a/n: yay, chapter three. I know nothing about exorcism, so sorry if this chap is unrealistic, and I got the Latin off an online translator, so it's probably wrong! As usual, all reviews are appreciated.
"Truth is too precious to tell any fool who asks for it." –Ancient Proverb
His own eyes stared up at him, almost black with desire. He could feel himself; feel his own hands upon him. He was staring at himself. His body coursed with pleasure, and he watched his mouth form a soundless cry, then a moan, low, gravely, lustful.
"John," he heard himself whisper. "It's not me."
Constantine shot up in bed, sweat dampening the sheets beneath him, the remnants of his dream apparent between his legs.
Fucking hell, that was weird.
He had dreamt of that night, his final night with Chas, but he had been in Chas's place. It was like he was having sex with himself. God, how fucked up was that?
He rubbed a tired hand across his eyes, then slipped out of bed and padded into the kitchen, pouring himself a cold glass of water.
He tried not to think of Chas, or that it had been three days and Chas still hadn't called.
Constantine would be damned before he'd be the one to break. Chas was the one who had left. He should be the one to call. Besides, Constantine doubted he even had Chas's telephone number. Chas had always just magically appeared whenever needed.
Constantine took a moment to reflect on the possibility that he had taken the kid for granted, but he pushed it aside. Chas wanted to be there. Chas liked being there.
Or at least, he had.
"Fucking asshole," he muttered.
It made him feel marginally better.
He took another swig of water, reaching for the half finished packet of cigarettes on the table, lighting up and taking a deep drag.
The phone rang.
He squinted at it, wondering who the hell would be ringing him at this hour of morning. Who even knew his phone number?
"Constantine."
"John? It's Father Hennessey."
Constantine closed his eyes briefly. He did not need this right now.
"I need your help."
He took a deep drag on his cigarette.
"Where?"
"Bel Air."
"You're kidding me."
Who the hell was possessed in Bel Air?
"How much?" he asked.
He heard Father Hennessey sigh down the phone.
"John, it's not about the money-"
"How. Much."
There was a pause.
"Three hundred."
"Give me the address."
Ten minutes later, Constantine was in a taxi, on his way to one of LA's smarter corners. Bel Air. Please. The people in Bel Air probably didn't even know the meaning of the word 'possession'. And how did Hennessey know anyone in Bel Air? The man was an alcoholic priest, for God's sake.
The taxi pulled up in front of a large, white house, the sort with a curved balcony right in the middle of the upper floor, and faux Greek pillars lining the front door. Constantine couldn't imagine anywhere he would want to live less.
He paid up and raised an eyebrow at Father Hennessey, who was waiting for him at the door. Moonlight shone across a perfectly manicured lawn. Constantine was struck by the silence in this part of the city. Over at Bowl Bowl Bowl the nights were filled with drunks and brawls.
"How do you know these people?"
Father Hennessey looked shifty; he was sweating, shaking and stunk of spirits.
"Friend of a friend," he murmured.
"Uh huh." Constantine pushed past him, into the house, and Hennessey trailed behind.
"It was the fiancée that called me," he muttered, wringing his hands. "She was distraught. I came straight over, but can't figure out what it is. That's why I called you."
Constantine ignored him. He'd heard this little speech a thousand times before. He was beginning to suspect that Hennessey just wasn't that good.
He strode up to the master bedroom on the upper floor, guided by the snarls and sobs drifting from that general direction. The fiancée was outside, mascara dripping down her cheeks in two black streams, wearing a short, white nightdress, hair sticking up. He wanted to shake her and tell her to pull herself together, but ignored her, instead focusing on the thing inside the bedroom.
He understood then why it was bad.
Hennessey hadn't secured the creature, and it was currently perched on top of the wardrobe, snarling and drooling down the (almost definitely) antique pine, veins popping out across its forehead and along its arms.
Not a pretty sight.
Constantine slipped off his jacket and quashed the urge for a cigarette. Now was not the time.
He watched the creature for a moment, noting with interest the way it hugged the shadowy crevice above the wardrobe, its limbs blending in with the dark, when it stayed still long enough.
A shadow demon.
A Rurrae, if he wasn't mistaken, judging by the hollowness of the man's cheeks. It liked to feed off the body it inhabited, eventually killing it and then moving onto the next host.
Constantine smiled to himself. He had just the thing to hurt this little fucker.
But first they had to get him off the ceiling.
As if sensing Constantine's thoughts, the Rurrae shrank further into the shadows, merging with the walls.
"Hennessey," he called. "Get ready to grab it."
Hennessey edged into the room, looking more than slightly nervous.
