Author's Note: For those of you who were wondering, that cruel little snippet of mine was actually from the sequel to this fic. So…stay tuned and keep reviewing…the more reviews I get, the faster I post. The faster I post, the sooner we get to the sequel. The sooner you get your smut.
Anywho…the oneshot is called "Shattered" and has been posted for about a week and a half. Sorry for the confusion if you didn't see it.
Remember-10 reviews, I update next Saturday, less, I update in two weeks. If I get 10 reviews for another 2 chapters, I'll write you guys another oneshot.
Chapter 15
Arcata Airport
Eureka, CA
6:22 P.M.
October 16, 2005
"Hey John!"
Constantine looked warily up from the shelf he'd been examining. There was no one in sight but the clerk behind the counter and a couple of halfbreeds looking at airplane pillows.
"Heyyyyy John!"
A tap on the shoulder. He turned the other way and was confronted with a pair of familiar brown eyes peering out from below a mop of unruly curls.
"Chas?" The face split into a grin ear to ear and bobbed up and down in an enthusiastic nod, curls shaking every which way. " 'The fuck--
"Thought you'd be glad to see me," chirped the halfbreed, moving to stand on his other side.
"Yeah, kid, sure." In truth it was utterly unnerving to run into what Constantine considered walking proof of his failure as a mentor, and on top of that at a time like this. He'd come here to get away from the others after their flight had been delayed yet another three hours, making it a record midnight haul up to Oregon. He didn't need this right now.
"You want a robotic vacuum that'll clean your house while you sleep?" asked Chas eagerly.
Constantine raised an eyebrow.
"'Cause they've got one of those here, if you wanted it. Glasses to find your lost golf balls, too. And action figures of the president."
"Jesus, no, I don't need one of those," said Constantine. The store ought to have advertised junk, it had so much in stock.
"Just thought I'd try and help you."
Constantine shook his head again and picked up a pair of dog shoes, examining the flimsy pieces of felt out of sheer amusement.
"That what you're here for? To help me?"
"Yeah, actually. With the case."
"You my guardian angel now?" The thought was downright disturbing. He hadn't expected to be hearing from Chas for a while at least.
"Hell no. But I've gotta warn you."
"Warn me of what?"
"The killer. It's not who everyone thinks it is."
"No kidding. Tell me something I don't know." Constantine put the dog shoes down and moved on to a ball of frightening looking prongs which claimed to be a head massager.
"It's someone close to you."
Constantine's blood ran cold. He had suspected as much, but to be told so outright was disturbing. And he still had no idea—for the first time in his life, his surefire instincts didn't seem to be working.
"Balthazar?" asked Constantine, spitting the name like a vile substance. He'd deported the halfbreed, yes, but a demon could still possess a person without ever leaving Hell.
Chas started to say something else, but then a strange look came over his face. He jerked around like a spooked puppy.
"Look, John, I gotta go. I can't tell you any more."
There was the sound of footsteps behind him suddenly, and Constantine turned to see Angela entering the shop holding a takeout bag from one of the airport restaurants.
"We're boarding soon," she said matter-of-factly.
Constantine took the bag out of her hands and whirled back to find Chas, but the halfbreed was already long gone.
They were greeted at the airport by a group of uniformed officers and several local squad cars. The man in charge introduced himself as Chief Morton, giving them each stiff handshakes and suspicious glances. He was an older man, red hair graying around his sideburns, and so red in the face it appeared as though he might keel over from a heart attack at any given moment. Constantine sighed, earning himself another glance and a disapproving cough from Morton and Weiss respectively. This was exactly what he had expected, unfortunately. It had been his experience over the years that law enforcement was becoming more about egos and less about protecting people. They were clearly not wanted here, able to help or not.
"We understand that the case is technically still yours," said Morton formally. Constantine sensed there was an inevitable "but" coming here. "But we'd like you to know that the Eugene police department is more than able to deal with this case on our own. We'd like your report, of course, but as far as aiding in our investigation—" He paused here for a rather sickly sounding chuckle, "You folks might as well just go on back home where you're needed."
Constantine yawned rudely in the man's face—it was the middle of the night, after all.
"Why am I not surprised?" he muttered, just low enough for the words to be indecipherable.
"I beg your pardon?" said Morton, wheeling.
Angela rolled her eyes at him, and Constantine had the sudden elementary-school-boy urge to continue showing off for her. Still, he had the feeling that this particular display might end up costing them all more than it would gain for him.
"We thank you, Captain," said Angela, an edge of barely concealed distaste evident in her voice, "but we'll pass on the return flight for the moment. I'm sure you understand. We'd like to see this killer caught as much as you would."
Morton frowned, cocking his head rudely toward Constantine and leaning closer to Angela as though she were his confidant. She took a step back, looking positively nauseated.
"By the way," said the older man in a plain stage-whisper, "no one ever quite explained to me what he's doing on this case. It may still be your jurisdiction, but he's got no business here as far as my people are concerned."
Angela gave Morton her worst look, and Constantine felt a small twinge of satisfaction at the gesture. There was a time when he'd found that glance turned on him at every third word out of his mouth. It was nice seeing it directed somewhere else for a change, and especially on his behalf.
"Consider him a hired professional giving council on the case," she answered at last.
Morton took one final look back and forth, rotating between Constantine and Angela. His expression changed comically fast, between distaste and a sort of sickeningly covetous curiosity. He looked like a mime, though Constantine, trying to be a complete set of comedy/tragedy masks.
"Very well," he said at last, "so long as there are no liability issues." He paused and gestured at the closest squad car. "We will speak again at a more…agreeable hour. In the meantime, my colleagues will take you to your arranged lodging. I trust you will enjoy it."
Constantine wasted no time in making his way over to the car, holding one of the back doors open for Angela—hey, he could be charming when he wanted to be, or so he liked to think at least—while Weiss got in front next to the driver.
"Does that mean I'm going to get paid for this?" he asked, scooting around to sit next to Angela in the back.
She gave him another look, though there was a definite warmth to this one. She was annoyed, yes, but more fondly than anything else.
"What gave you that idea?"
"You said I'm a trained professional. Professionals tend to get paid for the services they provide."
"Ah. Services. That's what you call the things you do."
Constantine shook his head at her, then put on his best deadpan face.
"Depends what things you're talking about."
The childish side of him, the side that had been coming to the surface frighteningly more and more often lately was hoping she'd laugh, or maybe even try to elbow him. Instead she just shook her head and turned to look out the window. Constantine sighed again and looked out his own side as the lights of the city flashed by outside. It was raining lightly, and clammy. The kind of night that made a person want to curl up by candlelight—or preferably with someone else—and read or talk or something else both pointless and sappy. Constantine mentally chided himself as they pulled up to the hotel. Much as he wanted to be with Angela, the thought still scared him. Recently he'd been catching himself doing—and worse feeling—things he'd thought he'd left behind long ago.
There was undoubtedly something strange about this case.
Maybe several somethings.
Maybe it was something in the air.
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