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tampered2006-10-09 08:30 pm
silkcutremix.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2006-10-09 08:30 pm
Log; Complete
When; October 8th; backdated
Rating; PG-13
Characters;![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bitingnightmare The Corinthian, silkcutremix John Constantine
Summary; A drink, a meeting, and then a bite to eat.
Log;
John pissed, staring at the wall, almost mentally falling into the dirty tile but the filth disrupted the pattern with its smears and discoloration. He could not believe himself, could not believe just how badly he had let the goddamn City get him like that, could not believe how he had stupidly tried to ask some universe's missing devil out like an old mate, or the crowning insult, almost swear to a fucking angel.
His kingdom for a razor blade should he have woken up only too late. Good ol' Cori. He provided a distraction and already the magus owed him more than he would have liked. Just like him to be in debt, always.
Urine, cloudy yellow and sour smelling, swirled about in the brown bottom of the urinal, to the drain and gone.
---
Not that The Corinthian had much of a choice in the matter (he did, but kept his preference for keeping the magus out of trouble a personal secret). Still, what better way to celebrate their victory over escaping Rosiel's clutches than by raising a drink or two? In John's case, seeing himself to the bottom of a pint over a razor blade, what a mess that would have made. Hum, the nightmare was still at the counter, a moment given to him and his thoughts alone. Was the curse so bad? To be so friendly? Not that he would ever want the Englishman to go against his true nature, that's what he admired about John Constantine in the first place. Admired, respected, it was one of those things. He paid close attention to the liquor in his glass.
What better opportunity could The City present to one as fair and diseased as the lady? Now that the two were momentarily separated, she grasped the frame of time in her pale and oh so delicate hands, skin casting the faintest of green tints. She smiled, lips dark berry red and turquoise eyes dusted with a silver shadow, as her heels clicked one by one into the mens room. She closed the door behind her, certain that they were alone.
"A fair evening to you, sir. I seem to have lost my dog," purred the walking illness.
---
John shot up. What was with him and women sauntering up to him while he had his cock in his hands? Some strange twist of fate (those never seemed to stop for him) or a sign? Fortunately he was finished, so that bit of him was quickly zipped away. He gave her a full glance after that, briefly studying her to not project the feeling that he was undressing her with his eyes. Didn't want to do that, even if she happily ignored the fact that this was a men's room for men only, or so the norm went. She seemed beyond norms.
Oh, she was a pretty one, he decided, but she looked ill. There was something nasty hanging about her, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. His reptilian brain knew her but he didn't.
"Hullo. I didn't see a dog in here, sweetheart," replied the magus, scrubbing his hands in the sink. "Sorry."
Had to be more than that.
---
"My apologies," she started to explain, "the ladies room is locked." She replied, trimmed mulberry painted nail to her full lips.
Indeed even mortals could feel the influence whenever pestilence was in town. The plague could not have chosen a more stealthy set of feet. It was in her nature to raise the hairs of a man's neck, to stir that heavy something in their loins. She was ill, but her smile was full of mischief, malice, and some called that spirit. The lady adjusted her ivory blouse then fluffed her glossy raven black hair. It fell at chin length, to frame her prominent noblewoman's cheeks. Rich trade, if those thoughts crossed his mind, and the sheer charcoal nylons attached by lacy black garters under her red vermilion skirt would not have offered a peep of protest.
"Oh, that's a pity isn't it," she feigned a maiden's luscious pout. "With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking, sir," asked the woman, a touch of play in her voice as her eyes tracked him from straw blonde hair to the zip of his trousers.
---
Locked, huh? Suppose he'd let that slide, but he was still bristled. Something did not feel right about this and his instincts usually held true. Which universe did she come from? Somewhere close; she felt too uncomfortably familiar. His blood trembled with it in his veins.
Still, he offered a large, cleaned hand for a shake. "Name's John. John Constantine. Who might you be?"