"What are you going to do?"
Constantine didn't reply, pulling a vial of holy water from his pocket. He unscrewed the lid, holding it tight in his left hand.
He turned on the light.
The demon shrieked, the sound of nails on a chalk board, and fled the wardrobe, darting around the room to find the nearest dark corner. Constantine tossed the holy water over it, and it screamed again, clawing at its eyes and scalp.
"Now!"
He sprang forward, Hennessey only moments behind, wrapping his arms around the struggling figure. The Rurrae flailed, one of its arms hitting Constantine across the jaw, and it was all he could do not to lose his hold.
"Some rope!" he yelled at the fiancée. "Get something to hold it down!"
He heard her let out another sob, but she was the least of his problems right then. The Rurrae kicked out, its teeth disastrously near to his face. Constantine knew it would have no problem taking a bite out of him.
He heard a grunt as Father Hennessey took a blow, and then a thud as the priest flew backwards across the room. Constantine swore as his hold began to slip.
Where was that fucking rope?
He pushed the demon back against the wall, a large gilded mirror falling off and crashing around their heads, holding him around the throat with one hand whilst trying to avoid the teeth, and using the other to wiggle his tie over his head. The demon raked its nails across his back, and he felt the material of his shirt rip, a cry escaping him at the sudden pain.
He pulled his right fist back, then sucker punched the bastard in the jaw. The demon howled, and for a second its struggles ceased. Constantine loosened his hold, and as the demon raised its hands towards his throat, he slipped his tie neatly over its wrists, pulling the knot nice and tight.
The demon howled again, using its bound wrists to swipe at Constantine, getting him flat in the side of the head. For a second he felt dizzy, then pushed it aside, pulling the creature's arms down and head butting him in the forehead. Hard.
The dizziness returned threefold, but at that moment several silk scarves appeared in his line of vision, and he forced himself to focus, Hennessey helping him man handle the demon over to the bed, strapping the bound wrists to the head board, the feet to the bed posts.
He rubbed his head, shaking off any vestige of a headache, and climbed onto the bed, leaning close to the demon, which snarled its displeasure.
"This is Constantine," he said, voice low. "John Constantine. Asshole."
It sometimes occurred to him just how trite and over done that sounded, but he couldn't stop even if he tried. It was almost a tradition. Good luck, if he believed in such shit.
"I'm sending you back to hell."
He pushed his shirt sleeves up, extracting from his pocket a small, cross shaped crystal on a string.
He dangled the crystal in front of the creature, swinging it lazily back and forth a few times.
"Audite meus to order. Licentia vestri populus. Ego to order vos dimitto."
The creature snarled, twisting against its bonds.
Constantine smiled, lifted the crystal in his right hand, then pressed it firmly against its forehead.
The creature shrieked and flailed as the flesh sizzled under the religious symbol, a string of indiscernible snarls and words escaping its mouth, its thrashing almost dislodging Constantine from the bed.
"Audite meus to order. Licentia vestri populus. Ego to order vos dimitto! Ego to order vos dimitto!" Constantine shouted, tightening his grip on the demon, which twisted its head around, trying desperately to bite him.
He felt the energy around the creature shift, weaken as the cross began to drain the force driving it, wearing down its resistance.
"In the name of the Lord God, I order you to leave this man. Leave now!"
It strained against his hands, the skin bubbling furiously where it had been hit by holy water, oozing a thick, black puss.
"In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit" -with his left hand he marked out the cross symbol in the air, his right still firmly holding the crystal against the demon's head- "I command you to return to your Master. Leave this vessel!"
The demon opened its mouth, and from it hissed a language that few on earth had ever heard, let alone could understand. A dialect that sent shivers up and down every spine it brushed, the syllables hash and unrelenting, the words filled with evil and malice.
Hellspeak.
"The sides are gathering."
Constantine froze, the words jarring the very inside of him.
"The fallen ones are gathering, and they will defeat all who stand in their path."
"Why?" Constantine asked. "Why are they gathering?"
"They will wager a great war. The Final War of the dimensions."
"When?" He pressed his hand against the creature's head, giving it a little shake. "When?"
The creature opened its mouth, but the crystal beneath Constantine's hand began to smoke, the demon's flesh sizzling as it howled, struggling under his grasp, its body trying to lift up from the bed, stopped only by the silk scarves. The veins became more pronounced, bulging around its eyes and down its throat, and its howl was ear splitting, its hands opening and closing in rapid succession, its limbs shaking. It gave one final, desperate attempt to be free, then the body went slack, the crystal burning fiercely beneath his hand before turning an opaque, smoky grey.
