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tampered2006-10-24 12:19 am
igotadisease.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2006-10-24 12:19 am
Log; Complete
When; Oct. 22 (sunset)
Rating; R (language, violence, sex)
Characters; John Constantine (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
silkcutremix), Lady Pestilence (igotadisease)
Summary; Constantine wakes under the influence of the diseased woman
Log;
Through layers of sleep, layers of time, Constantine drifted back into the waking world. He bobbed along its surface, between reality and the unconscious, but the gravity slowly set in, and his eyes slid open. Everything was blurred, foggy, but as his eyes adjusted, colors he had been previous missing were seen once again. The world his magical sense of smell had previously brought him was gone, dulled back down into the slight hint of mildew with a dash of decay.
A joy seeped through him. He was human again. Sod the odors, that was the most important thing.
In tried and true cliché, his arms wanted to pull over in front of him, to see his old, familiar human palms but a resistance stopped both wrists. Tugging again, something cold and hard were around him.
Blue eyes flicked about the room: Constantine was in a nice, soft bed, in a nice, fancy room, but craning his human head around, with an invisible nose and blonde hair, he found cuffs. Fucking cuffs.
Someone had captured him then. He could not recall the memories of when he initially went out, but slowly, it would come to him. Now, he could only wonder who had him now. Turned him back they did, but why cuff him? If he were a werewolf, there would have been signs of a struggle. The bed was clean and fresh. Restraint? Lingering on the room's smells, he felt the familiar sink tug at his belly; he knew them. Meant getting the fuck out of there would be a good idea as any.
Given a little time, he could get out of these cuffs and be on his way...
----
The room was decadent, rich colors soaked into plush velvets, satins, and linens. Certainly it was a room of lady's choice, containing a boudoir and a large full-sized mirror with gilded frame. There were two doors on two different walls, one leading to the ornate bathroom with porcelain tub, another leading to the outside hall, but that door was locked. The only unique and possibly important feature was the room's complete lack of windows. The bed frame was cast in white iron, John's wrists cuffed to the smooth bars that formed the headboard, and satin sheets kissed his bare skin for what else would a wolf-turned-back-to-man be wearing after such a dramatic change?
If he could venture to the closet he might notice the men’s clothing draped over the hangers, standard business casual affairs really, of course the Englishman wouldn't know that without being able to get up in the first place. Yes who was responsible for this in the first place. Moments later there were footsteps in the hall, first towards his room and then away, then towards again. A shadow darkened the light under the doorway, the lock clicked.
----
John already was trying to get out of the cuffs at that point. Haven't quite pinpointed their make but if the charm he had in mind worked, that wouldn't matter, even if he were something of an escape artist, or not.
Tik-chk...
Buggering fuck. Great timing his captor had. The escape attempt ceased, the Englishman's eyes fixed on the door, the clicking lock, awaiting the dreaded entrance of the crux of all the recent shit that had been happening. He was hot again, but it was not a fever; anger boiled in his belly and burned his ears.
No, keep cool. She gets herself off on pissing him around.
----
Constantine barely knew her and already he was pinpointing her likes and dislikes, quite accurately at that. What a smart man he must be. Indeed when the door open it revealed a sliver of bare leg, as pale and sickly cast as the rest of her. She wore a silk robe tied at the waist, her lace lingerie peeking out at her cleavage, satin black garters on her thighs. Pestilence could be an example of decadent beauty, when she wanted to be. The hallway behind her was dimly lit with striped ivy wallpaper, not enough information to tell him where in the city he might be, but certainly a distinct print.
"Good evening, Constantine," purred the sickness as she slinked into the room and shut the door behind her. "Are you feeling more... yourself," she asked, glossy nail to her lips.
----
"I'd think so." Constantine managed a classic shit-eating grin. No struggle against the cuffs; only plot. "Too bad you're still a bitch with a tacky sense of decor." The wallpaper made him feel ill. How appropriate.
----
"You're trying to hurt my feelings," she said, lips coming to a full and luscious pout as she approached the bed. "It's no matter, as long as you're here you're mine, or do you want to vacate the premises on all fours," Pestilence asked, ever thoughtful with a melody to her tone. She tipped her chin delicately, looking down on the magus and well aware that he could escape his bonds at any moment, put both hands on her throat.
----
"I think I'd prefer two legs," the magus snorted, his voice gravel, tired. Amazing how quickly his tongue picked back up on human language again, but there was still a slight flop, as if it still wanted to be a pink belting piece of leather. He didn't dare break out, not with the multitude of shit she could pull on him instantly. "Without the diarrhea, but that's your specialty, I'm sure."
----
"Your attempt at caustic humor is admirable, Constantine."
She made to sit on the edge of the bed, robe parted to reveal all the lace and satin black, every inch of her body lean and milky smooth despite its color. Her fingertips pinched the edge of those satin sheets to pull them down lower, lower still to his hips.
"I must say I do like you better as a man than a dog, even though men speak truths when wearing masks," Pestilence smiled.
----
Despite the thrilling tingle of the moving sheets, Constantine chuckled, then laughed, as if to break the mood. "So, luv, this is it? You're finally going to have your way with me? Hell, you make me wish I were still a fucking dog since they're better at this saying no business than I am."
----
"This isn't it, Constantine, I've barely started," she said to the man, leaving the sheets as they were for now. "How could you say such a thing to me," Pestilence feigned wiping a tear away from her shadowed eyes, "your soul may not be mine to claim but I know those closest to you, in Hell where you've put them. Would you provoke me to such an extent?" Her expression became serious for that one moment.
----
"Didn't you already have enough fun with that already?" Constantine's expression, too, shifted, although to one of bitter resentment, of having ghosts he had long since drank and smoked away thrown back into his face. He let her feign whatever the hell she wanted to. "Bet that kept you occupied for a few nights, didn't it?"
----
"It did, my sweet," she answered, lips crescent in a smile as she leaned across to drape the rest of her body over Constantine's torso. Pestilence laced her fingers under her chin, propped on his chest. "But I'm willing to be lenient with you if you should decide to walk the path as your uncle did. Would you serve me? And service me?" The lady turned to rest her cheek on his bare flesh, thoughtfully.
----
A resentful twitch. The man's warm flesh was a stark contrast to the white death, the anorexic weight across his reasonable body. The blue eyes were cold, angry. "Those have to be rhetorical questions. You're fucking kidding me."
----
Resentful, vengeful, the one who made men suffer long before the sweet release of death, that was the Lady Pestilence, and her questions were not rhetorical. She shook her head against him, raven black hair to his warm body, and the hairs on his chest. A pale hand reached out to trace circles on his side, delicately with the fine edge of her nail. She smiled again.
