Log; Complete

[bitingnightmare.livejournal.com]

When; Jul. 8-9 (around midnight)
Rating; R (language, violence)
Characters; John Constantine silkcutremix, the Corinthian bitingnightmare
Summary; The nightmare and magus learn the answer to the former’s ‘dreams’ as the mystery of another dead boy unravels.
Log;

By midnight the regular crowd for the Coliseum had thinned to but a few patrons enjoying the liquor denied two days earlier.  The reason remained undisclosed except to a handful of regulars, those who had been in the City through several changes in management.  Funny to think, the management here had stayed the same.

Smoke and the smell of alcohol drifted into the street, from both front and side entrances.  The din had waned to a minor buzz.  Perhaps then they could explore the place better with half the patrons too inebriated to notice.  A break in prior to today's opening had gone unchecked, the evidence eliminated efficiently by a team of nightmare and magus.

"Round fucking two," he muttered to John while narrowing his teeth at the thumbs up signage.  It was practically inviting them to get their asses kicked for a second time.

----
Cheeky buggering sign. John huffed. He had his arse handed to him by spirits before. He faked his death with a supernatural attack for crying out loud; this was nothing to him but a dent on his ego. Christ, his name and pride felt as if they had been under constant attack as of late.
 
"You have the menstrual piss, don't you?" he mumbled to his companion. The story of acquiring that little bottle of liquid gold (slightly tinted red) was another matter in itself. 
 
Sliding to the back room, back up to the dreaded stairs, was an easy matter in itself. Any questions, John could turn them away with a look and a few magic words. No one would bother them.

----
"Yeah I do," he said to John, eyeteeth rolling upward in a brief lament.  His hands had touched the region before, but now they were only a glass' width away from the very fluids that came from a female orifice.  Christ this had better fucking work.

Traversing the wooden staircase, right side up, to a hall of medium length, the floorboards old but not rotting.  The walls were tinted a faded sangria red which had little to do with their friend in room No. 5.  The Corinthian had nicknamed it for its foul temper against Constantine.

"So what do I do with Chanel's present," he asked the blonde, careful to not wave the bottle lest a drop leak from the cap and stain his skin.

----
John had to sigh; this was going to be the difficult part: "We're going to make a ring around the living room in piss. I have the candles and chalk. The last time, we went in without anything. Bloody stupid, but the bloke's angrier than I thought." His hands fumbled for a cigarette out of habit. "Piss ring needs to be made quickly," he added.

----
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," muttered the nightmare, more disturbed because he knew John wasn't kidding him at all.  "All right," he conceded to the potential staining.

"How quickly," Cori inquired while raising the bottle as if it were a molotov, "kick the door down, break the neck, and spill it?"

----
Preparation. Even Constantine should have known better, but that was his ego pulling him ahead. He thought he could talk down a pissed off ghost, then again, he had before.
 
"Piss conservation," he said, standing before that door. He could feel the spectre's psychic traces ooze through the old fibers, boiling with that restless irrational hatred. Red. "We're going to be needing all that piss, mate, unless you can find us a bird on her month." Funny that, the magus was the one who had quickly picked up the pee, able to smell it.

----
"Point taken," said the Corinthian, giving a nod of his white head.  He placed his other hand on the doorknob then, having no use for keys with Constantine around.

One, two, three.

The nightmare pushed the door open and snapped the cap off the bottle.  The decor in the living room was minimal, quaint and completely intact despite having evicted both men last night.  He spilled the menstrual virgin wine or whatever the fuck it was to ghosts around in a circle.  The irony that they, he of all people, should find sanctuary in a woman's hormones.

Round Two, but this time the spirit had yet to assault.  The ebb of the supernatural shrank away from the light in the room.  Maybe it just wanted to play with them now.

----
Moon magic John would have called it. Woman was the moon, and the moon had dictated her body's time to renew. The full moon had power and gentle white Luna granted feminine sanctuary from the masculine, peace within unrest.
 
Some bollocks like that, anyway. 
 
John squinted. They would not have to work fast, but fast. Already he was squatting, setting the candles. He wanted to talk, that was the goal. Something told him that he would be needing to get to the bottom of this whole bloody mess. Exorcism was best for troublesome ghosts... This one was merely angry. Enough angry souls were waiting for him impatiently in hell as it was.

----
He'd call it bollocks if the very theory weren't anti-bollockian in nature.  Cori narrowed his eyes as droplets splashed on his boots.  Fuck he was going to spend an hour scrubbing those out.  The spiritual ooze failed to leak from the cracks in the floor boards and unlike last night the wallpaper did not peel.  Its faded yellow chrysanthemums on the coral red background remained as they were, unmelting, unresponsive.

"It's taking the piss," said the nightmare, borrowing the phrase from John's hometown for the pun.  They had some of that menstrual urine left at the bottom of the bottle.

----
A little left? Thank Christ. He had a feeling they might be needing it.
 

"More time," he grunted, taking his golden gifted lighter to the wicks, a warm glow filling the room. He could feel the presence creep along his nerves. The wolf could probably even see it, but he needed his hands for this, his thumbs. The candles lit, he took out the chalk and started an intricate circle to seal the two components in a protective bind. He had some trouble in procuring a chalk with ground virgin's blood, but nothing a little persistence and a golden tongue would not yield.

----
"More stains," Cori grumbled out of habit.

He wasn't one to complain in a serious matter, but this seemed more like aggravated annoyance.  A spook according to Constantine had thrown them out.  Perhaps it was the nightmare's ego that protested.

