Warnings: slash. Don't like it? Don't read it.
Disc: I don't own it.
a/n. sorry it's taken me about a year to update. What can I say? I'm lazy.
"True magic is neither black nor white. It's both because nature is both, loving and cruel, all at the same time." –The Craft
Constantine was sitting in his apartment.
Waiting.
For a physic message.
The thought made him growl out aloud. He was not sitting there waiting for a physic message. He wasn't sure he even believed that he and Chas had a connection. Those things could all just be coincidences. Sure, it also meant that he was going a little crazy, but you win some you lose some. So he wasn't waiting for any sort of message. He was just…sitting.
God, he was going to go mad, just sitting here. He had to find a way to help Chas, but he wasn't sure how. If Chas really was being controlled then John was useless unless he knew what he was being controlled by. Without knowing what he was up against, he was helpless.
Unless…
His eyes fell on Chas's books, still stacked up in piles on the table.
He leant over the tale, aiming for a particular stack, which he tugged towards him, discarding the unwanted books onto the floor as he searched.
There it was, an old, tattered, thick tome that was covered in burn marks, the cover peeling, a suspicious, dark red stain decorating one corner.
The writing on the front was ancient Greek, a language now lost to many, and simply read "Enchantments".
He remembered being surprised when he had found it among Chas's things; it was an ancient and rare text which, if genuine, could wield terrible and wonderful results. Filled with curses, hexes, cures, spells and other oddities, it was considered one of those base magic books which were always, uncannily right.
He opened it now, sweeping a dead spider from inside the cover, carefully perusing the contents.
Mind control.
He skimmed the text, skipping the pages on (witch hazel), a plant commonly used in mind control, hypnotism and skilful manipulation. He had a feeling he was dealing with something a little more complex than those.
He sat in silence for long minutes, reading, re reading, then re reading again just to make sure he had understood.
Finally he closed the book, and pushed it back on the table.
According to the book, mind control was more an actual state of mind than anything, which was why the simpler methods of hypnotism and manipulation worked so well.
But there were also more complicated, more dangerous methods.
These were considered almost as semi possessions; something getting into the mind and attacking the conscious, reducing the victim to a state of uncertainty and confusion, weakening their self assurance so they wouldn't resist when their mind was actually taken over. This process could take weeks or days, depending on the strength of the force trying to break in, but they had to have a window to get into first. Bouts of depression, grief and near death experiences were the most common.
The problem with freeing the mind was that the victim could become confused and have formed an attachment to their captor, in which case when the presence was torn from them they went, quite simply, insane.
Constantine blew out a slow breath.
The book didn't have a way to actually free the mind. It suggested calling up a Grinora, a guardian of free will, to find the answer.
Well, he supposed he'd better go and find some kittens.
Only in Los Angeles could you find a 24 hour pet shop, Constantine thought, some time later, as he struggled up the stairs with a box of squirming, mewling kittens.
Well, sort of 24 hour.
The shop owner hadn't exactly been thrilled to have Constantine bang his door down at 8pm and demand a load of kittens, but Constantine had paid him well (flushed from his success at poker) and the guy had pretty much shut up and done whatever was asked of him.
Now, surrounded by a carefully drawn chalk circle with the box just outside and aware that it had been some time since he had attempted a summoning, Constantine closed his eyes and hoped that this would work.
He started chanting, quietly in Latin, the words of the summoning spell, feeling the air sharpen around him, almost crackling with sudden electricity. He could smell the dried thyme and lavender, burning in careful little bundles all around the circle. He raised his voice a little, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as a sudden breeze gusted through his apartment. The candle flames flickered, the scents of the dried herbs wavering. He clenched his fists at his side, then immediately opened them out again, palms flat, the hennaed symbols drawn on his hands clear and unmarked.
He was shouting now, the wind roaring around him, though the windows remained tightly closed, his words barely reaching his own ears, the pages of Chas's books whipping back and forth, the noise deafening, consuming.
Then it stopped.
Constantine hardly dared open his eyes, though part of already knew the spell had worked from the slightly rank, sour smell that had invaded his apartment, in case he was wrong, in case he had failed again.
Open your eyes, Constantine. Open them.