"Always putting yourself first, John Constantine, I heard that was most characteristic of you," she purred.
----
Fucking teasing, thought the Englishman through a curled lip and a squint, fighting against the maddening temptation. Just from the gentle trailing of her nail, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as a tingly delight fluttered up and down his nerves.
"That's better." He panted. "I thought you only knew about the soddin' skeletons."
----
"I know what truly makes you ill, my dear, do you think your lady hasn't been doing her research? Your sister, lost among the rest of the horde. Tragic isn't it? But she is dead after all, there's no reclaiming her and surely you knew this," Pestilence nodded again, this time with the dark berry red tip of her tongue trailing across his skin.
She reveled in the reaction her touch yielded from his body; all men were the same, slaves to lust even when forcefully applied. Fingernails raked down his side slowly, over his hip and under the satin covers. "The look on your lupine face when Arlecchino crumbled, priceless," she laughed softly, fingers taking hold of his member, whether it was hard or soft.
----
Not Cheryl. Anything but Cheryl. That's the last thing he wanted to be thinking about with this raging, forced sensation being put upon him by this tacky slag. His head had tilted back, his teeth clenched to where he felt they would actually crack.
"Go fuck yourself." Not the most creative, but poor Cheryl. Poor damned Cheryl... He'd find a way out for her. He did it for Astra, he'd do it for her...
----
"Did I forget that pretty friend of yours, the Asian woman, perhaps the dream rot will drag her down to hell--oh I believe I've found the soft spot," she purred with delight over the double meaning in her words as her thumb worked the head. "In some years I could give your sister a playmate," Pestilence smiled. Perhaps she'd be able to bluff her way through his defenses, what little he had, after all.
----
Suddenly, through the dredge of memories in Hell, his crying sister included, Constantine remembered:
Metal, sour fingers and smoke. Blood. The Corinthian's blown open face.
He moaned instead, trying to deny the pleasure. Then he realized: His legs were free. It hadn't occurred to him until now. Guess that made saving this little bit of retaliation all the more better and surprising.
So he out rightly scissored her.
----
"You'll give yourself over ev--"
The sudden tightness of his legs around her throat caught the woman by surprise. He said once that using his cock against him was an old trick, perhaps she should have listened. Her hands released him instantly to clutch at the man's knees, thighs, digging her nails into his flesh. She coughed then sounded a choking gasp.
"Con--Const--auuuhh," she struggled against him, turquoise eyes menacing. Pestilence sank her nails into him, to draw blood.
----
This only lead Constantine to squeeze harder, out of all his rage he had pent up against her: For Scarab, for Cheryl, for Thomas, for Cori. Especially for Cori. Out of all the pain he had went through leading up to this moment, the nails were nothing but satisfying. Stupid deserving wench.
"They always try the surname. You might actually get John out. Don't think you might be able to at this point." Foolish of her to cure him, he thought; he felt so much better.
----
Foolish woman, had been from the start and still was now, to think that she could dominate his anger with wanton lust, or maybe she had just hit the proper nerves at the wrong time. Regardless, she could not even gasp out his first name, so writing her ticket to release would have to do, if she could manage that much. Pestilence's nails hastily began scrawling her own brand of magic along his flesh, in his blood, her name.
----
Fortunately, not to be blinded by his own overwhelming desire for revenge, Constantine caught this, and mumbling a quick something himself, he released her, pushing her back and seizing those thin, thin delicate wrists with his newly freed hands. The cuffs had snapped open, the magic for once working just when he wanted it too. They limply hung against the frame.
"Alright, luv." His grip was painfully tight. "Game over. I'm not playing anymore and I think it's time you pissed off back where you came from." He noted the bleeding partial scratches on his legs. Too fancy to be just mere deliverance. "I'm not yours and I won't be yours. Ever."
----
She didn't even have the opportunity to speak when he released her, choosing to gasp for air and cough. Funny how a creature such as herself could be immobilized by the simple thievery of her breath. She brought her hands to her throat--scratch that, found them in Constantine's much stronger grasp. Pestilence was deadly, just a drop of her poison could decimate a bloodline, but her body was fragile. He could have easily broken her in two.
"You're... too late," she said between coughs, head held low, her lipstick smeared. "You're safe here... a man in my domain," Pestilence managed a vicious smile, "a dying dog... if you walk out, else you serve."
That was the real magic here, no marking, and no hexing. Just the simple fact that parvo in humans was for the most part absolutely harmless, but fatal to the canine form.
----
John studied her, her marred delicate beauty, her soft face, her resemblance to a suffocating fish. There was always a soft spot for the birds within the Englishman, but few women made him want to outright tear them to shreds. He would have been more than happy to, if on Cori's behalf, if those words did not register. Oh, he could walk away, but it would involve more red sludge flowing from his arse.
His lip curled again and he leaned in close. "Is there certain time where you'd like a decision for this? I'd really like to finish suffocating you for thinking you can fuck around with me like you did."
----
"Timing is irrelevant, without me you're imprisoned here lest you die in the street," she said to John, still smirking as if she really did have the upper hand. She didn't even struggle against his grip, not that she could have done so successfully. "Do you think I'd play this game without a few pawns in my hand," asked the lady, still harboring many secrets that would die with her should the magus kill her this moment.
----
Hm. "Some bloody powerful being you are. I'll tell you how ol' Cori would feel about that."
Using what he had against her in terms of physical strength and size, the Englishman managed to turn the disease woman around, wrists still clamped, putting her in a restraining hold that easily allowed him to twist her arms as necessary. As a matter of fact, because her wrists were so small, a hand easily took care of them. Deciding that he'd rather have the bitch choke like a fish some more, the other freed arm was left to wrap around her neck.
Funny what anger could do to him. Never knew he had it in himself.
"Look, luv: I might not be able to kill you, but I can sure as hell make you suffer. You seem to keep on forgetting whom it is you're fucking with, you know that? Might as well kill you anyway."
The arm around her neck squeezed.
----
What a lovely way to die, under cousin war, embarrassing at most because it would mean her game had been turned against her. But that wasn't the end of her move, not yet. This time she struggled against the larger man, both wrists bound in his one hand, who knew John Constantine had it in him. She gasped again, her fight subsided now that his arm had hooked around her throat.
"Where is Ar--Arlecchino... I wonder," Pestilence managed to speak, "wh--what will you do... locked here."
Honestly, did the magus think she was working alone?
----
"How do I know you're not bluffing me?" Constantine grinned, his hold firm. Satisfyingly firm. "I know better than to buy some random slag's bullshit, especially if she claims too know me that fucking well.
