Author's note: I just realized that there's a major flaw in my story plan. When I was devising this plot, I was working under the erroneous assumption that mortals could see angels and demons, they just couldn't see their wings/scaly bits. They just looked human to living mortals. I'm really sorry about the mistake, but I absolutely cannot change it for the story to work. Just bear that in mind.
Oh, and 'Chas' is a diminutive of 'Charles'. I looked it up on I was surprised. I thought it was a made up name. I couldn't resist working it in somewhere.
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John Constantine held the small white cylinder between thumb and forefinger, and stared at it as though it was a difficult puzzle he was trying to solve. Goddamn it he wanted to smoke. He was trying to decide whether it really mattered if he gave in just this once. The only problem was that he had given in "just this once" three times since last night. In the short days since he had been cured of his lung cancer, he had had almost a full pack of "last" cigarettes. He needed to draw the line sometime.
With an angry exhale, he threw the paper tube to the ground, and stepped on it, drawing out a clean white stick of gum instead. It wasn't the same, but it helped him deal with the empty feeling left by the lack of his favorite routine.
The evening was wet and chill, and a passing car splattered him with water from a dirty puddle by the side of the road. "Thanks a lot, asshole," he muttered, shaking droplets off his black leather coat. He sauntered sullenly across the road, ignoring hurrying cars honking at him to move faster. He wasn't looking forward to where he was going.
Constantine hated hospitals. Growing up in one will do that to you. The chill sterility of the soulless building always made him feel like a helpless kid again, even after all he had accomplished. He hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to the hospital. He sat back in his seat and stared blankly at the wet, black concrete of the road outside, lit up with golden highlights from streetlamps.
He'd been too shocked to be happy when he'd received the phone call. Charles Kramer had been rushed to the medical ward as soon as Police had arrived on the crime scene. The doctors had worked for several hours restoring his heartbeat and blood pressure to acceptable levels, and eventually it seemed that he would survive. He had been dead for slightly less than a minute.
He hadn't woken up yet, though. The doctors had declared him comatose and arranged for family to be notified. The hospital clerk had had a hell of a time tracking down a living relative, and had come across John Constantine's name and number. Going out on a limb, he had called and asked if he were some relation. That had been an hour ago, and John had been putting off the hospital visit for as long as he could stand it.
He paid the taxi driver (along with a pitiful tip), and stepped from the icy wetness of night into the florescent sterility of the hospital with some foreboding. He stepped up to the desk where a harassed looking woman with a tight bun was typing frantically on a computer.
"Excuse me… Chas – um, Charles Kramer, what ward is he in?"
"Just a moment sir," sighed the tired woman, clicking several times and punching in a few keys. She gave him a few brief directions before turning back to her work.
It took almost forty five minutes for Constantine to navigate the identical corridors of the hospital until he came across the right room. The door creaked ominously as John stepped into the room.
"Hey Chas," he whispered softly. The teenager looked more dead now than he had in the hydrotherapy room. His skin was gray and clammy, his hair matted and damp. His hands fell limply onto the covers and his head lolled slightly off to one side. Only the persistent beep of the heartrate monitor confirmed that there was life in that body.
Constantine hung on the opposite side of the room, as though he was afraid to come too close. He leaned against the closed door, staring at his young apprentice. After a while he looked as though he thought he should be saying something, and took in a deep breath.
"I took out Gabriel for you, Chas. Well, not exactly. He's human now, and that's worse punishment than anything I could have done." No answer. What did he expect? He had been hoping beyond hope for Chas to look up, smile, nod, anything. But he just lay there, limp and hollow.
"Look… I'm sorry, okay?" he added quietly. "Sorry I let you come along on my stupidly dangerous mission, sorry I let Gabriel do this to you. I got him back, Chas. You can bet on it." Silence again. John ran his hand over his face. He wanted a cigarette.
"C'mon, kid. Wake up." He cajoled softly, without much hope. He stared at the empty body for a long time – he didn't know how long – until a shy nurse came in and told him visiting hours were over. He nodded, and turned to say goodbye to the deaf ears of his apprentice.
"If there's any justice in the world, that thing's empty, and you're sitting on a cloud somewhere strumming a harp," he said, with a little hollow humor but no real hope. John knew well there was no justice in the world. "I'll be in touch when you wake up," he finished lamely, and with a last lingering glance from his unreadable dark eyes, he turned and left the room.
