Hey everybody! Sorry I've taken so long to update, I've had major writer's block issues. I've finally made a link, but it may be a bit weak. Let me know what you think, as I'm still struggling quite a bit.
Anyway, my big fat thank-you's:
Nathalie: where would I be without you? Probably sitting in a corner of the library still sobbing cos I can't think of anything.
Jack-the-Panda: I guess the constant poking worked to inspire me in the end, as I couldn't stand it anymore, and had to write to save my very tender arm. I'm sorry I yelled at you, BTW.
And to all those people who have been patiently waiting, I thank you. You are what keeps me going at the moment, as everyone hates me round here! Anyway, enough of my whining…
Disclaimer: a teeny-weeny part of the book dialogue is lifted from the film, 'Prophecy'. Anyone who likes Constantine should go and watch this trilogy of movies right now. Also, if you do this, you will get a hint of where my story is going. MWAH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Okay, I'm done…
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"You're sure?"
"Constantine, this isn't right. It's not your average-Joe murder, it looks almost ritualistic. This was done with purpose, John."
John massaged his eyebrows, growing irritated with the near-hysterical man on the other end of the phone. Don't shoot the messenger, he chided himself mentally.
"Constantine?"
"Alright, Derek, alright. I'll come down." John hung up the phone, and leant against the wall with a small groan. Being almost pleasant had just about sucked all the energy from him. People just weren't his forte.
Speaking of people…
John looked down at his couch, and had to suppress a grin. Chas was sleeping on his front, face on one side, mouth open like he was catching flies. His hat had slipped onto the floor, and his curls had frizzed. It was moments like this John remembered he was still little more than a kid. Shame to wake him really…
Chas almost fell off the couch as the soaking cloth collided with his face. He started, looked around blearily for a moment, then heard John call from his bedroom:
"I need a ride, kid."
Realising, where the cloth had come from, Chas felt annoyance welling up inside of him. Pulling his cap on with an angry tug, he yelled;
"Was that really necessary? Y'know, one day I'm gonna be taller, and then your fucked!" There was silence from the bedroom. This lack of response only served to peeve him further. "I mean it, man! One of these days I'm just gonna walk. There you'll be, minus one whipping boy! John? John, you son of a bitch!"
"Language, Chas," was the cool answer that came from the room.
"Argh, screw you!" Chas stomped down the stairs and out of the Bowlerama. He wrenched open the driver's side door of his taxi and got in, flumping sulkily onto the seat.
"Jerk!" he muttered, and seized a book from the dashboard, entitled 'The Temple of the Inner Sanctum; Protecting Your Soul.' He thumbed through the a few pages, eyes skimming over the words, until he paused suddenly on a chapter headed 'Angels; Your Guardians?' Feeling decidedly more interested, Chas traced his finger down the page, tongue between his teeth as he read;
Angels are the winged messengers of God, but are not as benevolent as they may seem. If God needs a killing, he sends an angel. If God needs to set an example, he sends an angel. They are creatures whose sole existence is based on loving, yet they eternally heave one wing dipped in blood. If you must summon an angel for guidance, avoid the archangel Gabriel"-
"No shit," Chas muttered.
"- as he is entirely without a concept of morals. Instead, you should turn to the angel of wisdom, Raphael, or the anel who is considered to be most human, the archangel Uriel, for his divine light will not blind you. He shall be gentle, his voice soothing, and"-
"Time to go."
"Holy fuck!" Chas almost shot through the roof as John spoke from behind. He hadn't even heard him get into the car.
"You speaking to me yet?"
"Er, yeah, I s'pose…" Chas replied vacantly, and shoved the book under his seat.
"Where to?"
"Figueroa street. And Chas?"
"Yeah?"
"You're staying in the car this time."
"Ah, what? You mean I've fought the son of Satan himself, not to mention getting' my ass seriously whooped, only to be resurrected-RESSURECTED, JOHN- and of course, being either brave enough or stupid enough to be a cab Driver in L.A, and you still won't let me come with you! I mean, God, John, what are you tryin' to say…"
Chas continued rambling as he sped through the city, back to his normal, reckless self. John shook his head, gazing out of the window at the rapidly passing buildings. When they pulled up at their destination, which was roped off with police tape, the boy was still going;
"Seriously though, man, you gotta let me in on this one. I swear, I'll watch my ass. No being a hero, no"-
"Chas! Stay in the car!" Constantine slammed the door, and stooped under the tape. A small, balding detective with a red face, and watery eyes came over to him, and began to talk to the exorcist animatedly. As they disappeared down an alley between two apartment blocks, Chas re-adjusted his mirrors and frowned.
"It's not like I wanna die again," he muttered bitterly. He seized the book from underneath the seat, and flicked through the pages till he came to where he left off:
"-his voice shall be soothing, and you shall find yourself compulsively trusting him. However, guard yourself carefully, as he is a fierce protector of those he loves, and those who cross him will find the flame of God hanging perilously close to his skull. It is often said that Uriel's greatest weakness is his heart; those who hold his heart are both protected and in greater danger than is imaginable."
"Boy…" Chas frowned at this last sentence, re-read it, then exhaled. "Angels are complicated." He couldn't help feeling a little discomfort at delving into information about Uriel. It seemed, from what he knew of her, pretty accurate though. He thumbed through the rest of the book, searching for anything else on angels, but that was it. Shoving the volume back on the dashboard, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, whistling tunelessly for a moment, then checked his watch. It'd only been fifteen minutes.
"Argh, screw this!" Chas got out of the car and crossed the police line, which was blissfully vacant of officers. Following the path he's seen Constantine take earlier, he wandered down the alleyway…
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John felt a headache as he looked down at the body.
"I knew she'd be your sort of thing," Derek said. "Cleared the area moment I saw her." The detective took a cotton handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped it over his bald patch, wiping away beads of sweat. "Pretty nasty, huh?"
John smiled callously. Derek didn't know the half of it.
The young woman before them had been leant against the wall, her blouse torn open, a bloody inscription of curving lines etched into the blanched skin of her chest. Her arms were gathered into her lap as though she was casually sitting, and her short blond hair had been staunched with blood from a head wound around her left temple.
Apart from the calling card carved into her chest, the girl could've passed for a pretty normal murder victim in Los Angeles. But to Constantine, she was so much more.
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Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeell, what do you think? And before you ask, the girl is not an old flame! Please review!