"And Cori? He has his father, doesn't he? Good on you for blowing his brains out on the sidewalk but you're going to have to try harder than that to put him down. Me, I take care a'meself, as always. I'm good.
"Now how about you?"
----
"Do you know nothing, John," she taunted him even in the midst of his hold, "who else would... be there to... find him. H--How did you... contract the virus... in the first place."
Was the blonde putting two and two together just yet? As for Morpheus, that retired brooding man, she seemed to react little to John referencing him. Why should she fear the one who allowed himself to be trapped in this city as well? He was not Dream, Dream was the man to fear, and that one had no family ties to her own head of office.
----
John thought about this for a moment. His brow was furrowed. "You don't look like the gun type, but I thought the virus shite was your doing, wasn't it? Your specialty and pleasure?"
----
"Almost," her smeared lips parted in a smirk, showing her glossy white teeth, "did my pet look infected? I think not." Neither was she the gun type, she didn't deny this.
----
The grip around her neck loosened somewhat. Couldn't be Cori, Dizzy seemed alright. Who else he had met in the last few days that gave him the psychic creeps?
"Castile?"
----
"Well you'll never know.... nn--now," her tone shifted to near vicious laughter when he loosened his grip, "all it took was a few pills... and one bullet."
----
"You... Looks like we know your little associate in this beautiful cock-up then." The arm became a python; that laughter only pissed him off more. "But, you're still fucking bluffing."
----
Her throat sounded another wheeze of tightness before her expression became dead serious, as serious as the sickness that permeated a child's body in Sudan, as serious as the poisoned fowl in a poor village along the Yangtze, as serious as the cancer that once stained Constantine's lungs.
"Kill me Constantine... you'll never... escape to find out."
----
Tension. Silence. Pause.
Then John forcefully let go, leaving her on the bed as he got up. He was strong, he was healthy and he was a human, but to leave? Sure. He poked about the closet, finding that he would be crawling out of this hole nicely dressed too, if just to top it all off despite knowing what would happen.
"Then I might as well die and slip out of your grasp for good. Suppose I'm more use to you alive than dead, yeah? Ever thought of the shitstorm that'd follow my demise?"
----
She flopped against the bed, released at last, but Pestilence wasn't going to celebrate by letting her guard down. Whether her voice had recovered from the attack or not she settled on her feet and pointed at the Englishman. "Your use to me is only secondary to what your ancestor and Arlecchino did to me," not that she expected John to care, neither did she know much about the shitstorm that'd follow his demise, or maybe the lady didn't care. "Find your way out if you can, break the seal if you can, you've been asleep for days, you're already behind," she flipped her raven black hair.
----
"Then piss off out of it," Constantine offhandedly snarled as he tugged on a pair of trousers. A few days? He had lifetimes breeze along and carve memories into him years deep in only a day. What were three days in this shithole? "I'll find me way out and break anything you throw at me. You're nothing new."
----
She still had time, time to escape before he thought to kill her after all. While her death would not be permanent by any means, it would be a setback for their plans. How she wanted to murder him right now, for hurting her and thinking he could speak to her like that. The nightmare was one thing, but the magus, no he couldn't survive a bullet to the brain, if only she had the revolver with her. But Constantine was also right, the hell his death would raise, was it worth it? The lady needed this opportunity to think.
With an air of arrogance, she made her way to the door. "You'll regret this moment, John Constantine," Pestilence said coolly, her hand on the knob. She opened it to leave, and if permitted, would make sure to lock it. It was a minor obstacle for someone like the Englishman, but it was an obstacle nonetheless.
----
The diseased bitch left without applause, the magus calmly dressing himself as she exited. Didn't matter if she locked it anyway, allowing his ears to listen for the sound of a click. He only stood there, finally clad in clothes that were not his but covered him and as a bonus, fitted. A minor victory for him, but a victory nonetheless.
But he had to see if Cori was alright. Didn't matter if he was immortal or his father was an Endless, sort of; it would ease things within him. The splatter painting the sidewalk as it spilled... That was not going to be the last memory he had of Cori.
So, he went to examine the lock. Might as well have been something magical, but he was curious if he could pick it.
----
Typical lock with a safety release, if John had a screwdriver handy. Pestilence did not have the means to enchant that either. She was no magician by blood, but she could bargain and barter for spells with the rest of them. The thing was breakable in any case. Beyond it was the hall with the ugly wallpaper, freshly laid.
----
Well, then. John glanced about the room, finding nothing immediate in sight. Sod the lock picking; he went with kicking the fucking thing open. When it gave, the door ringing on its hinges as the explosion of force sent it into the wall of the other room, the magus was treated to the sight of that fucking nasty wallpaper that made him ill by a mere glance earlier. Being surrounded by it did not help his feelings, but having nowhere else to go, he continued down the hall, trying to focus on what laid ahead of him rather than around.
----
There was another door directly opposite the one he broke down. It mirrored his room, down to the plush decor. The hallway itself was rather short, the dim lighting coming from the track bulbs on the floor and the entire place's lack of windows. It still resembled a type of suite though, with living room, open kitchen, the breakfast bar, wine rack. The temperature was cool, almost chilly. Lady Pestilence was nowhere to be seen either.
----
John rose a brow. Interesting. He poked about the mirrored room, finding nothing of interest. Still, before he left to explore elsewhere, he brought his foot out and kicked at the mirror with his heel. It shattered, a few decent sized pieces of glass scattered below for Constantine's... use. Picking it up, he reviewed the incantation in his head, rolling back his sleeve with the sharp edge of the glass hovering above his tender, warm flesh.
Then, with a murmur of Norse, the shard sank, and he carved and he bled. Useful little ward he was applying to himself. Protected the ancient Norse folk from animal skins that happened to be looking for a new body to dress or berserkers from getting lost in their channels of madness with the perversions of the natures of the beasts they were trying to emulate on the battlefield. Surely it'd keep the fur inside him.
He headed to the bathroom to wash his arm after, the water reddening as the blood was taken away. He toweled the fresh addition until the bleeding had stopped, and the sleeve was rolled up again. With that, the magus left the bathroom and bedroom, sure that he would be leaving this place on two legs, rather than four.
Now, in the eyesore hallway again, let's see if there was another door? He stepped into the ornate living room.
----
There were other doors, though where they would lead was a secret that is unless John tried to open them. The wallpaper smelled fresh and moist at the same time, like ivy squeezing the sweat from a creature's brow as the tendrils choked it. The living room appeared modern, with a TV to boot, and still no windows. One wondered where Pestilence had run off too if the suite was this confusing. Walking through the living room would lead him around the kitchen, down a hall on the right side to what appeared to be the front door. There was a mat with which to wipe one's shoes, a coat closet at the end.
