Part XX: Blood
Adila raged through the club, light fixtures shattering as she went. She came to a seething halt outside the plush door, and whipped her arm to the side. The door swung open with such force that the impassive Midnite, who sat quietly within the chamber, mixing a drink, jumped—slightly, but enough to tip the silver flask outside of the confines of the smoking drink. He swore under his breath as drops of whiskey drank themselves into the silk table coverings.
A woman he had not seen for over twenty years stood before him, the rage within her dark eyes unmistakable. Seconds later, John Constantine and Angela Dodson came rushing into the room, halting at the tension that cracked through the air. Adila shoved her arm before his face, her sleeve pulled up to her forearm to reveal the twisting stain of a tattoo that curled from the base of her thumb around her wrist and up her forearm. Words from a language that did not originate on earth marked the design, betraying a succinct phrase: "By all that exists, I serve the Balance."
Adila shouted as glass exploded, "Have you forgotten your oath!"
Midnite glared at her, the intensity of his gaze the only part of his face that changed. The rest remained calm, but he sneered as he leaned toward her, "I, too, bear the Mark, Adila. Of course not," he spat.
She flung her arm to the side, a long finger pointing at John's chest, "Then what, might I ask, is he doing here?"
Midnite leaned back against the plush upholstery of his club, "I assume he came with you. Why don't you enlighten me."
Adila fumed, but continued to speak, "HE is the one of Laodicea! The fork has come to pass! My only question was how, and he answered it for me." Her entire body trembled with fury, "You betrayed the balance."
Angela watched the exchange quietly. Adila was barely controlling herself, while Midnite remained, for the most part, calm and impassive.
"No, Adila, I did not. If that was all you had to say, you may leave." Midnite took a generous sip of his drink and gazed steadily at her.
"You helped him in the fight against Mammon."
Midnite's eyes flashed darkly, "Yes. But I did not betray the balance, it was a personal vendetta. I was merely restoring balance by giving John an advantage."
"Do you ever read the prophecies, you foolish man! As an agent of the balance you are not to 'restore' anything! You are not to decide what is balance and what is not, you are only to maintain it!"
Midnite lowered his eyes to the smoking drink as he swirled it around in its cup, "I am an agent, too, Adila. I know what I am to do and not do."
Adila thrust a slip of paper at him, "Read it."
Midnite allowed his eyes to skim languidly over the paper before looking up at her, "Child's play. Where is it from."
"Chemosh."
The only perceptible change in Midnite's expression was a slight raise of his eyebrows, "I see."
"The verse before Laodicea."
"Yes, I understand how you think this might be a complication."
"How I think? Are you insane? He's the walking armageddon!"
"No, my dear Adila, you are forgetting the entire Laodicea."
"Do not ever say my name as though we are on any type of 'terms'," Adila spat, "What could I possibly be forgetting."
"Unity in blood."
"But he has no—"
"Yes, he does."
"He does?"
"Yes, and as long as she is here, Lucifer has no grasp."
Adila felt no relief from this statement, "Underestimation is the worst of sins, you, Midnite, of all, should know this."
Midnite sighed, "You are correct. But I predict it gives us enough time to find our way out of this one. Prophecies are never without an escape hatch. And you, Adila, of all, should know that."
Her anger was simmering, but he had awakened a deeper emotion within her. One that had been long-dormant since her twenty years of not speaking to, or about, him: Hatred.
"Yes. I do."
She awoke in a cold sweat. She'd been having another one of her dreams—one that seemed so real she knew it would come to pass. She sometimes had dreams like this—slightly prophetic was what she'd call them, and they always came to pass. But not this one—this time, she would find a way out.
It was only later that day when the signs began to build themselves upon one another, slowly, like molasses spreading thickly from the overturned jar, and her 'premonition' sickness began. She was sitting quietly on the tattered couch in the living room when she felt the exact time. In twenty minutes, she knew it would pass. In twenty minutes, she knew what would happen.
She was going to die.
Ten minutes before the time of her death, she pulled a .45 colt from the cupboard. She pushed the couch in front of the door, and she stood with her gun trained at the window that overlooked the dusty South African streets. Anyone entering the door would pass by the spotty glass, and she would take them out. She knew the first man would kill her—so she would kill him first. She was ready. She was ready to fight the prophecy.
Not five minutes later, the first man passed by the window. Her hand was steady, but the bullet ricocheted off the pane, slanting away from her target. She shot five more times. She missed, as the soldiers knocked the flimsy door in with the butts of their rifles. Her gun-wielding hand dropped to her side as she closed her eyes, letting the calmness of death wash over her.
"Is this the girl?" One man asked, in his broken English, and another man replied. A man whose voice she knew.
"No. She must be in the bedroom."
"Then we do not need this one either," the first man continued, and the second man stopped him.
"No, do not shoot. The demons have told me we must let her live."
Adila almost snorted at the idea that some story of demons might stop a man from killing her, but, to her surprise, she heard no gunshot.
"Of course."
"The bedroom."
Her eyes flew open—Saki, her twelve-year-old sister. She leapt at the man, "NO!"
But Saki was already gone, blank eyes staring straight ahead. The first man left. The second stared at Adila for a split second. She did not know his name, or anything about him. She only saw him every day at the market. But apparently that had been enough to save her life.
"What is your name?" She choked out.
"Midnite."
"You could have saved her! I heard what you did for me! You could have saved her with the same simple words!"
"Adila," he paused, as if to ponder his next words, "The prophecies need blood."
Thirty years had since passed the incident. Within the ten years following, she had found herself to be, unfortunately, occupying the same circles as this warrior-turned-witchdoctor, even practicing the same rites as she did to fulfill her training in prophecy. The desert prophets demanded a taxing amount from the paladins who wished further education in the art, and it was Adila and Midnite that sought truthfully—and thus were able to complete training. And, as she stood by Midnite to swear her allegiance to the balance, her blood coursed hot through her veins and she still could not forgive or trust him, even as they swore to give their lives for the same ultimate purpose.
"We might be guardians of the balance, Midnite, but remember that Lucifer is Satan for a reason. He doesn't play by the rules." Adila whispered poisonously before turning on her heel and leaving in the same whirl and drama as she had entered.