---
There, the name, and in it its power although she had no way of using it against him, except to prove that he was the one, the current progeny of that bloodline. The lady raised her chin in a most sophisticated manner and accepted his hand. Hers felt cold, devoid of life, though her grip was neither limp nor dainty. She greeted him like a woman, strong, controlling, still feminine.
"You may call me Colette, John Constantine." His name rolled off the tip of her tongue quite naturally.
She used their touch, their close proximity, to lean in and whisper softly into his ear. Her voice was a tone of hunger, rapture, temptation, delighting in the body's ability to give itself to disease. If she could win him, as she did the twin from their past... An ally, a pair of beasts at her beck and call. What a gamble, and she knew it too, to hustle a Constantine was to court danger.
"What is it you desire tonight, handsome Constantine?"
---
The voice thrilled along his nerves but he remembered her touch, dead it was. Too good to be true, too suspicious to be the better part of his day, night, morning, especially after waking up to a pair of powerful beings tampered by his idiot self.
The magus stepped back, a brief expression of surprise flickering across his face.
"Wait, wait, wait. Colette," the name felt funny on his own tongue, "I have a mate out there waiting for me... I don't think we could have a shag in the bathroom.
"What do you really want?"
---
She stepped forward as he stepped back, to lean her shoulder against his, alight on her toes so that she might caress his neck. Yes, all men want one thing, and it didn't matter the preference. A shag was a shag, and there were only good ones and bad ones. She placed her other hand on his side and eventually lowered it to the waistband of his pants.
"If you will not help find my dog, perhaps you could help find my pussy," she suggested in a soft and low purr, the melody of a mezzo-soprano. "Arlecchino is always good at waiting."
---
John's breathing stifled, but his hand clasped her wrist. Firmly; the delicate female appearance had softened the grip. "Sweetheart, I can help you find your twat later. I don't know what your game is, but usin' me cock against me is an old one, alright? Enough people want in me trousers already. Now git."
---
She stared at him, almost surprised to see how strong the spirit had grown, that this one did not share the other's inability to slay. A smile curled the corners of her lips again, then she laughed. It was a soft sound, haunting like the remnants of plague in an empty village, the cholera in the cold water at the bottom of the well. She stepped back and reclaimed her hand if allowed.
"You're quite mature, John Constantine, a man to be sure," the lady praised him thoughtfully. "I can't say I'm not disappointed, but I'll leave you with this: I am so very persistent, and I am everywhere," she riddled, pressing two fingers to her own lips before daring to paint John's with her touch.
---
John released that corpse's wrist, sneering, letting that deathly chill of a laugh pass. No one normal laughed like that; his course of action was right, even as the sickly woman's fingers touched his own lips, warm with life and mortality. Apparently his reputation was catching on. Needed to put his guard back up. Needed to keep on his toes.
"First of all, you might be everywhere, but thanks for the heads up; I'll be one step ahead of you, luv. I've dealt with shit nastier than you. I don't know what you want with me, but you aren't going to get it." He pointed at her for effect. ((LOL JENKINS))
"That's all you're getting from me. Keep your hands to yourself, luv. I'm going."
As he turned around to leave, he realized his first mistake: Colette couldn't have been her name.
---
Marked, marked for the black creature to find him the second he left the safety of the bar. Yes, it was waiting for him, her pet, ever loyal, as black as the shadows that shrouded it from the mortal eye.
"Of course, of course," she said in her best tone of concession. This one was headstrong, cocky, a gambler, and she liked that, liked that so very much. She liked to think that it was her taint in his eye that soiled the bloodline, but no, Charles could not conceive even if forced. Pity. The woman who called herself Colette remained at the wall, making no movement to follow him or detain him. She kept her hands within view, unarmed because her very skin was a weapon, when she wanted it to be. "Good night to you then, John Constantine," the lady bid him farewell.
---
John had said nothing. He was uneasy; his words had been a bluff. It had remained with him even as he sat down back with the Corinthian. The magus took his fresh pint and sort of stared in it for a moment, seeing the woman's face in the froth.