He snapped his eyes open, momentarily blinded by the darkness of the failed electricity.
"John Constantine," a voice grunted.
He could see it then, the Grinora, a great demon with flesh the colour (and odour) of rotting meat; greeny grey but with a touch of red. It was huge, at least twice as tall as Constantine, its head brushing the ceiling, little plaster chunks falling onto its skin and sticking there.
But from between its shoulder blades sprouted a pair of magnificent wings, delicate, gossamer, shimmering gently silver, even in the dark. Its feet and hands were as nimble and delicate as those of an elf. And Constantine could see its eyes, clear and blue, emitting a soft, beautiful light.
Guardians were half divine, half hellish, to represent the struggle within humans (supposedly to be able to empathise with them, though Constantine had yet to see evidence of this) and as a result their physical appearance reflected that of their inner natures. Half the creature was ugly, repulsive, while the other half was transfixing, breathtaking.
"I was sleeping," the Grinora said tetchily. "I think I will have to eat you."
That was the other problem with guardians. They could never control their urges.
Even inside his protective circle, Constantine was more than a little nervous.
"I brought you kittens," he said, gesturing hopefully to the box at his feet.
The Grinora blinked slowly, its huge blue eyes peering at the box.
"I suppose kittens might make a suitable substitute," it murmured finally.
Constantine masked his relief and tried not to feel too sorry for the kittens as the guardian picked the up box and dropped its entire contents down its throat.
The mewling suddenly ceased.
The guardian swallowed, a brief, satisfied expression crossing its face.
"Now, what do you want?"
"I need a spell to free control of the mind."
The Grinora regarded him curiously.
"For whom?"
"A friend of mine."
The Grinora scratched its wobbling chin with a delicate nail.
"And do you know who or what possesses his mind?"
Constantine shook his head. "Something powerful. That's all I know."
"Hmm." The Grinora looked thoughtful. "No, can't help."
Constantine scowled.
"Look pal, I gave you a really big box of kittens. Cute, fluffy ones. You'd better give me something in return."
The Grinora pouted.
"But it's fun being mean."
Constantine glared.
It sighed.
"Oh very well. I can give you a spell that will repel even the strongest presence from a mind, though I hold no such responsibility for the consequences."
Constantine remembered what the book had said. The victim may not be able to live without the foreign presence. They could go insane.
"I'll take it."
The Grinora nodded.
"Very well. It's quite complicated, I'm afraid. You'll need lots of ingredients. They can be quite costly," it added, as if secretly hoping that Constantine would be too poor to afford extravagance.
"That's my problem. You just concentrate on giving me that spell."
The Grinora sighed again.
"Well, I suppose any sort of mind control is against what I stand for…"
It looked almost disappointed.
"The spell."
The Grinora clapped its hands, and produced a piece of ordinary, white paper.
"Ahem." It cleared its throat and then began muttering words that Constantine couldn't understand. It stopped, squinted at the paper, then shook its head and began muttering again. After five more of these little performances, it finally finished, presenting the paper to Constantine with flourish.
Constantine took it, raising an eyebrow.
"This is typed," he said.
The Grinora nodded, looking suddenly annoyed.
"Microsoft works. Ha, that's an oxymoron if I've ever heard one."
Constantine stared.
"Was there anything else?"
Constantine shook his head, still trying to process the image of guardians sitting at computers.
There was another roaring wind, and then the Grinora was gone, a few book pages floating slowly to the floor in its wake.
Constantine drew a deep breath, wincing at the remaining scent of putrid meat.
God, he was tried. It hit him in a sudden wave, the lack of sleep, the worrying, the running around, the summoning, the dreams. He was surprised he didn't drop down where he stood.
He was desperate to help Chas, but the Grinora hadn't been kidding when it said the spell was complicated. There were quite a lot of things he would have to buy, and even then it would take him a few days, at least, to gather enough energy to try a spell of this magnitude.
He had to sleep, really sleep, allow his body to recuperate. He could go to the magic shop tomorrow, get the ingredients then. Right now what he needed were several large sleeping pills.
He found them, in his bathroom cabinet, prescribed from God knows how long ago. Sleeping tablets didn't go bad, did they?