----
The mat told it all. Time to get out.
The Englishman approached the front door cautiously, still not trusting Pestilence and keeping his guard up, and bringing his arm out, his fingers danced around the doorknob, his sixth sense probing about for anything peculiar. So far, nothing, and it unnerved him.
----
His sixth sense might have told him that the door was just a door, but something written on it was keeping it from being true to its nature. Doors were supposed to move two ways, in and out, but this one would swing only one way and that was right back into the suite.
----
John stepped back. Made sense; she wasn't that stupid and thus wouldn't be that obvious. Guess he'd have to try another way. Or find it. Curiously, he checked the coat closet next, just to make sure.
----
The coat closet was empty so there was no need to worry about walking into the cold snow of Narnia, but that same ugly wallpaper was plastered all over the closet's interior.
----
A lip was curled in disgust; never would he ever adapt to that fucking nasty paper. The door was closed, and that little helping of ache was out of sight. Bugger the doors then, he turned his attention to the telly: an outside connection. Approaching it, he bent over and turned knob. Let's see if that received anything.
Click.
----
Because the television was not named Twonky it transmitted only the very basic of channels, including a brand new one that served as a news outlet for the city. Note the reporter covering the redesigning of the city square.
----
So the telly received outside signals. That meant he wasn't in some sort of strange pocket dimension Pestilence conveniently kept her victims in. His lungs tightened for a smoke, but he steadied himself, told himself that he'd figure something out soon. Maybe try to figure what it was that had the door.
Needed a cigarette.
There was a small revenge in leaving the telly on. The bitch can go enjoy her broken mirror and inflated electricity bill. Perhaps he could partake in some other vandalism too...
... Starting with that fucking wallpaper.
In the hallway, he brought his fist back and screamed, sending it towards the wall, towards the straightforward putrid gaze of the wallpaper that covered it.
----
Something in the wall trembled, not literally and neither from his force, but rather from the touch of enchanted to enchantee. The wallpaper had been laid in 1ft wide strips, seamlessly next to each other from floor to ceiling, and considering the suite's location the ceilings were not particularly high. Striking through the drywall and into the main structure would prove painful, the base being made of concrete after all.
----
"Awww, Christ!"
That was a dumb idea, in a sense, but it gave him some perspective:
One: The concrete basing suggested that the building was in need of some sort of additional support; if this place were some typical shitehole flat he would normally rent, he'd be giving the walls the missing windows that he thought were needed. Maybe it explained the lack of windows. Was he somewhere heavily guarded? Or the location was under high pressure...? He was still in the City.
Two: Something shocked the back of his mind when his fist impacted and left a nice little crater to where the drywall ended and concrete began. Maybe the enchantment was not in the doors at all, but along here. Curiously, he peeled at the broken ends of the wallpaper, if out of impulse from his innate resentment to it.
----
The location was indeed underground, though where in the underground was anyone's guess. The wallpaper peeled easily, and under the stick of the glue was something marked into the wall, burned into it with charcoal really. The language itself might have seemed familiar to John, how Pestilence managed to buy this kind of spell... well no wonder it took her eighty years to get her revenge, aside from waiting for the pair to be trapped on the island known as The City.
Siht epahs uoy peek ni eht ecalp uoy peels.
----
Fitting wallpaper then, thought the magus, quirking a brow. Made him sick and explained why his sixth sense tingled when he decided to start a punch up with the wall (and lost). Maybe this disrupted the spell? Trying to get a sense of how it worked, his old hands felt along the wallpaper, then the bare wall. He placed and ran along select spots, like a physician performing an examination, searching for that heartbeat.
----
The phrase itself was the lifeline, written in handsome cursive connecting each letter to the other, each word to the other, each phrase to the next in a massive repetition that beat all along the perimeter of the suite. It crossed along the back wall of the coat closet and across the door to the suite itself, though why the words weren't visible there were a mystery.
----
The magus stepped back. His eyes fell on the words. A thought.
He headed to the kitchen.
Surprisingly, as he searched through the cabinets and drawers and counters for what he had in mind, it was stocked with the basics. It lead Constantine to wonder if Pestilence had to support herself, or maybe, which happened to be more likely, she ate for pleasure. Some supernatural, immortal beings that lacked the drives and needs that bound mortals to their mortality did that.
Ah. At the back of one of the cabinets was a small container of salt, which he had taken. The salt was spread along the counter, which Constantine pressed his palm into it. When enough salt had stuck, he made his way back to the words, placing the salty palm on them.
Then he spoke. He did not speak to the wall, but to the spell, in soft, ancient tongues, comforting, beckoning, directing. A granule of the spell or the whole fucking thing (he would know when too much was too much, however), if the sigil on his arm did not keep him on two legs, this whole bit definitely would.
"This shape you keep in the place you sleep," huh? He always slept in his skin, didn't he?
----
Ssssssssss.....
Like NaCl to the soft and moist skin of an invertebrate slug the writing on the wall began to melt away, eaten by his touch and the salt that reminded it who was the spell and who was the spellslinger around here. It even made the wallpaper in the vicinity start to peel from the top and bottom edges. Of course, not all spells were without consequence, Constantine might have felt the salt began to eat away at his own skin, nothing like a flesh eating bacterium certainly, but the sting was attempting to halt him from cutting through. Eventually the words appeared on the door, dead and black, broken.
----
Constantine's blood went hot as the spell surged into him, but he took it and the spell's effects with it. No idea how long it would last, he thought, glancing at his burning red palm, but long enough until this fiasco was dealt with. At the very least, nothing seemed to crawl about in his belly anymore, the dog inside it now dormant as the spell decreed.
That was that. He headed over to the front door, giving it another try. There was the temptation to see what else Pestilence might have here, but then again, if she had anything of interest, chances are he did not want to know or bother with it. Sickness was her specialty after all.
And the Museum of Constantine was a lovely bunch of cinders anyway.
----
That's right, and neither did the man wish to find what could be the remnants of the last tenant, that and its ghost.
This time the front door opened without issue, leading to a room as small as the coat closet, call it double security. The interior here did not match the apartment at all, appearing a little more run down, especially with the old wood door beyond it. That door led to the real hallway, a short one with a freight elevator at the end where one person had just stepped off with their groceries.
----
A breath of fresh air, even if it was not in the freshest of places. Now he could smell where he was, its atmosphere and taint, dusted with a faint memory of a hatter and a nightmare on a path of bones on a trail to lust and chastity and blood. He would never be forgetting this place, flavored of sex and dark magics and sin.