Damn.
Constantine silently watched the veins recede, the cracked skin repairing itself in seconds, a young man taking the place of the creature from hell.
He sighed and clambered down from the bed, dropping the crystal onto the floor and then grinding it fiercely under his heel, before reaching for the packet of cigarettes in his jacket pocket.
He lit one up as the fiancée rushed into the room, loosening the silk bindings of her beloved, crying half with fear, half with relief as she took him in her arms.
Constantine turned away, more affected by the sight than he cared to admit.
The fiancée had left a wad of bills out on a table in the hall, and he pocketed them on his way out of the house, Father Hennessey a few steps behind him.
"It spoke to you."
Hennessey fumbled with his hip flask as he spoke. They all had their coping mechanisms.
"What did it say?"
Constantine shrugged, inhaling a breath of smoke.
"Some bullshit about the Final War. The fallen ones gathering."
"Do you think there's any truth to it?"
"No," he replied flatly, ignoring the tingle that crept along his spine with the denial.
Hennessey nodded, taking a swig of whatever was in his flask.
"How's Chas?"
Constantine inwardly cringed.
"He left."
Father Hennessey frowned. "Where did he go?"
"Home?" Constantine snapped. "How the hell should I know?"
"You were supposed to be looking after him."
Constantine definitely didn't like the accusation in Hennessey's voice.
"What am I, the kid's keeper? He wanted to go, so he went."
He felt Hennessey studying him, and kept his face studiously blank, tampering down any and all emotion.
"Maybe you should call him, see how he's doing," Hennessey hedged.
"I told you, I'm not his keeper. Get off my fucking back," Constantine snapped. He almost felt bad when the father immediately did that, mumbling an apology before taking another swig. Then again, Hennessey should have more back bone. And stay out of other people's business.
Sometimes he wondered if he'd been born without the remorse gene.
He didn't bother saying goodbye to Hennessey, just turned and strode down the road in the opposite direction. It was times like these when he understood why he didn't have more friends.
He had to walk a while before he could find a taxi to take him back to his apartment, and he tumbled into bed without removing his clothes, only toeing off his shoes somewhere between the door and the end of the table.
He lay there and stared at the pattern the streetlights made on the ceiling, aware that the right side of his face was throbbing from where the Rurrae had hit him, but too tired to do anything about it.
He closed his eyes, the details of his dream from earlier drifting, unwanted, into his mind.
"John. It's not me."
What did he mean? It was obvious that Chas wasn't himself, why was he telling him? And why couldn't he stop thinking about it?
He groaned faintly, dragging the pillow over his head, blocking out all sight, sound and thought as he slipped into sleep.
"I'm sorry sir, we have no number for a Chas Kramer listed."
Constantine ground his teeth in irritation. Trust the little bastard to be unlisted.
"Do you have anything for a Charles Kramer?"
He had no idea if Charles was Chas's real name, but, hey, it was worth a try.
There was a pause.
"No sir, I'm sorry. Not for this area."
Constantine sighed. "What about Kramer in general?"
Another pause, then "We have thirty eight Kramers listed, just in your area, sir."
Great.
"Thanks for your help," he snapped, a touch sarcastic, then slammed the phone back into its cradle on the wall.
God damn.
It wasn't like he would have even used the number, he tried to console himself. It wasn't like he was planning on calling Chas. No way. It was insurance, that's was all. Insurance.
He was exhausted. 3 am exorcisms really took it out of him. The scratches on his back left by the damn creature were burning, out of reach to apply anything to, and his face felt as if someone had bludgeoned it with a wooden mallet. He needed some coffee.
Trudging down the steps, his made his way through the lobby of Bowl Bowl Bowl, the usual Saturday crowd milling about in groups, kids clutching at their mother's skirts, screaming for sweets and ice cream. How John loathed kids.
He walked a couple of blocks to the nearest Starbucks (how was it even the seediest parts of the city still had Starbucks?), where he bought himself a triple espresso and a large, black coffee.
Sitting on an abandoned door stoop outside, he knocked back his scalding espresso, revelling in the burn that travelled across his tongue and down his throat, reminding him that he was, in fact, still alive, unsure whether that was a good thing or not right then.
Midday traffic trawled along the road in front of him, the smell of gas hanging in the thick, heavy air, shouts and laughs of passers by, kids darting out into the road, weaving around honking horns.
It was too hot for coffee.
An expensive car, immediately noticeable in the sort of area where nearly everyone drove run down Chevys and beat up Fiats, drove past, slowing in Constantine's immediate vision. A man in a smartly tailored suit strode towards it, a young Hispanic woman following, her white dress yellowed from too much wear. Constantine watched them, idly wondering what sort of business a man like that could possibly have in an area like this. The man reached into the pocket of his suit, extracting a business card, which he held out to the woman. She reached out to take it.