No time to dwell on that. Watching his back for that Lucifer-But-Not-The-One-He-Knew-Back-Home-Lucifer took a higher priority. And possibly Rosiel, the megalomaniacal twit. Then again, both were probably wrapped up in their own bleedin' high-and-mighty worlds to really bother him after the incident, a Constantine or not.
---
He thought he smelled it, a familiar scent, like the oranges and pomegranates of a venetian carnivale, from so long ago... Why that memory came to him now, he didn't know, but didn't the experts say scent triggered the strongest of memories? Nevermind the scent though, even behind his black shades the nightmare could not miss that. He pointed at the blonde's face, to the shade of MAC "Fresh Moroccan" on his lips. The swipe was only a two centimeters in length, but highly noticeable on an Englishman who did not have a penchant for wearing make up.
"Long piss? Or did you freshen up."
---
John scowled. "Long piss. Distraction." He touched his own lips, having not noticed the mark, both literally and supernaturally.
---
"Well the color doesn't suit you," he said, nevermind how the nightmare even knew the brand and shade of it, tch. He seemed to care not for how John got it either.
"Finish up, in case we need to brew another few pots of coffee."
The Corinthian didn't fancy the idea of having to babysit Scarab, she'd left earlier and who knew if she would be coming back, but he much preferred to see her alive. Well, 'alive' in The City's sense. He tossed back the last of his bourbon, always was one for straight liquor over a beer whenever possible.
---
Constantine took this time to rub the offending lipstick off, noting his reflection in the tabletop and using that. Something sat uncomfortably in him and he could not get himself to drink anymore. It was as if he lost it. Fuck, ever since he had arrived in the City, he had been losing it. This shouldn't have been new. Depression and despair had been two returning acquaintances of his, decades old.
"I'm through." The magician slowly got up, a weight on him. What the hell is wrong with him? Shouldn't he have fired off a snappy remark and be done with it now? ((LOL CAREY)) "'Pose we should see how Scarab is doing. Don't like leaving her alone, personally."
---
Hm, no snappy remark? Not even a quick rapier wit poke? The magus must be in some kind of mood no thanks to that choir. A particular thought darkened the white-blonde's expression. No... he believed John would have told him if it was the megalomaniacal twit. He pushed his glass aside and left some change for the drinks, his treat tonight, though one wondered the value of money in a place like this. He rose from his seat and glanced to the other a moment, ready to leave. Was being friendly so bad? Yes, especially when one such as this one was so good at losing them. ((LOL CANON))
"Yeah, her preference though," to be alone that is. The Corinthian moved on to the door, to pass under that cheerful thumbs up.
---
"Can't even leave me alone." John's voice was a tired mumble, having been through too much in one night. Flirted too much with death, too much flirting with enslavement by a fucking angel. He needed to figure this City out, especially if he wanted to survive; he couldn't soley depend on Cori. Hell, he had made it so long on his own, spending mates or not.
Cori he wanted to last.
He left the pub, bar, whatever it was, didn't matter in a slump.
---
The Scarab issue did bother the nightmare, something struck him as odd about her relationship to the red horror. It was more than just a game of cat and mouse, something more tangled and matted. Whatever it was, he didn't think--wouldn't let it--be the end of them all. So consumed by that thought he was, even he didn't notice the large form come hulking out of the shadows. A large animal, larger than a wolf but most certainly canine. Its fur blended with the darkness, its raw umber eyes barely glowing, and its ears laid flat.
Marked. Mistress' mark. This one, catch him, bite him. Do not kill him. Bite him.
It didn't even growl before tearing out of the narrow alley, from shadow into fur and teeth. It lunged at the Englishman, from behind as any true solitary predator wound. It parted its fangs to deliver the blow, a vice-like clamp over the hard bone and flesh between John's neck and shoulder.
---
Nails clicking. Then teeth.
John barely managed a scream as he toppled to the ground, a vice in his shoulder, fangs grinding painfully against bone and muscle. He was trapped; couldn't turn around and face his giant beastial attacker, could only flail and beat uselessly against the large furry form.