It was time to catch up on what he missed.
Rating; R (language, violence, sex)
Characters; John Constantine (
silkcutremix), Lady Pestilence (igotadisease)Summary; Constantine wakes under the influence of the diseased woman
Log;
Through layers of sleep, layers of time, Constantine drifted back into the waking world. He bobbed along its surface, between reality and the unconscious, but the gravity slowly set in, and his eyes slid open. Everything was blurred, foggy, but as his eyes adjusted, colors he had been previous missing were seen once again. The world his magical sense of smell had previously brought him was gone, dulled back down into the slight hint of mildew with a dash of decay.
A joy seeped through him. He was human again. Sod the odors, that was the most important thing.
In tried and true cliché, his arms wanted to pull over in front of him, to see his old, familiar human palms but a resistance stopped both wrists. Tugging again, something cold and hard were around him.
Blue eyes flicked about the room: Constantine was in a nice, soft bed, in a nice, fancy room, but craning his human head around, with an invisible nose and blonde hair, he found cuffs. Fucking cuffs.
Someone had captured him then. He could not recall the memories of when he initially went out, but slowly, it would come to him. Now, he could only wonder who had him now. Turned him back they did, but why cuff him? If he were a werewolf, there would have been signs of a struggle. The bed was clean and fresh. Restraint? Lingering on the room's smells, he felt the familiar sink tug at his belly; he knew them. Meant getting the fuck out of there would be a good idea as any.
Given a little time, he could get out of these cuffs and be on his way...
----
The room was decadent, rich colors soaked into plush velvets, satins, and linens. Certainly it was a room of lady's choice, containing a boudoir and a large full-sized mirror with gilded frame. There were two doors on two different walls, one leading to the ornate bathroom with porcelain tub, another leading to the outside hall, but that door was locked. The only unique and possibly important feature was the room's complete lack of windows. The bed frame was cast in white iron, John's wrists cuffed to the smooth bars that formed the headboard, and satin sheets kissed his bare skin for what else would a wolf-turned-back-to-man be wearing after such a dramatic change?
If he could venture to the closet he might notice the men’s clothing draped over the hangers, standard business casual affairs really, of course the Englishman wouldn't know that without being able to get up in the first place. Yes who was responsible for this in the first place. Moments later there were footsteps in the hall, first towards his room and then away, then towards again. A shadow darkened the light under the doorway, the lock clicked.
----
John already was trying to get out of the cuffs at that point. Haven't quite pinpointed their make but if the charm he had in mind worked, that wouldn't matter, even if he were something of an escape artist, or not.
Tik-chk...
Buggering fuck. Great timing his captor had. The escape attempt ceased, the Englishman's eyes fixed on the door, the clicking lock, awaiting the dreaded entrance of the crux of all the recent shit that had been happening. He was hot again, but it was not a fever; anger boiled in his belly and burned his ears.
No, keep cool. She gets herself off on pissing him around.
----
Constantine barely knew her and already he was pinpointing her likes and dislikes, quite accurately at that. What a smart man he must be. Indeed when the door open it revealed a sliver of bare leg, as pale and sickly cast as the rest of her. She wore a silk robe tied at the waist, her lace lingerie peeking out at her cleavage, satin black garters on her thighs. Pestilence could be an example of decadent beauty, when she wanted to be. The hallway behind her was dimly lit with striped ivy wallpaper, not enough information to tell him where in the city he might be, but certainly a distinct print.
"Good evening, Constantine," purred the sickness as she slinked into the room and shut the door behind her. "Are you feeling more... yourself," she asked, glossy nail to her lips.
----
"I'd think so." Constantine managed a classic shit-eating grin. No struggle against the cuffs; only plot. "Too bad you're still a bitch with a tacky sense of decor." The wallpaper made him feel ill. How appropriate.
----
"You're trying to hurt my feelings," she said, lips coming to a full and luscious pout as she approached the bed. "It's no matter, as long as you're here you're mine, or do you want to vacate the premises on all fours," Pestilence asked, ever thoughtful with a melody to her tone. She tipped her chin delicately, looking down on the magus and well aware that he could escape his bonds at any moment, put both hands on her throat.
----
"I think I'd prefer two legs," the magus snorted, his voice gravel, tired. Amazing how quickly his tongue picked back up on human language again, but there was still a slight flop, as if it still wanted to be a pink belting piece of leather. He didn't dare break out, not with the multitude of shit she could pull on him instantly. "Without the diarrhea, but that's your specialty, I'm sure."
----
"Your attempt at caustic humor is admirable, Constantine."
She made to sit on the edge of the bed, robe parted to reveal all the lace and satin black, every inch of her body lean and milky smooth despite its color. Her fingertips pinched the edge of those satin sheets to pull them down lower, lower still to his hips.
"I must say I do like you better as a man than a dog, even though men speak truths when wearing masks," Pestilence smiled.
----
Despite the thrilling tingle of the moving sheets, Constantine chuckled, then laughed, as if to break the mood. "So, luv, this is it? You're finally going to have your way with me? Hell, you make me wish I were still a fucking dog since they're better at this saying no business than I am."
----
"This isn't it, Constantine, I've barely started," she said to the man, leaving the sheets as they were for now. "How could you say such a thing to me," Pestilence feigned wiping a tear away from her shadowed eyes, "your soul may not be mine to claim but I know those closest to you, in Hell where you've put them. Would you provoke me to such an extent?" Her expression became serious for that one moment.
----
"Didn't you already have enough fun with that already?" Constantine's expression, too, shifted, although to one of bitter resentment, of having ghosts he had long since drank and smoked away thrown back into his face. He let her feign whatever the hell she wanted to. "Bet that kept you occupied for a few nights, didn't it?"
----
"It did, my sweet," she answered, lips crescent in a smile as she leaned across to drape the rest of her body over Constantine's torso. Pestilence laced her fingers under her chin, propped on his chest. "But I'm willing to be lenient with you if you should decide to walk the path as your uncle did. Would you serve me? And service me?" The lady turned to rest her cheek on his bare flesh, thoughtfully.
----
A resentful twitch. The man's warm flesh was a stark contrast to the white death, the anorexic weight across his reasonable body. The blue eyes were cold, angry. "Those have to be rhetorical questions. You're fucking kidding me."
----
Resentful, vengeful, the one who made men suffer long before the sweet release of death, that was the Lady Pestilence, and her questions were not rhetorical. She shook her head against him, raven black hair to his warm body, and the hairs on his chest. A pale hand reached out to trace circles on his side, delicately with the fine edge of her nail. She smiled again.
