Chapter Seven
The familiar weight and pressure of her gun was suddenly gone as he yanked it from her paddle holster. He snicked the safety off and fired point-blank into the King's face. It fell back, those monstrous hands going to cover the wound. The bullet lodged in that stony face. Snarling, it raked those claws at him, each one tearing a deep wound across his injured arm. He took the gun into his other hand, and fired again. Droplets of his blood covered half of the kitchen, and though the adrenaline masked the pain, he knew that he should be in agony. He counted his blessings, grateful that he couldn't feel the hurt.
Angela reached for him, fear and concern clear on her face. She leaned into him, trying to offer what little protection she could. "Run!" He screamed, and shocked into blind obedience, she obeyed. Before she passed through the door, she glanced at him for a split second, eyes wide and wary. The look on her face kept her going. This was his fight and he wasn't going to drag her into it, no matter the cost to him. "Stay in the hallway!" His voice was sharp, purposefully so.
The last sound she heard is the gun firing over and over. 1, 2, 3, 5, 6... she counted down to the moment the gun will be useless. The gun held 15 rounds, but they wouldn't last long at the rate he was firing. She stopped at the end of the hallway as the shots ended. The silence pressed down on her worse than the gunfire had. What had happened to stop him shooting? Had the gun jammed? Those and a million other questions raced through her mind.
She had a back up gun in a holster on her ankle. It was as powerful as her main gun- if she ever needed the back up, she wanted it to work. She reached for it, fingers slick with perspiration again the cool metal. It snagged a little on the leather as she pulled it out, but came free eventually. Her legs felt shaky and weak. Not trusting them to support her, she crawled on her hands and knees to peer around the door. There was nothing to see, and part of her was relieved. Another, bigger her was too scared to enter. She huddled by the door, cradling the gun and sobbing with fear. She wanted desperately to help John, but she was just too scared to re-enter the apartment. His words still rang in her ears and she knew that he had no choice.
Inside of the apartment, he had taken off into a sprint away from the Agvi. He needed a little space for the spell to work. As he ran, he muttered the first words to the spell. The bathroom door was closest to him, and he skidded to a halt inside of it. Like every door in his apartment, the bathroom one was made of heavy wood. Bolts sat top and bottom of the door, but he didn't bother with them. They were no use against a adversary who could teleport. Still, he kicked the door closed, more to hide him that to stop the Agvi. He dropped the gun, not caring where it went and gripped the claw in both hands, blood to blood, saying the spell out loud as quickly as he could. The words tripped and tumbled from his lips, chasing each other into the world.
Thunder and lightening outside lent the fight a surreal quality. The power failed suddenly, leaving him with only the daylight to see by. It was enough. It had to be- there was no time to light candles. Rain hammed with shocking intensity against the glass. The elements themselves were angry. John didn't wish to know who with. He turned his back to the window, so that he face was hidden in shadow. Only his eyes stood out, glowing with a fierce anger, fuelled by hatred. He looked like the first man and the last to inhabit the earth. In that moment, he was eternity.
Luck was on his side and he managed to get through the spell without the Agvi interrupting it. The apartment walls shook as the king ran along the hallway. He finished the spell just as the door burst open, slamming into the wall so hard it splintered in it's frame. The bang mimicked the thunder with such precision that John expected the storm to move inside. His hands glowed white where they touched the claw, and a sensation akin to burning started to spread up his arms. He let go of the claw, so it was only held in his left hand and tried to dodge a swipe of the Agvi's claws. He wasn't quite quick enough and they tore through his skin on his chest and stomach.
He gasped and his hand spasmed around the claw, fingers clenching and un-clenching as he fought wave after wave of incredible pain. He came very close to dropping the claw, which would have broken the spell. If the blood on his palm hadn't been so tacky still, he probably would have. Blackness clouded the edge of his eyes, and he staggered a little. He was on the edge of passing out and both of them knew it. The Agvi smiled a chilling little smile. It pissed John off, which gave him the strength to keep fighting. He gritted his teeth and ran towards the king. This was going to be a once chance only deal. If it didn't work, he would be dead. He had no doubt about that.
He lost count of the number of times the Agvi's claws tore at his body, but the blood ran thick and fast. He slipped in it as he moved. Sliding his hand into his pocket, he worked the gold knuckle dusters onto his hand and swung a punch at the Agvi's face. It was like hitting a brick wall, and his hand ached from the collision. A tear had opened along the demon's cheekbone, and John felt a rush of grim satisfaction. Green blood oozed thickly out of it, and dropped, hissing to the floor. It burned holes in the white tiles, leaving them looking like someone had stubbed cigarettes out on them. He grimaced at the irony even as his life flowed from him.