He undressed properly, for the first time in days, and slipped between the sheets. He lined the pills up, three of them, then knocked them back with water, laid his head on the pillow, and waited for oblivion to claim him.
The phone was ringing.
Once, twice, three times.
He knew he should get up and answer it, but his limbs felt so heavy.
Six, seven, eight.
Why didn't he put the phone by his bed, like every other normal person?
Twelve, thirteen, fourteen.
Who didn't hang up after the tenth ring?
With a groan, Constantine rolled over, dragging himself from bed and stumbling across the apartment to the phone, snatching it from its cradle.
"Yeah?"
"John? It's me."
Beeman. God, what did he want?
"What?"
"I, uh, was wondering how you were. After…what happened at Fairmont's. I tried calling earlier, but there was no answer."
"I was asleep," Constantine growled.
"Ah, yes, well, that would explain it then."
Constantine waited impatiently for Beeman to make his point and go.
"I was wondering…if you, um, managed to get-"
"I've got it," Constantine interrupted, suddenly realising that he forgotten to give Beeman Venezuela.
"Oh you have!" Beeman sounded, well, delighted. "That's fantastic John. Never doubted you for a second. I trust the information I gave you was useful."
"It was fine," Constantine replied, fighting a yawn. "I'll drop it by later."
He was about to hang up when a sudden thought occurred to him.
"Hey Beeman, have you heard anything about this War of the Worlds that everyone seems to be talking about?"
"I've heard a little," Beeman replied. "As far as I can gather it's rumoured to be a war of the elementals. Supposedly for Earth."
"Why now?" Constantine murmured. "It doesn't make sense. Why suddenly now?"
"I suppose now is as good time as any."
"Could you look into it for me? It seems the half breeds are making a big fuss about it, yet no one on Earth knows jack shit."
"I'll see what I can do," Beeman promised.
Constantine nodded, though Beeman could not see him.
"Something just doesn't seem right…"
"I'll look," Beeman said.
"Right. Thanks."
"Are you alright, John? You don't quite seem yourself."
Constantine blinked, trying to alleviate the weird feeling that had suddenly come over him. Must be the remnants of the sleeping pills.
"I'm fine," he muttered. "I need you to do something else for me. I need you to pull everything you can get on mind control."
"Mind control?"
"I think-" Constantine hesitated, unsure whether or not to get Beeman involved. "I think Chas may be under some kind of mind control. Something powerful."
He heard Beeman take a breath.
"Do you think the two are related? The war and Chas?"
Constantine blinked. The thought hadn't even occurred to him, but Beeman was right. The timing fit, and Chas's strange knowledge of the war. But why? How were they connected?
"It's possible," he conceded. "Worth looking at." The idea unsettled him. "I'll see you later."
He hung up without waiting for Beeman to reply.
He had breakfast that morning, the first in almost as long as he could remember, and firmly by passed his cigarettes, stuffing the half full packet behind the bath tub, so they wouldn't tempt him.
It was only a day or two. He could do it.
He chewed his toast slowly (he'd found the loaf, to his great surprise, in the freezer. It must have been a left over from Chas's stay) but ate it without spread. There was nothing like that in his cupboards. He had made himself some terrible black coffee, and washed his toast down with it, surprised, afterwards, about how good he felt. Hmm, maybe breakfast served a purpose after all.
He washed, got dressed and put his shoes on, then carefully placed the spell the Grinora gave him in his pocket and set out for the magic shop.
The shop was an old one, in a slightly down market part of the city that was filled with independently owned coffee shops and poetry book stores, young, skinny people walking around in black, looking permanently depressed, gripping their works by Goethe or Chaucer or Brecht.
Artistes.
Constantine opened the door of the magic shop, the small bell above tinkling his arrival, and stepped inside, almost immediately overwhelmed by a mixture of smells: herbs, flowers, plants, minerals.
He waited a second, letting his senses adjust, then began to wonder among the carefully arranged shelves.
He liked this shop, despite generally abhorring anything to do with the supernatural, which was small and clean and organised, even though it looked to be overflowing with clutter. They had worked hard at keeping with the times; they accepted credit cards, cheques, took orders, had stock and took inventory (Constantine knew this as he had had an impromptu encounter with one of the girls that worked there once, in the back of the storeroom).