"Always putting yourself first, John Constantine, I heard that was most characteristic of you," she purred.
----
Fucking teasing, thought the Englishman through a curled lip and a squint, fighting against the maddening temptation. Just from the gentle trailing of her nail, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as a tingly delight fluttered up and down his nerves.
"That's better." He panted. "I thought you only knew about the soddin' skeletons."
----
"I know what truly makes you ill, my dear, do you think your lady hasn't been doing her research? Your sister, lost among the rest of the horde. Tragic isn't it? But she is dead after all, there's no reclaiming her and surely you knew this," Pestilence nodded again, this time with the dark berry red tip of her tongue trailing across his skin.
She reveled in the reaction her touch yielded from his body; all men were the same, slaves to lust even when forcefully applied. Fingernails raked down his side slowly, over his hip and under the satin covers. "The look on your lupine face when Arlecchino crumbled, priceless," she laughed softly, fingers taking hold of his member, whether it was hard or soft.
----
Not Cheryl. Anything but Cheryl. That's the last thing he wanted to be thinking about with this raging, forced sensation being put upon him by this tacky slag. His head had tilted back, his teeth clenched to where he felt they would actually crack.
"Go fuck yourself." Not the most creative, but poor Cheryl. Poor damned Cheryl... He'd find a way out for her. He did it for Astra, he'd do it for her...
----
"Did I forget that pretty friend of yours, the Asian woman, perhaps the dream rot will drag her down to hell--oh I believe I've found the soft spot," she purred with delight over the double meaning in her words as her thumb worked the head. "In some years I could give your sister a playmate," Pestilence smiled. Perhaps she'd be able to bluff her way through his defenses, what little he had, after all.
----
Suddenly, through the dredge of memories in Hell, his crying sister included, Constantine remembered:
Metal, sour fingers and smoke. Blood. The Corinthian's blown open face.
He moaned instead, trying to deny the pleasure. Then he realized: His legs were free. It hadn't occurred to him until now. Guess that made saving this little bit of retaliation all the more better and surprising.
So he out rightly scissored her.
----
"You'll give yourself over ev--"
The sudden tightness of his legs around her throat caught the woman by surprise. He said once that using his cock against him was an old trick, perhaps she should have listened. Her hands released him instantly to clutch at the man's knees, thighs, digging her nails into his flesh. She coughed then sounded a choking gasp.
"Con--Const--auuuhh," she struggled against him, turquoise eyes menacing. Pestilence sank her nails into him, to draw blood.
----
This only lead Constantine to squeeze harder, out of all his rage he had pent up against her: For Scarab, for Cheryl, for Thomas, for Cori. Especially for Cori. Out of all the pain he had went through leading up to this moment, the nails were nothing but satisfying. Stupid deserving wench.
"They always try the surname. You might actually get John out. Don't think you might be able to at this point." Foolish of her to cure him, he thought; he felt so much better.
----
Foolish woman, had been from the start and still was now, to think that she could dominate his anger with wanton lust, or maybe she had just hit the proper nerves at the wrong time. Regardless, she could not even gasp out his first name, so writing her ticket to release would have to do, if she could manage that much. Pestilence's nails hastily began scrawling her own brand of magic along his flesh, in his blood, her name.
----
Fortunately, not to be blinded by his own overwhelming desire for revenge, Constantine caught this, and mumbling a quick something himself, he released her, pushing her back and seizing those thin, thin delicate wrists with his newly freed hands. The cuffs had snapped open, the magic for once working just when he wanted it too. They limply hung against the frame.
"Alright, luv." His grip was painfully tight. "Game over. I'm not playing anymore and I think it's time you pissed off back where you came from." He noted the bleeding partial scratches on his legs. Too fancy to be just mere deliverance. "I'm not yours and I won't be yours. Ever."
----
She didn't even have the opportunity to speak when he released her, choosing to gasp for air and cough. Funny how a creature such as herself could be immobilized by the simple thievery of her breath. She brought her hands to her throat--scratch that, found them in Constantine's much stronger grasp. Pestilence was deadly, just a drop of her poison could decimate a bloodline, but her body was fragile. He could have easily broken her in two.
"You're... too late," she said between coughs, head held low, her lipstick smeared. "You're safe here... a man in my domain," Pestilence managed a vicious smile, "a dying dog... if you walk out, else you serve."
That was the real magic here, no marking, and no hexing. Just the simple fact that parvo in humans was for the most part absolutely harmless, but fatal to the canine form.
----
John studied her, her marred delicate beauty, her soft face, her resemblance to a suffocating fish. There was always a soft spot for the birds within the Englishman, but few women made him want to outright tear them to shreds. He would have been more than happy to, if on Cori's behalf, if those words did not register. Oh, he could walk away, but it would involve more red sludge flowing from his arse.
His lip curled again and he leaned in close. "Is there certain time where you'd like a decision for this? I'd really like to finish suffocating you for thinking you can fuck around with me like you did."
----
"Timing is irrelevant, without me you're imprisoned here lest you die in the street," she said to John, still smirking as if she really did have the upper hand. She didn't even struggle against his grip, not that she could have done so successfully. "Do you think I'd play this game without a few pawns in my hand," asked the lady, still harboring many secrets that would die with her should the magus kill her this moment.
----
Hm. "Some bloody powerful being you are. I'll tell you how ol' Cori would feel about that."
Using what he had against her in terms of physical strength and size, the Englishman managed to turn the disease woman around, wrists still clamped, putting her in a restraining hold that easily allowed him to twist her arms as necessary. As a matter of fact, because her wrists were so small, a hand easily took care of them. Deciding that he'd rather have the bitch choke like a fish some more, the other freed arm was left to wrap around her neck.
Funny what anger could do to him. Never knew he had it in himself.
"Look, luv: I might not be able to kill you, but I can sure as hell make you suffer. You seem to keep on forgetting whom it is you're fucking with, you know that? Might as well kill you anyway."
The arm around her neck squeezed.
----
What a lovely way to die, under cousin war, embarrassing at most because it would mean her game had been turned against her. But that wasn't the end of her move, not yet. This time she struggled against the larger man, both wrists bound in his one hand, who knew John Constantine had it in him. She gasped again, her fight subsided now that his arm had hooked around her throat.
"Where is Ar--Arlecchino... I wonder," Pestilence managed to speak, "wh--what will you do... locked here."
Honestly, did the magus think she was working alone?
----
"How do I know you're not bluffing me?" Constantine grinned, his hold firm. Satisfyingly firm. "I know better than to buy some random slag's bullshit, especially if she claims too know me that fucking well.