"Cori!" gagged the magus through red, red pain. He was drowning in it, sinking. "Help...!"
---
Swartolfheim, nightmare.
The attack was quick and powerful, and one shouldn't expect any less of a wolf beast. The lunge had knocked him over as well, but even with a barely healed arm the white horror managed to roll and land in a crouch. The City was being testy today, tonight rather. He was not amused. Miraculously the sunglasses had stayed on his face. He removed his balisong from his boot and dove back into the fray, wedging the blade against the dog's mouth, where its upper and lower jaw connected so as to make it release its bite!
Fill him with the illness. Plague him. Do not let go. NO! BITE THIS ONE!
The wolf relinquished its grip on the magus only to turn on The Corinthian, who was ready to strike again, this time for the wolf's eyes.
---
Constantine, a hand over the fresh wound, moist with the poisoned saliva and his blood, wearily went to stand. His head was spinning, and he felt warm all over, like a fever, but he wanted to help Cori against the massive attacker, but shite, enough had happened to him already. Had to get away.
Briefly, he felt where the two fingers had touched his lips tingle. It came to him, in the sickly shape of that slag asking him about his dog.
It found him.
---
The Corinthian could fight. He knew what he was doing. Constantine hobbled into their flat to collapse on the couch. Already, he felt weak, the edges of a blanket of fever slithering in.
Fight he could, and he would stave off the attacker for as long as possible, long enough for John to get away. The wound in his shoulder was deserving of a lookover by a professional, considering its source. Not a blade, not a bullet, but the weaponry of a pure predator. Not a predator for long. When the nightmare left the scene he did so with blood tears running down his cheeks and an old and very sick wolf in his wake. The poor animal, only a tool of something greater, and when she deemed it past its usefulness she allowed it to decay, a former king of the woods whittled to a sack of bones and dry fur, eyeless.
Those umber beauties had tasted of sickness, the eyes of a dead thing, and he was the last image imprinted on its retina. Too late to continue hunting for its master. The nightmare had to return to the flat, to take care of the damage it had done to the magus.
Rating; PG-13
Characters;
bitingnightmare The Corinthian, silkcutremix John ConstantineSummary; A drink, a meeting, and then a bite to eat.
Log;
John pissed, staring at the wall, almost mentally falling into the dirty tile but the filth disrupted the pattern with its smears and discoloration. He could not believe himself, could not believe just how badly he had let the goddamn City get him like that, could not believe how he had stupidly tried to ask some universe's missing devil out like an old mate, or the crowning insult, almost swear to a fucking angel.
His kingdom for a razor blade should he have woken up only too late. Good ol' Cori. He provided a distraction and already the magus owed him more than he would have liked. Just like him to be in debt, always.
Urine, cloudy yellow and sour smelling, swirled about in the brown bottom of the urinal, to the drain and gone.
---
Not that The Corinthian had much of a choice in the matter (he did, but kept his preference for keeping the magus out of trouble a personal secret). Still, what better way to celebrate their victory over escaping Rosiel's clutches than by raising a drink or two? In John's case, seeing himself to the bottom of a pint over a razor blade, what a mess that would have made. Hum, the nightmare was still at the counter, a moment given to him and his thoughts alone. Was the curse so bad? To be so friendly? Not that he would ever want the Englishman to go against his true nature, that's what he admired about John Constantine in the first place. Admired, respected, it was one of those things. He paid close attention to the liquor in his glass.
What better opportunity could The City present to one as fair and diseased as the lady? Now that the two were momentarily separated, she grasped the frame of time in her pale and oh so delicate hands, skin casting the faintest of green tints. She smiled, lips dark berry red and turquoise eyes dusted with a silver shadow, as her heels clicked one by one into the mens room. She closed the door behind her, certain that they were alone.
"A fair evening to you, sir. I seem to have lost my dog," purred the walking illness.