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For a while the room was silent but for the monotonous beeps of the heartrate monitor. Chas never stirred. It only took ten minutes or so for his next visitor to arrive.
The man was well dressed – a black suit and tie, matching his piercing dark eyes and neatly combed hair. He sat down on the chair beside Chas' bed, a half grin on his face.
"Lookin' good, kid," he sneered, leaning back and putting his feet up on the bed. "The clammy gray looks good on you."
He laughed nastily, nudging Chas' motionless form with the toe of his dress shoe. "Who would have thought," he mused to himself, "John Constantine's useless little lackey, caught in the center of the war to end all wars. Ironic. Don't flatter yourself, though. You're little more than a stepping stone on the way to greater things."
He put his feet back down and sat forward in his chair, scraping Chas' cheek with a long nail. "Killing you is just business, kid. Granted, I'll enjoy it. I've been looking forward to it. Tasting the blood of John Constantine's apprentice… is there a demon in hell who wouldn't relish it? And so soon after the exorcist demolished my plans. Revenge is sweet, my boy."
He reached over slowly with his right hand, and placed his long fingers around Chas' throat.
"See you in Hell, kid."
"Big man, Balthazar, killing a human child in a coma. Lucifer ought to promote you for your bravery." The voice was sharp, and Balthazar started, pulling his hand back.
The woman who had spoken stood in the doorway, a cold, disdainful look in her eyes. Her eyes were a warm sky blue, and her hair was a deep rust colour, falling down her shoulders and back in loose curls. She was dressed in street clothes – a white halter top and dark blue jeans – but she seemed somehow more intimidating than Balthazar in his starched black suit.
A slow smile covered the demon's face. "So, God let his favorite goody two shoes half breed back down into the world of the living. I'm surprised he didn't think it was too dangerous for daddy's little girl." He laughed nastily, and rose slowly to his feet. "What brings you to the bedside of the damned?"
"Shut your foul mouth, beast. The boy's soul is not your master's yet. And you know well why I am here."
"Indeed," Balthazar sneered, looking around. "This room's too small for brawling, little angel. You might hurt your precious ward."
"True. But your cover would be blown, and your boss mightn't be too pleased with you." The angel smiled. "If I were you, I'd try and stay on his good side."
Balthazar sneered, but couldn't quite hide his nervousness at this thought. He managed a shallow laugh. "This is futile, little angel. You can't stop this war."
"No?" she said. "Watch me."
Balthazar shrugged and turned to leave. "My plans can be laid out any time, my dear. This is only a small delay."
"Just leave," she spat.
He paused at the door, and turned to face her. All his false human imitation was gone. His eyes flashed darkly at her, and his skin scabbed over to its original scaly gray. "When we win this war, angel, I will see to it personally that a special corner in hell is reserved for you. I will take extra pleasure watching you writhe and burn along with the rest of your ilk."
An overworked nurse clicked down the hallway, and in an instant Balthazar's visage again resembled nothing more than a respectable business man. He turned on his heel and left. The woman sneered at his retreating back.
She turned to the bed, her expression much gentler, and sat down beside Chas' unconscious form. She gently smoothed a few tangled curls back from his face, and placed her hand onto his forehead. She closed her eyes, her mouth working silently as she whispered latin incantations. A soft rushing sound drifted into the room, grew, and faded again to silence. The angel finished the incantation and opened her eyes.
Nothing happened. Chas didn't even stir. But the angel seemed satisfied. She stood quickly, and left the room briskly without looking back, closing the door behind her.
Nothing moved. The heartrate monitor continued its steady beeps, its screen showing regular spikes every few seconds. Beep, beep beep… but the sounds were coming faster now, the green line spiking higher and higher, more erratically, with less time between each disturbance. Chas' body was twitching, his breath coming in faster, his face contracted as though in pain.
With a colossal gasp, Chas Kramer shot up in bed, his eyes wide with shock and panic, his hands gripping the bedclothes into his fists. As his shoulders shook with his panicked breaths, his head bowed and back curved weakly, he tried to get a grip on himself. Trying to get an idea of his surroundings, he ran his eyes over the room. When his eyes returned to his own bed, he saw something that made him pause. He picked it up with shaking fingers, and turned it over in his hands.
One glistening, slender white feather.