"And Cori? He has his father, doesn't he? Good on you for blowing his brains out on the sidewalk but you're going to have to try harder than that to put him down. Me, I take care a'meself, as always. I'm good.
"Now how about you?"
----
"Do you know nothing, John," she taunted him even in the midst of his hold, "who else would... be there to... find him. H--How did you... contract the virus... in the first place."
Was the blonde putting two and two together just yet? As for Morpheus, that retired brooding man, she seemed to react little to John referencing him. Why should she fear the one who allowed himself to be trapped in this city as well? He was not Dream, Dream was the man to fear, and that one had no family ties to her own head of office.
----
John thought about this for a moment. His brow was furrowed. "You don't look like the gun type, but I thought the virus shite was your doing, wasn't it? Your specialty and pleasure?"
----
"Almost," her smeared lips parted in a smirk, showing her glossy white teeth, "did my pet look infected? I think not." Neither was she the gun type, she didn't deny this.
----
The grip around her neck loosened somewhat. Couldn't be Cori, Dizzy seemed alright. Who else he had met in the last few days that gave him the psychic creeps?
"Castile?"
----
"Well you'll never know.... nn--now," her tone shifted to near vicious laughter when he loosened his grip, "all it took was a few pills... and one bullet."
----
"You... Looks like we know your little associate in this beautiful cock-up then." The arm became a python; that laughter only pissed him off more. "But, you're still fucking bluffing."
----
Her throat sounded another wheeze of tightness before her expression became dead serious, as serious as the sickness that permeated a child's body in Sudan, as serious as the poisoned fowl in a poor village along the Yangtze, as serious as the cancer that once stained Constantine's lungs.
"Kill me Constantine... you'll never... escape to find out."
----
Tension. Silence. Pause.
Then John forcefully let go, leaving her on the bed as he got up. He was strong, he was healthy and he was a human, but to leave? Sure. He poked about the closet, finding that he would be crawling out of this hole nicely dressed too, if just to top it all off despite knowing what would happen.
"Then I might as well die and slip out of your grasp for good. Suppose I'm more use to you alive than dead, yeah? Ever thought of the shitstorm that'd follow my demise?"
----
She flopped against the bed, released at last, but Pestilence wasn't going to celebrate by letting her guard down. Whether her voice had recovered from the attack or not she settled on her feet and pointed at the Englishman. "Your use to me is only secondary to what your ancestor and Arlecchino did to me," not that she expected John to care, neither did she know much about the shitstorm that'd follow his demise, or maybe the lady didn't care. "Find your way out if you can, break the seal if you can, you've been asleep for days, you're already behind," she flipped her raven black hair.
----
"Then piss off out of it," Constantine offhandedly snarled as he tugged on a pair of trousers. A few days? He had lifetimes breeze along and carve memories into him years deep in only a day. What were three days in this shithole? "I'll find me way out and break anything you throw at me. You're nothing new."
----
She still had time, time to escape before he thought to kill her after all. While her death would not be permanent by any means, it would be a setback for their plans. How she wanted to murder him right now, for hurting her and thinking he could speak to her like that. The nightmare was one thing, but the magus, no he couldn't survive a bullet to the brain, if only she had the revolver with her. But Constantine was also right, the hell his death would raise, was it worth it? The lady needed this opportunity to think.
With an air of arrogance, she made her way to the door. "You'll regret this moment, John Constantine," Pestilence said coolly, her hand on the knob. She opened it to leave, and if permitted, would make sure to lock it. It was a minor obstacle for someone like the Englishman, but it was an obstacle nonetheless.
----
The diseased bitch left without applause, the magus calmly dressing himself as she exited. Didn't matter if she locked it anyway, allowing his ears to listen for the sound of a click. He only stood there, finally clad in clothes that were not his but covered him and as a bonus, fitted. A minor victory for him, but a victory nonetheless.
But he had to see if Cori was alright. Didn't matter if he was immortal or his father was an Endless, sort of; it would ease things within him. The splatter painting the sidewalk as it spilled... That was not going to be the last memory he had of Cori.
So, he went to examine the lock. Might as well have been something magical, but he was curious if he could pick it.
----
Typical lock with a safety release, if John had a screwdriver handy. Pestilence did not have the means to enchant that either. She was no magician by blood, but she could bargain and barter for spells with the rest of them. The thing was breakable in any case. Beyond it was the hall with the ugly wallpaper, freshly laid.
----
Well, then. John glanced about the room, finding nothing immediate in sight. Sod the lock picking; he went with kicking the fucking thing open. When it gave, the door ringing on its hinges as the explosion of force sent it into the wall of the other room, the magus was treated to the sight of that fucking nasty wallpaper that made him ill by a mere glance earlier. Being surrounded by it did not help his feelings, but having nowhere else to go, he continued down the hall, trying to focus on what laid ahead of him rather than around.
----
There was another door directly opposite the one he broke down. It mirrored his room, down to the plush decor. The hallway itself was rather short, the dim lighting coming from the track bulbs on the floor and the entire place's lack of windows. It still resembled a type of suite though, with living room, open kitchen, the breakfast bar, wine rack. The temperature was cool, almost chilly. Lady Pestilence was nowhere to be seen either.
----
John rose a brow. Interesting. He poked about the mirrored room, finding nothing of interest. Still, before he left to explore elsewhere, he brought his foot out and kicked at the mirror with his heel. It shattered, a few decent sized pieces of glass scattered below for Constantine's... use. Picking it up, he reviewed the incantation in his head, rolling back his sleeve with the sharp edge of the glass hovering above his tender, warm flesh.
Then, with a murmur of Norse, the shard sank, and he carved and he bled. Useful little ward he was applying to himself. Protected the ancient Norse folk from animal skins that happened to be looking for a new body to dress or berserkers from getting lost in their channels of madness with the perversions of the natures of the beasts they were trying to emulate on the battlefield. Surely it'd keep the fur inside him.
He headed to the bathroom to wash his arm after, the water reddening as the blood was taken away. He toweled the fresh addition until the bleeding had stopped, and the sleeve was rolled up again. With that, the magus left the bathroom and bedroom, sure that he would be leaving this place on two legs, rather than four.
Now, in the eyesore hallway again, let's see if there was another door? He stepped into the ornate living room.
----
There were other doors, though where they would lead was a secret that is unless John tried to open them. The wallpaper smelled fresh and moist at the same time, like ivy squeezing the sweat from a creature's brow as the tendrils choked it. The living room appeared modern, with a TV to boot, and still no windows. One wondered where Pestilence had run off too if the suite was this confusing. Walking through the living room would lead him around the kitchen, down a hall on the right side to what appeared to be the front door. There was a mat with which to wipe one's shoes, a coat closet at the end.