As their hands connected on the card, the street suddenly dissolved around them. Constantine stood in the woman's place, his hand on the small, white card shorter than he remembered, the fingers stubbier. The man in front of him was no longer a stuffy suit, but himself, trying to hide any semblance of amusement as he accepted the card, the words 'Chas Kramer' splashed across the white in bright red ink. He watched himself move, as if someone had pressed fast forward, over to the shelves that stood above his sink in his apartment, then his arm slowed dramatically, the image moving frame by frame as he watched himself reach up, pushing the card between two dust covered cans of Raid.
He stepped forward, towards himself, and saw his arm wave out in protest, covered by a dark beige sleeve, not at all like anything he had ever worn before in his life.
Standing by the shelves, he gave himself a sharp glare, then time slowed so that it was barely moving, his finger tips brushing the card as he pulled his arm away…
The world rushed back with a snap, the street returning around him with vivid clarity, the business man climbing into his expensive car, the woman stepping back, him sitting on the stoop, coffee clutched in his hand.
What the hell was that?
A vision? No, a memory. A forgotten memory, from over a year ago, when Chas had only just started driving him. He had some stupid business cards made, in case John ever needed to be in touch. Constantine remembered taking one just to humour him.
Shit.
He stood up, the forgotten coffee falling carelessly from his hand, splattering across the pavement and his shoes, but he barely noticed.
He knew how to find Chas.
The card was still there, shoved carelessly under the unused Raid, a years worth of dust piled on top.
Constantine yanked it out, eyes travelling across the red script.
It had a name.
And an address.
Constantine was definitely not the jumping for joy sort, but if he had ever wanted to do it in his life, then would have probably been the time.
He tried the phone number first, letting it ring twenty times before hanging up, and, without a second thought, tearing from his apartment to leap in the nearest taxi, giving the driver Chas's address, trying to control whatever it was that was compelling him.
It was ridiculous really. It had only been three days, for God's sake. Well, four actually. But still. Chas could take care of himself. He certainly didn't nee John running around after him like a fucking mother hen.
But when he thought of the way Chas had left, the cold, deadness in his eyes, he couldn't help but feel the worry in the pit of his stomach.
Chas wasn't right.
And for some God forsaken reason, Constantine felt duty bound to care for him.
He really hated feelings.
The cab pulled up outside a seedy looking apartment block, and Constantine got out, shoving a few bills at the driver. He glanced at the card again. Apartment thirteen. Irony, anybody?
Apartment thirteen was on the ground floor, and he walked slowly along the corridor, the overhead light flickering in a dizzying strobe effect.
Apartment thirteen.
The door was green, the three slightly lopsided, as if it had fallen off at one point and someone had just pushed it back onto the door, without bothering to screw it back in. The paint was peeling, revealing the wood underneath, several long scratches marring the surface.
Constantine knocked.
There was no answer.
He waited a few moments, then knocked again, a little harder.
When there was still no reply he leant up close, shouting through the door.
"Chas? Chas, its John. Are you there?"
He reared back and kicked it, swearing as he realised the damn thing was stronger than it looked. He pulled away and was just considering doing it again when a man's voice stopped him.
"Oi! You, what are you doing?"
A large man, sweating profusely in his stained wifebeater, came along the corridor, eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Any other time, Constantine would have told the man where to go, but right now he needed to find Chas.
"Is this Chas Kramer's apartment?"
The man visibly relaxed, at the mention of Chas's name.
"You here for his stuff?"
Constantine blinked. Stuff?
The man pushed him aside, extracting a large bunch of keys from his pocket, sorting through them until he came to Chas's.
"I already started packing it up, I hope you don't mind, but I have a new tenant moving in tomorrow. Wasn't sure what I was gonna do with it, to be honest."
"Wait." Constantine put his hand on the man's arm. "Where is Chas?"
The man stared blankly at him
"Don't you know?" His eyes turned suspicious again. "I thought you were here for his stuff."
"I am," Constantine lied quickly. "But I thought he was meeting me here. Have you seen him?"
The landlord shook his head slowly, and pushed open the door.
"Haven't seen him for over a month. That's the only reason I'm moving him out." His eyes seemed to soften slightly. "Chas is a good kid, but God knows I've cut him enough slack. I can't have an empty apartment, especially when someone's not paying the rent."
Over a month. Just before the accident.
Constantine stepped into the apartment, and immediately understood why Chas liked to annoy him so much.