All in all, if one had to shop, it was rather pleasant place to do it.
Constantine took a basket from the stack by the door, and began filling it with things from his list: dried heather, night shade, pumpkin seeds, rose thorns.
As he made his way amongst the shelves, a figure lurking near the books caught his eye, a slender, boyish figure that looked painfully out of place.
He made his forward, reaching out to touch the shoulder of the girl, and as he did she gave a sudden cry and whirled, bringing her knee up into his groin and pushing him against a bookshelf.
Constantine dropped his basket, heather and pumpkin seeds flying everywhere, to cover his injured manhood, unable to stop himself as he connected heavily with the bookshelf, a great groan echoing around the store as it collapsed under his weight and he went down with it, buried under a library and a cloud of dust.
When the dust finally cleared, he could see Mac standing above him, looking rather sheepish.
Behind her stood Rowena, the assistant he had had the fling with, one hand on her slim hip, an eyebrow raised.
"You never do anything quietly, do you John?" she asked, her lilting Tahitian accent playful.
Remembering the way he'd made her shout in the storeroom, he had to smile.
"Guess not," he replied flippantly, pulling himself from the books, fishing around for his basket which was now, predictably, empty.
At least there was nothing breakable in there.
"You need help clearing this up?" he asked.
Rowena shook her head and made a shooing motion with her hand.
"You've done enough damage. I will get Marek to help me. Go. Shop."
Constantine sent her a charming grin which she could not help but return, then grasped Mac's elbow firmly and steered her into a corner of the shop far away from the bookshelves.
"I am so sorry-" she began, but Constantine cut her off.
"Somehow I don't believe it's a coincidence you're here."
Mac raised her chin defiantly.
"What, so I can't do a little shopping?"
"Cut the crap, Mac. What are you doing here?"
For a moment she remained stubborn, then sighed and dug into her jeans pocket, fishing out a piece of paper.
"Okay, so after you left I got thinking. And I thought it was kinda weird that Chas would just up and leave like that, especially since he hadn't bothered to collect his books, which are kind of like his life."
Constantine nodded in agreement. He'd found it strange, seeing all Chas's precious books abandoned like that.
"So, I went online, hacked into a few of his records, tried to find out where he was living, but couldn't get anything. So I took a look at his credit card bills, and found that not very long ago he bought a whole bunch of stuff from this place." She shrugged. "Figured I should check it out."
Despite himself, Constantine was impressed. He barely knew how to turn a computer on, let alone hack into anything. The girl was smart.
The girl was Chas's girlfriend.
He pushed the thought firmly aside.
"Let me see the bill."
She handed over a computer printout, listing all the products Chas had bought, and the dates.
August 14th. Two days ago, the day before Constantine saw him.
He scanned the list of purchases, and almost dropped the sheet in surprise. Some of them were exactly what he himself had used yesterday. Chalk, thyme, lavender, henna. The ingredients for a summoning spell.
But there were other things too. Several small moonstones, a historic dagger, hemp. Things used not in summoning, but possession.
Constantine felt a slight stab of fear. Who or what was Chas summoning that could not go back, that needed a vessel?
Mac was watching him, her dark eyes questioning, and Constantine regarded her thoughtfully.
Could he trust her? She was smart, a little jumpy maybe, but obviously had a head on her shoulders. She could help him get into Chas's computer. She knew Chas, knew the way he thought, could predict what he would do. She could help him.
Her short hair was messy, as if she hadn't bothered to brush it that morning, and she was wearing a tank top with her scruffy jeans, the same scuffed sneakers. Her skin was so pale, her dark hair and eyes a shock against that white.
She was just a kid. Chas's age.
John would never willingly involve Chas in anything like this, had, in fact, done everything he could to keep him away from it. To keep him safe.
"You hungry kid?"
Mac's eyes widened slightly and she nodded.
"I have a few things to get here. Wait for me in that diner across the street. Order anything you want and get me something healthy. And a black coffee."
Mac hesitated, unsure.