----
The mat told it all. Time to get out.
The Englishman approached the front door cautiously, still not trusting Pestilence and keeping his guard up, and bringing his arm out, his fingers danced around the doorknob, his sixth sense probing about for anything peculiar. So far, nothing, and it unnerved him.
----
His sixth sense might have told him that the door was just a door, but something written on it was keeping it from being true to its nature. Doors were supposed to move two ways, in and out, but this one would swing only one way and that was right back into the suite.
----
John stepped back. Made sense; she wasn't that stupid and thus wouldn't be that obvious. Guess he'd have to try another way. Or find it. Curiously, he checked the coat closet next, just to make sure.
----
The coat closet was empty so there was no need to worry about walking into the cold snow of Narnia, but that same ugly wallpaper was plastered all over the closet's interior.
----
A lip was curled in disgust; never would he ever adapt to that fucking nasty paper. The door was closed, and that little helping of ache was out of sight. Bugger the doors then, he turned his attention to the telly: an outside connection. Approaching it, he bent over and turned knob. Let's see if that received anything.
Click.
----
Because the television was not named Twonky it transmitted only the very basic of channels, including a brand new one that served as a news outlet for the city. Note the reporter covering the redesigning of the city square.
----
So the telly received outside signals. That meant he wasn't in some sort of strange pocket dimension Pestilence conveniently kept her victims in. His lungs tightened for a smoke, but he steadied himself, told himself that he'd figure something out soon. Maybe try to figure what it was that had the door.
Needed a cigarette.
There was a small revenge in leaving the telly on. The bitch can go enjoy her broken mirror and inflated electricity bill. Perhaps he could partake in some other vandalism too...
... Starting with that fucking wallpaper.
In the hallway, he brought his fist back and screamed, sending it towards the wall, towards the straightforward putrid gaze of the wallpaper that covered it.
----
Something in the wall trembled, not literally and neither from his force, but rather from the touch of enchanted to enchantee. The wallpaper had been laid in 1ft wide strips, seamlessly next to each other from floor to ceiling, and considering the suite's location the ceilings were not particularly high. Striking through the drywall and into the main structure would prove painful, the base being made of concrete after all.
----
"Awww, Christ!"
That was a dumb idea, in a sense, but it gave him some perspective:
One: The concrete basing suggested that the building was in need of some sort of additional support; if this place were some typical shitehole flat he would normally rent, he'd be giving the walls the missing windows that he thought were needed. Maybe it explained the lack of windows. Was he somewhere heavily guarded? Or the location was under high pressure...? He was still in the City.
Two: Something shocked the back of his mind when his fist impacted and left a nice little crater to where the drywall ended and concrete began. Maybe the enchantment was not in the doors at all, but along here. Curiously, he peeled at the broken ends of the wallpaper, if out of impulse from his innate resentment to it.
----
The location was indeed underground, though where in the underground was anyone's guess. The wallpaper peeled easily, and under the stick of the glue was something marked into the wall, burned into it with charcoal really. The language itself might have seemed familiar to John, how Pestilence managed to buy this kind of spell... well no wonder it took her eighty years to get her revenge, aside from waiting for the pair to be trapped on the island known as The City.
Siht epahs uoy peek ni eht ecalp uoy peels.
----
Fitting wallpaper then, thought the magus, quirking a brow. Made him sick and explained why his sixth sense tingled when he decided to start a punch up with the wall (and lost). Maybe this disrupted the spell? Trying to get a sense of how it worked, his old hands felt along the wallpaper, then the bare wall. He placed and ran along select spots, like a physician performing an examination, searching for that heartbeat.
----
The phrase itself was the lifeline, written in handsome cursive connecting each letter to the other, each word to the other, each phrase to the next in a massive repetition that beat all along the perimeter of the suite. It crossed along the back wall of the coat closet and across the door to the suite itself, though why the words weren't visible there were a mystery.
----
The magus stepped back. His eyes fell on the words. A thought.
He headed to the kitchen.
Surprisingly, as he searched through the cabinets and drawers and counters for what he had in mind, it was stocked with the basics. It lead Constantine to wonder if Pestilence had to support herself, or maybe, which happened to be more likely, she ate for pleasure. Some supernatural, immortal beings that lacked the drives and needs that bound mortals to their mortality did that.
Ah. At the back of one of the cabinets was a small container of salt, which he had taken. The salt was spread along the counter, which Constantine pressed his palm into it. When enough salt had stuck, he made his way back to the words, placing the salty palm on them.
Then he spoke. He did not speak to the wall, but to the spell, in soft, ancient tongues, comforting, beckoning, directing. A granule of the spell or the whole fucking thing (he would know when too much was too much, however), if the sigil on his arm did not keep him on two legs, this whole bit definitely would.
"This shape you keep in the place you sleep," huh? He always slept in his skin, didn't he?
----
Ssssssssss.....
Like NaCl to the soft and moist skin of an invertebrate slug the writing on the wall began to melt away, eaten by his touch and the salt that reminded it who was the spell and who was the spellslinger around here. It even made the wallpaper in the vicinity start to peel from the top and bottom edges. Of course, not all spells were without consequence, Constantine might have felt the salt began to eat away at his own skin, nothing like a flesh eating bacterium certainly, but the sting was attempting to halt him from cutting through. Eventually the words appeared on the door, dead and black, broken.
----
Constantine's blood went hot as the spell surged into him, but he took it and the spell's effects with it. No idea how long it would last, he thought, glancing at his burning red palm, but long enough until this fiasco was dealt with. At the very least, nothing seemed to crawl about in his belly anymore, the dog inside it now dormant as the spell decreed.
That was that. He headed over to the front door, giving it another try. There was the temptation to see what else Pestilence might have here, but then again, if she had anything of interest, chances are he did not want to know or bother with it. Sickness was her specialty after all.
And the Museum of Constantine was a lovely bunch of cinders anyway.
----
That's right, and neither did the man wish to find what could be the remnants of the last tenant, that and its ghost.
This time the front door opened without issue, leading to a room as small as the coat closet, call it double security. The interior here did not match the apartment at all, appearing a little more run down, especially with the old wood door beyond it. That door led to the real hallway, a short one with a freight elevator at the end where one person had just stepped off with their groceries.
----
A breath of fresh air, even if it was not in the freshest of places. Now he could smell where he was, its atmosphere and taint, dusted with a faint memory of a hatter and a nightmare on a path of bones on a trail to lust and chastity and blood. He would never be forgetting this place, flavored of sex and dark magics and sin.
It was time to catch up on what he missed.