrugged. "Got held up," he said with a shrug as he took a cig and his lighter out to light up.

"Well? Was it another girl? Brutally killed?" Beeman sounded like they were conversing an interesting book rather than a ruthless killer.

John nodded. "Her arms were ripped off," he said as he took a drag.

"Bled to death, I expect," Beeman said, "Find anything of interest?"

"Well, like the others, no fingerprints," John replied, a stream of smoke accompanying his words, "I think you're right-it's a golem."

Beeman nodded excitedly, "Yes, of course! Any clay found at the scene?"

"Not that I saw or heard." John was not as enthusiastic about this as Beeman, but like the bowling alley owner, he did not show much shock or grief regarding the murders.

Beeman shifted nervously at John's reply. "Well… We have to be certain it's a golem. Otherwise, we could make things much worse."

"Dragon's Breath works on everything, last time I checked," John hinted none-too subtly.

Beeman smiled slyly. "Dragon's Breath isn't as easy to come by these days, John. Takes a lot to get it…" Like John, Beeman wasn't hiding his intentions too well either.

John fixed Beeman with an irritated gaze before replying with gritting teeth, "Fine. I've still got some cash left over from that exorcism last week."

Beeman smiled. "Excellent. When are you going to look for it?"

"Tomorrow night, if you can get the Dragon's Breath," John said, inhaling his cig.

"If you get me the spending money." Beeman replied, very business-like.

"Right. I'll get it to you in the morning."

"It is morning."

"Whatever. I'll get it to you."

"Right, John," Beeman said as John turned his back to leave, "Oh, John, one last thing."

John turned back around, blowing out smoke. "What?" he asked.

"I think that belongs to you, yes?" Beeman said, pointing.

John followed Beeman's gaze through a small window between the machinery to the blowing alleys, where a figure was lying down in one of the benches for players.

John sighed, recognizing the figure immediately.

"Came here looking for you a couple hours ago," Beeman explained, "I let him stay until you got here."

Chas's checked cabby hat was pulled over his eyes, which had been closed for the better part of the five hours he'd been in the bowling alley. His legs were propped up on the scoring table, and his arms were folded loosely over his chest.

"Chas," a familiar voice said as a hand shook his shoulder.

Chas started to stir, but barely.

"Chas!"

The boy started awake, sitting up, causing his hat to fall into his lap. "Huh? What?"

He looked to his left, to see Constantine glaring down at him .

"Oh, John! About time, man! I've been waiting here for you!" Chas said, taking his feet off of the scoring table.

"Chas, I told you: If I need a ride, I'll call you," John said tersely.

Chas looked a little hurt at the comment. He considered himself more than a chauffeur, an apprentice in fact. But that title had been more self-given than anything else.

"Just wanted to help, you know," Chas said somewhat sheepishly as he stood up.

"You want to help?"

Chas brightened. "Yeah!"

"Okay then," John said, turning to leave, "Be here with the car around midnight tomorrow." He looked over his shoulder to add snidely, "Unless that's too late for you."

Chas scowled. "No. I'll be here," he said, a little but of defiance in his tone.

"All right then," John said, and he turned back around.

As he walked away, leaving Chas, John had to smile a little. He had to toughen the kid up somehow .


okay, well, that's all for this chapter. Too short? I hope not. Hee hee…can't wait to post the next chapter… it's awesome!