"I'm not gonna hurt you kid."
"I know that," she snapped, chin coming up, that toughness he'd seen in her the other day surfacing. "Fine," she said, and he watched her walk out the door, crossing the street to the crummy diner on the other side.
He made his way quickly round the shop, gathering the things he needed and indulging in a bit of harmless banter with Rowena. She smiled temptingly at him as he paid, her silent invitation not at all unappealing, but Constantine didn't have the time right then. Not when Chas's girlfriend was waiting for him across the street. Chas, the guy, the boy he was…what? Obsessed with? Lusting after?
John shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts.
Later.
Mac looked up as he came in, sipping a chocolate milkshake through a straw, his coffee set out in front of her. He slid into the booth opposite her and she smiled in greeting.
"I ordered you a salad."
Constantine silently cursed his new mind frame.
"And I suppose you'll be a eating a nice cheeseburger?"
Mac grinned at him.
"Got it one."
He studied her, after the food had come and she was absorbed in her French fries, the plain features, the messy hair, the high cheekbones. She was sort of pretty, he supposed, if you looked hard enough, but there wasn't anything immediately appealing about her. She really was more boy than girl, the careless regard to her appearance and tough attitude not exactly taking away from the misconception.
So why did Chas like her?
He knew he was being ridiculous, obsessive even, but he couldn't help but wonder why Chas would bother with her, why he would choose Mac.
She glanced up at him, feeling his gaze.
"What?" she asked, annoyed.
He shook his head, picked listlessly at his salad, then pushed it aside and reached for his coffee.
"So, how long you known Chas?"
She narrowed her eyes slightly, but answered with a shrug.
"Couple of years. We went to school together, before Chas dropped out."
Constantine couldn't imagine Chas at school.
"Why'd he quit?"
She shrugged again.
"Too smart, I guess. Used to run rings around the teachers. He would get bored, and was always looking at things he wasn't supposed to, supernatural stuff. I guess with no parents around, he felt he could make his own decisions." She smiled grimly. "Plus, you can't live in an apartment when you got nothing coming in."
Constantine said nothing. The thought of Chas's bastard parents still made his blood boil.
"You think you can find him?"
Constantine hesitated.
It had been his plan to enlist her help, to use her expertise, but now he wondered, should he? Her talk of school made him realise just how young she was. Did he have any right to place her in potential danger? On the other hand, she was Chas's girlfriend. Didn't she have the right to be involved?
She was staring at him, waiting for his answer.
"I don't know," he said finally.
"But you're looking, right?"
He nodded slowly.
"I'm looking."
"And if you find him, you'll tell me? Get him to at least call me?"
He nodded again. "I will," he lied.
Oh well, no turning back now.
Mac seemed satisfied.
"Did you find anything useful out from the credit card list?" she asked.
Constantine shook his head.
"Just a jumble of things, no pattern I can see."
She sighed, looking dispirited.
"I tried."
Constantine felt bad, seeing her so deflated, but he pushed the pity aside. He had to focus on Chas, that was all that mattered now.
Mac finished off her milkshake, slurping the last bits with her straw.
"You know," she said, not looking at him. "I don't really believe in magic and all that mumbo jumbo crap. Chas is always going on about demons, spells, stuff like that. I used to laugh at him for it." She looked slightly thoughtful. "But these days I'm not so sure."
He remembered last time they'd met, the way she dragged him out of the church after he'd sworn.
"Are you religious?"
She shrugged.
"Sort of. I believe in God." She laughed. "That's about as far as I've got, I'm afraid."
He raised his eyebrows in question.
"It's that church thing," she said. "I hate all the denominations."
"All of them?"
"They're all hypocrites. They have so many rules and regulations. So many dos and don'ts. Do you think God cares if you cross yourself before you pray, or if it's the Minister who gives out the bread and wine? When someone's baptised, do you think God likes it when they have to go through a whole, huge, boring ceremony. Do you think there were ceremonies on the River Jordan?"
He smiled slightly at her tirade. He could almost see why Chas would like her.
"So you believe in God but not the church. Where does magic come into that?"
She shrugged again. It seemed to be a favourite pastime of hers.