To say the space was sparse would be kind.
The walls were painted a shabby white, done long ago, and the window a tiny square in one corner. There was no bed, just a pile of blankets in one corner. A dirty sink lay adjacent to the door, a toothbrush, tube of toothpaste and razor laid out on the side. An old fashioned telephone by the window.
There were books everywhere.
No wonder Chas always knew what he was talking about, he must have hundreds of volumes here, and not just about demons either. There was fiction, Jane Austen, J.R.R Tolkein, Phillip Pullman. There were bibles, religious theology, dictionaries, even a few cooking books. A couple had been stacked into several cardboard boxes, lying open in the middle of the floor.
A flash of silver caught his eye, and he reached into the nearest box to extract a smart, expensive laptop.
"His pride and joy," the landlord said fondly. "He was always showing me new bits and pieces on that thing. It was the only thing he ever had money for." He shook his head, as if pondering the folly of teenage boys.
"How long has he been living here?" Constantine asked. He tucked the computer under his arm, picking up an ancient looking tome depicting a tortured demon on the cover up off the floor.
"Years," replied the landlord. "After his parents left he decided to stick around, which was fine with me, so long as he kept paying the rent. Which he did."
No wonder Chas worked so much.
"Where did his parents go?"
The landlord shrugged. "No idea. Kid just came home one morning and found them gone. No note, nothing. Taken nearly everything they had with them, left him penniless. Poor boy." He smiled, a slightly sad smile. "I'll miss the kid. He never gave me hassle, always paid up on time. He always had a friendly word, or smile."
Constantine thought about the last time he'd seen Chas. No friendly words or smiles there.
"I'll leave you to it, shall I?"
The landlord gestured to the boxes, and Constantine nodded, not trusting his voice.
The kid's fucking parents had fucking abandoned him.
Jesus.
He knelt by the nearest box, tossing books in without noting what they were, not caring.
Chas's God damn parents had God damn abandoned him.
He filled the first box, moved on to the second.
No wonder the kid had closed up like a clam when John had asked about them. How could he not know? After more than a year, how could he not fucking know?
He threw more books in, possessed by a mad anger, half at himself, half at Chas.
Why hadn't Chas told him? Why hadn't he fucking told him? No wonder Chas's parents never cared what time he was home, that he was out all hours, that he hung out with a demon hunter in his spare time.
Chas had no fucking parents.
He pushed down the flaps on the last box, glaring at the volumes that wouldn't fit in.
How the hell was he going to get all this across town?
He piled the remaining books by the boxes, the laptop set carefully on top, then went to find a taxi and some help, not relishing the thought of dragging all those books along the corridor and out onto the road.
The landlord was only too willing for the room to be empty again, and together they loaded the boxes into the yellow car, Constantine conscious of the rising meter.
"You can dump anything that's left in there," he said, sliding into the cab. If he was a shaking hands kind of guy, he supposed now would be the opportunity, but kept his hands firmly to himself.
"Tell Chas I said hi," the landlord said. "And tell the kid good luck."
Constantine nodded, and the car pulled away.
"Moving day?" asked the driver, glancing at him in the mirror.
Constantine glared, and the rest of the journey was spent in silence.
Despite his behaviour, the driver helped him unload the boxes into the bottom of the stairwell at Bowl Bowl Bowl, and Constantine was force to tip him, vaguely returning the smile that was offered.
Great. Now all he had to do was lug the damn things upstairs.
He could have asked Beeman to help, he realised, twenty minutes later, as he dropped the last stack of books on his table. That would have certainly saved some time.
He was sweating, his shirt damp and sticky, his arms tired and aching, his breathing hitched from going up and down the stairs so many times.
He took a deep breath, reaching for his cigarettes, and as he did so felt the air catch in his throat, a shaking, bone grating couch forcing its way from inside of him. Constantine was no stranger to coughing, hell he'd smoked thirty cigarettes a day since he was fifteen, but this time was different. This time the cough didn't stop, continued to choke him, wrapped around his lungs, unable to breathe.
This time as the mucus made its way out of his lungs, spat out onto the table, it wasn't just mucus.
It was blood.
Constantine stared, his muscles spasming, shoulders shaking.
Blood.
Shit.
It was nothing, he told himself, as he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, hands shaking slightly. It was just a reaction to all the lifting.
It couldn't be anything serious. They would have told him at the hospital.
It was fine. He was fine.
He was fine.
John Constantine closed off his emotions, closed off his fear, and pushed it to the back of his mind where it would stay, forgotten.
Translation: Hear my command. Leave your vessel. I command you to leave.