He raised the claw and with the last of his strength, drove it into the throat of the Agvi. It froze, then drove those claws straight into his body, yanking them back to do the most damage. John whispered the final line of the spell, hoping desperately that it would work. He twisted the claw home, somehow managing to mutter his trademark motto "This is Constantine. John Constantine. Asshole."
The demon hissed, recognising those words for what they were. A curse. John might be dead, but he was still John Constantine. He hadn't lost a fight yet. The apartment was filled with an eerie blue light. It drew back on itself, extinguishing with a ear piecing crack. The only evidence of the demon was a huge scorch mark on the tiles. A stench still hung in the room. He sniffed and wished he hadn't. It was the scent that only hell produced. He still held part of the claw in his hand and he flung it away from himself with a grunt of disgust. It clattered off the far wall and landed on the floor by his bath tub.
His body, having taken so much suddenly gave up the fight. He slumped first to his knees, then to the floor as pain and shock kicked in. He wanted to be sick, but didn't have the energy to give for that release. The tiles are cold on his back and he starts to shiver. The pain in his chest was worsening now, though he wouldn't complain. He'd survived the attack he'd been so sure would kill him. His blood started to dry on his clothes. Fabric made stiff with his own caked blood rubbed against him as he moved a little, coughing. The darkness at the edges of his vision was blacker now and he gave himself over to it.
In the hallway, Angela was listening. She had heard the crack, but didn't know what it meant. Peeling herself off the floor, she stood on unsteady legs and crept into the apartment. A heavy smell hung in the air, and she coughed harshly. The air was dry and felt gritty in her mouth.
"John!" She shouted his name but received no reply. She is drawn to the bathroom and finds him there. At first, she thought he was dead, but a painful breath drew her attention. Her heart leapt at that sound. She hadn't lost him yet. She skidded on her knees to his side, hands sliding on the tiles. The gun in her hand drops to the floor and it slid across the tiles to rest near his leg. She didn't notice or didn't care. Every part of her attention was taken by his broken body.
She was reluctant to touch him, in case she caused him more pain. The wounds on his stomach, chest and arms are bleeding far too much for her liking. She thought that she could see bone in more than one of them. His eyes were desperate, a strange mix of fear and pain that she hoped never to see again. His face was pale and covered in an unhealthy sheen of perspiration. He was starting to go into shock. Her first aid training kicks in and she grabs the nearest thing- his suit jacket to cover his lower body with. A towel comes with it and she presses it onto the wounds. He gasped and squeezed his eyes closed. "I'm sorry." she whispered over and over, as if it could stop the hurt.
Gently, she laid one hand on his forehead, only taking it away to grope in her pocket for her cell phone. She sobbed, tears running down her face to mix with his. After what seems like an eternity, her fingers close round it and she yanked it out. She dialled 911 and gave the required information, trying to be professional, but her voice kept breaking. She laid the phone on the floor next to her, not caring that it's in his blood.
A sudden thought strikes her. "The demon?" she asked, fearfully.
He tries to speak, but fails, instead he flicks his eyes towards a large scorch mark on the tile floor.
She understands right away. "Deported."
He managed a tiny nod. She felt it rather than saw it, but smiled to acknowledge it. "You did good, John. Real good." She said, hoping to comfort him. Those beautiful haunted eyes drifted closed again as he passed out.
Letting go of the soaked towel, she took off her jacket and crumpled it into a ball, lifting his head to slide it underneath. She couldn't bare the thought of the cold tiles against his head. She took hold of his hand again, irrational fear making her think he'd die if she didn't keep hold of him. Sudden noise and activity in the hallway grabbed her attention. "In here!" She shouted, hoping that it was the paramedics.
A gruff male voice answered her shout "Where are you?" He sounded like he was in the apartment. Heavy steps made their way towards her and John.
"The bathroom." She yelled back, voice breaking again with relief. Help was here. Everything would be alright now.
Two men dressed in bright yellow and green enter the room. The room suddenly becomes too small. Knowing that help is here and that she's only in the way, she kissed him and backs against the wall, watching the paramedics as the work. They're talking to each other, but she can't make out what they're saying. From the tone of their voices, it didn't sound good.
Within ten minutes of arriving, they had John on a stretcher and were taking him out of the apartment. An oxygen mask covered the bottom half of his face and under the blankets, she could see his chest moving. That tiny movement was more important to her than anything else. One of the wheels squeaked, and she winced at the sound. She saw his face one last time before they left her standing forlorn in the doorway. He was unconscious and so pale his lips were bloodless.
For the longest time, all she could do was sit on the floor in the doorway and cry tears of an emotion she couldn't name.