"It just seems too unreal. I believe there is something higher, that we're not just here by chance, but beyond that I have no clue."
So that explained the sex before marriage.
"Magic just seems so…fairytale."
She suddenly looked worried.
"Do you think Chas is alright?"
"Chas will be fine," he replied firmly. "I am going to find him and I am going to bring him home." He tried to ignore the little stab of guilt as she looked comforted by his words. Whatever the future held for him and Chas, he didn't exactly envision Mac being a part of it.
"I believe you," she said. "God knows why as your constant presence hasn't exactly been my greatest source of happiness…"
She trailed off, seeming to realise she'd said too much.
"What do you mean?" he asked. "My 'constant presence'?"
She shrugged, looking uncomfortable.
"Chas just talks about you a lot, is all. Sometimes it feels as if you're in the room with us." She squared her shoulders slightly, steeling herself for whatever she was going to say next.
"I know I don't…have Chas. Not in the way I'd like, but I hope to change that someday. You should just be aware, that's all."
Constantine raised an eyebrow. Was this girl, this slight, scruffy girl threatening him? Warning him off her man. It would almost be funny, if it didn't make his heart thump with guilt and sudden fear.
This girl was willing to fight for Chas. If it came down to it, would Chas even want him?
Or would he choose her.
Stop it.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he lied.
Mac regarded him.
"Right," she said, but he knew she wasn't buying it.
Constantine paid for their food, and they walked out together, Constantine's magic shop purchases in a paper bag in his arms.
It was another clear, yet stiflingly hot day. He tilted his head back, taking in the blue sky, fringed with sky scrapers and pollution.
He blinked. Had he just imagined that?
He could have sworn, for a second, that a little tear appeared in the sky.
Maybe he really was going crazy.
He looked at Mac, and it happened again, behind her, in the road, just a tiny rip which appeared then disappeared.
"Did you see that?" he asked.
"See what?"
"That tear thing…"
She was looking at him strangely.
"Are you feeling okay?"
"I'm fine," he snapped, irritated. "I just thought I saw…never mind."
She was still looking at him oddly.
"You look a little pale."
"I'm always pale."
"Yeah, but now you're really pale."
"I'm fine, will you just drop it?"
Mac looked taken aback by his sharp tone.
"No need to get crabby."
He scowled, but said nothing more. Little holes were opening up in the earth and he was the only who could see them. His life just got better and better.
"Well I gotta go, thanks for the lunch."
"Sure."
"Hey." She stopped suddenly and pulled a pen out of her jeans pocket, then leant over and scribbled something on his paper bag.
"My number and address," she said. "So you can call me if, you know, you find him. Chas left some stuff at my place, books about Demon Queens and stuff. Maybe I'll even read them. Who knows, it could help."
He nodded, remembering her eagerness to help, her handy skills.
Maybe he should…
"See you round, Constantine."
She turned and walked away.
Constantine wasn't sure if he was annoyed or relieved.
On his own again.
He spent the next two days holed up in his apartment, the phone unplugged, the door locked, drinking lots of coffee and water and eating baked beans on whole wheat toast, a source of fibre and stuff
He slept as much as he could, and when the nightmares invaded took the sleeping pills in the bathroom cabinet.
He was storing his energy, preparing his body for the spell he was going to perform, the trial he would have to face.
He only smoked two cigarettes.
It was on the third day that he was ready.
He was well rested, his body in as good a shape as it had ever been, his energy -physical, mental and magical- in full flow.
It was time.
He pushed the giant table to one end of the apartment, and stacked all the bottles of holy water that lined the windows by his bed.
He laboured over drawing the markings out on his wooden floor, first in chalk, then blood (not his own blood, high quality pig's blood).
He carefully placed the black and white candles at the precise points of the drawings, surrounding each one by a pool of concocted rose thorns, pumpkin seeds, heather and nightshade, mashed up and watered down into a sort of wet paste. Apparently the strong scent and potent combination of ingredients would attract and confuse the foreign presence in the mind.
He laid the giant, earthenware jug, complete with stopper, at the point of the symbols, within easy reach, to catch the foreign presence in.