---
John shot up. What was with him and women sauntering up to him while he had his cock in his hands? Some strange twist of fate (those never seemed to stop for him) or a sign? Fortunately he was finished, so that bit of him was quickly zipped away. He gave her a full glance after that, briefly studying her to not project the feeling that he was undressing her with his eyes. Didn't want to do that, even if she happily ignored the fact that this was a men's room for men only, or so the norm went. She seemed beyond norms.
Oh, she was a pretty one, he decided, but she looked ill. There was something nasty hanging about her, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. His reptilian brain knew her but he didn't.
"Hullo. I didn't see a dog in here, sweetheart," replied the magus, scrubbing his hands in the sink. "Sorry."
Had to be more than that.
---
"My apologies," she started to explain, "the ladies room is locked." She replied, trimmed mulberry painted nail to her full lips.
Indeed even mortals could feel the influence whenever pestilence was in town. The plague could not have chosen a more stealthy set of feet. It was in her nature to raise the hairs of a man's neck, to stir that heavy something in their loins. She was ill, but her smile was full of mischief, malice, and some called that spirit. The lady adjusted her ivory blouse then fluffed her glossy raven black hair. It fell at chin length, to frame her prominent noblewoman's cheeks. Rich trade, if those thoughts crossed his mind, and the sheer charcoal nylons attached by lacy black garters under her red vermilion skirt would not have offered a peep of protest.
"Oh, that's a pity isn't it," she feigned a maiden's luscious pout. "With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking, sir," asked the woman, a touch of play in her voice as her eyes tracked him from straw blonde hair to the zip of his trousers.
---
Locked, huh? Suppose he'd let that slide, but he was still bristled. Something did not feel right about this and his instincts usually held true. Which universe did she come from? Somewhere close; she felt too uncomfortably familiar. His blood trembled with it in his veins.
Still, he offered a large, cleaned hand for a shake. "Name's John. John Constantine. Who might you be?"
---
There, the name, and in it its power although she had no way of using it against him, except to prove that he was the one, the current progeny of that bloodline. The lady raised her chin in a most sophisticated manner and accepted his hand. Hers felt cold, devoid of life, though her grip was neither limp nor dainty. She greeted him like a woman, strong, controlling, still feminine.
"You may call me Colette, John Constantine." His name rolled off the tip of her tongue quite naturally.
She used their touch, their close proximity, to lean in and whisper softly into his ear. Her voice was a tone of hunger, rapture, temptation, delighting in the body's ability to give itself to disease. If she could win him, as she did the twin from their past... An ally, a pair of beasts at her beck and call. What a gamble, and she knew it too, to hustle a Constantine was to court danger.
"What is it you desire tonight, handsome Constantine?"
---
The voice thrilled along his nerves but he remembered her touch, dead it was. Too good to be true, too suspicious to be the better part of his day, night, morning, especially after waking up to a pair of powerful beings tampered by his idiot self.
The magus stepped back, a brief expression of surprise flickering across his face.
"Wait, wait, wait. Colette," the name felt funny on his own tongue, "I have a mate out there waiting for me... I don't think we could have a shag in the bathroom.
"What do you really want?"
---
She stepped forward as he stepped back, to lean her shoulder against his, alight on her toes so that she might caress his neck. Yes, all men want one thing, and it didn't matter the preference. A shag was a shag, and there were only good ones and bad ones. She placed her other hand on his side and eventually lowered it to the waistband of his pants.
"If you will not help find my dog, perhaps you could help find my pussy," she suggested in a soft and low purr, the melody of a mezzo-soprano. "Arlecchino is always good at waiting."
---
John's breathing stifled, but his hand clasped her wrist. Firmly; the delicate female appearance had softened the grip. "Sweetheart, I can help you find your twat later. I don't know what your game is, but usin' me cock against me is an old one, alright? Enough people want in me trousers already. Now git."
---
She stared at him, almost surprised to see how strong the spirit had grown, that this one did not share the other's inability to slay. A smile curled the corners of her lips again, then she laughed. It was a soft sound, haunting like the remnants of plague in an empty village, the cholera in the cold water at the bottom of the well. She stepped back and reclaimed her hand if allowed.
"You're quite mature, John Constantine, a man to be sure," the lady praised him thoughtfully. "I can't say I'm not disappointed, but I'll leave you with this: I am so very persistent, and I am everywhere," she riddled, pressing two fingers to her own lips before daring to paint John's with her touch.
---
John released that corpse's wrist, sneering, letting that deathly chill of a laugh pass. No one normal laughed like that; his course of action was right, even as the sickly woman's fingers touched his own lips, warm with life and mortality. Apparently his reputation was catching on. Needed to put his guard back up. Needed to keep on his toes.
"First of all, you might be everywhere, but thanks for the heads up; I'll be one step ahead of you, luv. I've dealt with shit nastier than you. I don't know what you want with me, but you aren't going to get it." He pointed at her for effect. ((LOL JENKINS))
"That's all you're getting from me. Keep your hands to yourself, luv. I'm going."
As he turned around to leave, he realized his first mistake: Colette couldn't have been her name.
---
Marked, marked for the black creature to find him the second he left the safety of the bar. Yes, it was waiting for him, her pet, ever loyal, as black as the shadows that shrouded it from the mortal eye.
"Of course, of course," she said in her best tone of concession. This one was headstrong, cocky, a gambler, and she liked that, liked that so very much. She liked to think that it was her taint in his eye that soiled the bloodline, but no, Charles could not conceive even if forced. Pity. The woman who called herself Colette remained at the wall, making no movement to follow him or detain him. She kept her hands within view, unarmed because her very skin was a weapon, when she wanted it to be. "Good night to you then, John Constantine," the lady bid him farewell.
---
John had said nothing. He was uneasy; his words had been a bluff. It had remained with him even as he sat down back with the Corinthian. The magus took his fresh pint and sort of stared in it for a moment, seeing the woman's face in the froth.
No time to dwell on that. Watching his back for that Lucifer-But-Not-The-One-He-Knew-Back-Home-Lucifer took a higher priority. And possibly Rosiel, the megalomaniacal twit. Then again, both were probably wrapped up in their own bleedin' high-and-mighty worlds to really bother him after the incident, a Constantine or not.
---
He thought he smelled it, a familiar scent, like the oranges and pomegranates of a venetian carnivale, from so long ago... Why that memory came to him now, he didn't know, but didn't the experts say scent triggered the strongest of memories? Nevermind the scent though, even behind his black shades the nightmare could not miss that. He pointed at the blonde's face, to the shade of MAC "Fresh Moroccan" on his lips. The swipe was only a two centimeters in length, but highly noticeable on an Englishman who did not have a penchant for wearing make up.
"Long piss? Or did you freshen up."
---
John scowled. "Long piss. Distraction." He touched his own lips, having not noticed the mark, both literally and supernaturally.
---
"Well the color doesn't suit you," he said, nevermind how the nightmare even knew the brand and shade of it, tch. He seemed to care not for how John got it either.
"Finish up, in case we need to brew another few pots of coffee."
The Corinthian didn't fancy the idea of having to babysit Scarab, she'd left earlier and who knew if she would be coming back, but he much preferred to see her alive. Well, 'alive' in The City's sense. He tossed back the last of his bourbon, always was one for straight liquor over a beer whenever possible.
---
Constantine took this time to rub the offending lipstick off, noting his reflection in the tabletop and using that. Something sat uncomfortably in him and he could not get himself to drink anymore. It was as if he lost it. Fuck, ever since he had arrived in the City, he had been losing it. This shouldn't have been new. Depression and despair had been two returning acquaintances of his, decades old.
"I'm through." The magician slowly got up, a weight on him. What the hell is wrong with him? Shouldn't he have fired off a snappy remark and be done with it now? ((LOL CAREY)) "'Pose we should see how Scarab is doing. Don't like leaving her alone, personally."