The he sat, cross legged, in the centre, and proceeded to speak the first words of the spell, painting the required symbols on his face and arms in the pig's blood.
At first he felt nothing happen, then a slight tingling, up and down his spin, along his arms. It grew stronger as he continued, lighting each candle at the appropriate words. The heat from the wax soon reached the pools of herbs beneath, sending the dizzying perfumes into the enclosed space.
The tingling was fierce now, gripping him as the room around him began to shake, ever so slightly.
He could see the chairs moving, the books on the table quivering, but could not feel it, protected in the very centre of the symbol.
It reassured him. He was safe.
He closed his eyes, beginning to speak the ancient words of the main spell, his hands shaking with effort of resisting the almost painful tingling which held him now, the magic trying to course through him.
The shaking was worse now, the floor beneath him moved, and a candle went out.
Not breaking his chanting, Constantine leaned forward, using a long tab to relight the candle from another.
An unseen force jerked his arm, his hand slipping into the hissing flame. He grit his teeth against the pain, continued to speak, relit the other candle and withdrew his arm into the safety of the centre circle. He could feel his hand throbbing, the skin blistering, but ignored it.
It would get a lot worse.
The floor shook again, and he fell sideways, pulling himself back into the circle even as he felt invisible hands reaching to drag him from it.
He chanted, raising his voice a little, undeterred.
He could feel a presence trying to break into his mind, and for a second he faltered, confused, the words eluding him.
He felt it sliding away from him, the magic, the control, slipping from his shaky grasp.
No.
He wrenched his mind back again, every ounce of his being fighting, forced himself to say the words.
The candles around him flickered, quickly, dangerously, though none went out.
He could feel the presence's rage. Rage that he would not give up, rage that he dared to try and interfere in the first place.
It pulled at him, battered him, and he swayed, in the circle, against that all consuming tirade.
He chanted, shouting the words in defiance, and for a moment the rage subsided, for a moment he felt past the rage, past the presence, felt something else, something so familiar.
Chas.
Amongst that rage, that control, that evil, he felt the tiny, struggling beacon that was Chas, pure, tired, lost.
And in that second, so amazed that he could actually feel Chas, he let his concentration slip. The chanting stopped, he relaxed, just for a split second.
But it was enough.
In a rush, the candles went out, the flames extinguished, and the words were gone, wiped from his mind. He was torn from the circle, a great howling in his mind, and thrown against the window, the glass shattering around him, piercing his skin. He was pulled, half falling to the ground, and flung across the room, hitting the door with explosive burst of pain, slashes opening across his skin, leaking blood, warm and wet, running over him.
For a moment he seemed to hover in mid air, then rushed upwards, smashed against the ceiling, his windpipe compressed, choking, dying.
Then it was over, and he fell to the floor with a thud, hitting the candles, the scent of heather and pumpkin seeds washing over him as he lost consciousness.
He could remember a spell gone wrong.
As he lay there, hours afterwards, slowly waking and trying to piece together what had happened, he could gather that much.
He had gotten distracted, was dragged from the circle.
His skin hurt, felt too tight, crusty.
He couldn't see properly, the vision in his right eye obscured.
He lay there, for hours, perhaps days, he didn't know.
All he knew was the pain, and the failure.
Somewhere inside his confused mind, he knew that.
He had failed, he had failed and now he had nothing more to do, no other trick to try.
He would give up.
He had lost.
He wasn't even sure what he had lost, what he was giving up.
He knew it was something important, but he was so tired, so confused, he just couldn't think. He knew he was lying in something wet, and the rational, working part of his brain told him he should get up, that he was injured, that he needed to get it together.
But the rest of him just lay there, confused, damaged, broken.
He had failed.
When he did manage to get up, he did not recognise the man who stared back at him from the mirror, this man with dark hair and pale skin and slashing cuts across his face.
He knew, in some, distant sort of way, that the man was him, and that he was looking at himself, but couldn't seem to connect the information so that it made any sense, and found himself self crawling under blankets, cocooned in sudden warmth, darkness.
Nothing mattered anymore, he realised.
There was no pint. He had failed. There was no point.
He did not think. He did not feel. He did not sleep.
He was blank, removed.
He had given up.