---
Hm, no snappy remark? Not even a quick rapier wit poke? The magus must be in some kind of mood no thanks to that choir. A particular thought darkened the white-blonde's expression. No... he believed John would have told him if it was the megalomaniacal twit. He pushed his glass aside and left some change for the drinks, his treat tonight, though one wondered the value of money in a place like this. He rose from his seat and glanced to the other a moment, ready to leave. Was being friendly so bad? Yes, especially when one such as this one was so good at losing them. ((LOL CANON))
"Yeah, her preference though," to be alone that is. The Corinthian moved on to the door, to pass under that cheerful thumbs up.
---
"Can't even leave me alone." John's voice was a tired mumble, having been through too much in one night. Flirted too much with death, too much flirting with enslavement by a fucking angel. He needed to figure this City out, especially if he wanted to survive; he couldn't soley depend on Cori. Hell, he had made it so long on his own, spending mates or not.
Cori he wanted to last.
He left the pub, bar, whatever it was, didn't matter in a slump.
---
The Scarab issue did bother the nightmare, something struck him as odd about her relationship to the red horror. It was more than just a game of cat and mouse, something more tangled and matted. Whatever it was, he didn't think--wouldn't let it--be the end of them all. So consumed by that thought he was, even he didn't notice the large form come hulking out of the shadows. A large animal, larger than a wolf but most certainly canine. Its fur blended with the darkness, its raw umber eyes barely glowing, and its ears laid flat.
Marked. Mistress' mark. This one, catch him, bite him. Do not kill him. Bite him.
It didn't even growl before tearing out of the narrow alley, from shadow into fur and teeth. It lunged at the Englishman, from behind as any true solitary predator wound. It parted its fangs to deliver the blow, a vice-like clamp over the hard bone and flesh between John's neck and shoulder.
---
Nails clicking. Then teeth.
John barely managed a scream as he toppled to the ground, a vice in his shoulder, fangs grinding painfully against bone and muscle. He was trapped; couldn't turn around and face his giant beastial attacker, could only flail and beat uselessly against the large furry form.
"Cori!" gagged the magus through red, red pain. He was drowning in it, sinking. "Help...!"
---
Swartolfheim, nightmare.
The attack was quick and powerful, and one shouldn't expect any less of a wolf beast. The lunge had knocked him over as well, but even with a barely healed arm the white horror managed to roll and land in a crouch. The City was being testy today, tonight rather. He was not amused. Miraculously the sunglasses had stayed on his face. He removed his balisong from his boot and dove back into the fray, wedging the blade against the dog's mouth, where its upper and lower jaw connected so as to make it release its bite!
Fill him with the illness. Plague him. Do not let go. NO! BITE THIS ONE!
The wolf relinquished its grip on the magus only to turn on The Corinthian, who was ready to strike again, this time for the wolf's eyes.
---
Constantine, a hand over the fresh wound, moist with the poisoned saliva and his blood, wearily went to stand. His head was spinning, and he felt warm all over, like a fever, but he wanted to help Cori against the massive attacker, but shite, enough had happened to him already. Had to get away.
Briefly, he felt where the two fingers had touched his lips tingle. It came to him, in the sickly shape of that slag asking him about his dog.
It found him.
---
The Corinthian could fight. He knew what he was doing. Constantine hobbled into their flat to collapse on the couch. Already, he felt weak, the edges of a blanket of fever slithering in.
Fight he could, and he would stave off the attacker for as long as possible, long enough for John to get away. The wound in his shoulder was deserving of a lookover by a professional, considering its source. Not a blade, not a bullet, but the weaponry of a pure predator. Not a predator for long. When the nightmare left the scene he did so with blood tears running down his cheeks and an old and very sick wolf in his wake. The poor animal, only a tool of something greater, and when she deemed it past its usefulness she allowed it to decay, a former king of the woods whittled to a sack of bones and dry fur, eyeless.
Those umber beauties had tasted of sickness, the eyes of a dead thing, and he was the last image imprinted on its retina. Too late to continue hunting for its master. The nightmare had to return to the flat, to take care of the damage it had done to the magus.