The spirit's essence had leaked around them, filling in the cracks and crevices in Room Five.  It had stretched itself thin, yielding no visible physical form yet.  However, it left a mark for the magus when the deadbolt on the door turned and locked on its own volition.

The Corinthian noticed this small movement and only huffed.

----
"I'm not afraid," Constantine firmly growled to the spirit. Piss was the least of his worries, and the nightmare could grumble and moan about the bottle of feminine output all he wanted. His focus was intense, intent on the spirit. 
 
Come on, come on...

----
It answered without words, only with a rush of emotion, anger like the red on the wallpaper and irrationality.  The latter swelled the most, culminating in a shift of environment.  The chrysanthemums began to rot away and litter the floor.  Paper peeled to reveal new walls, back when they were fresh and bare.  Furniture skid across the floor, rearranging themselves to an old configuration.

The piss circle faded into the floorboards and the chalk marks blew away with an invisible 'wind'.  The individual responsible for this still did not appear, but Constantine was alone now, or perhaps it wanted the magician to believe he was alone.  It would talk to him, it was being forced to, but on its own terms.  It waited.

----
The fading of sanctuary. Shit, Constantine was alone, but he was not going to fall for the spectre's intimidation. A lot of things had tried to intimidate him; keeping cool was key to these sorts of things. He should know.
 
John narrowed his eyes. Was Cori still there?
 
"Alright, squire, you have me ear. I know you're a cheeky bastard, you've shown us last night." He reached into his pocket and lit, letting the smoke steam from his teeth. His canvas, probably. "Speak to me," his words were drifting, gray. "Who pissed in your drink?"

----
In truth the sanctuary never left, but all magic was a matter of illusion wasn't it?  Seeing it didn't necessarily mean it was there.  The Corinthian was nowhere in sight because the cheeky bastard wanted Constantine to believe he was alone.  A supernatural breeze blew the smoke from his cigarette back into the Englishman's face.  Damn cheeky.

The lights dimmed, turning the room a dark midnight blue as a source of UV light illuminated several stains along the walls and across the floor.  It covered everything but the furniture in wild patterns.  Splatters that started just beyond the circle ended where the piss ring began, denoting the circle's protection.  The menstrual blood and urine glowed neon blue as well; a perfect ring.

John had to understand its meaning.  Death by massive blood loss, almost exaggeratedly so.  The unseen light shut itself, leaving the blonde in the dark again.  A soft wet sound flicked around him, warm against his collar, and the neon blue returned, this time in splatters that fell within his circle.

----
"A murder," the magus guessed, blinking the smoke off unaffected. He knew it was that much (or did he?). The spirit, however, was overstepping his line. Did he perform the ritual right or was he still wishing to intimidate him? John did not move. That was the trick; he could not move unless he left the ring and in turn left himself vulnerable.
 
"You're fancying yourself an artist, aren't you? How about you give us a face for your killer."

----
It paused, the gesture noticeable in the air becoming stagnant, the blue ceasing its flicking, for a brief moment anyway.  To the magus it might have felt like a drop of guilt.  A breath later the ebb flowed again and the blue spread.  Something about the word 'murder' triggered its anger once more.

The ritual demanded a face, a fucking face.  Its fucking face.  But this one wasn't a god damned dog, even that canine hadn't revealed its true self until Constantine proved he was a friend.  This one had no need for friends.

The rules chalked on the floor bound supernatural law but there were always loopholes.  It need only show the magus a face it felt could be its own.  The blue stopped again as the candlelight returned, the orange flames turning the blue to blood red.  From behind, a man's face cast a shadow over John's.  Blood dripped onto that trenchcoat when it placed a hand on his shoulder.

I killed me.

It whispered into his ear from the lips of the Corinthian.  The lights were on again and the nightmare stood beside his companion, blood staining the inside of the circle from several gashes opened on his own hands and chest.  The glass bottle had been half-shattered, leaving a ring of jagged raw edges.

----
That dog was easy to befriend, the German Shepherd being an ex-companion and a steadfast creature of loyalty and devotion. It was an animal that had nothing but unconditional love for its master.
 
This ghost had none. Wanted none. They both had figured that out, but the ghost was here for a reason. All ghosts had a reason. Very few had wished to walk the mortal plane as a restless, wandering thing without mass or shape. Purpose.
 
Purpose.
 
"You fuck," John snarled, turning to Cori, alarmed. No, Cori wasn't the killer. The ghost was not going to come easy either, but there was a way. The nightmare was immortal for one, and taking him, Constantine was going to push this point to its limit. 
 
He reached into his coat, pulling out that small blade he kept for his bloody ritualistic purposes. The tiny slice of metal glimmered, dipping into the pale flesh to carve, to entice. If the ixupi had taught the magus anything, the Corinthian had served as a useful vessel in himself. The spirit had tendrils in him already, it was a matter of sucking the rest in.

----
The nightmare appeared non-combative but his teeth eyes were not the best at emoting.  However if the magician knew anything about his flatmate it was how the Corinthian could easily stalk, kill, and show no emotion at all.  Here he showed nothing, as if he were in a deep sleep with both eyes open.

He didn't respond till he felt that knife in his flesh.  "Jesus Christ," shouted Cori, he dropped the bottle rather than bring it up to defend himself.  Perhaps to his future ruin, he reflexively did not think to attack the blonde.  The pain from his open wounds finally registered.

The spirit's web fell away from the sigil, but it did so with a foul stench and screech of victory in the air.  It had done more damage tonight than before.  It was satisfying.

----
"Bloody cheek," John hissed, stumbling back as the nightmare regained his... consciousness? He appeared conscious now, and more than likely not appreciating the new few nicks the magus had left in his stomach, his shirt pulled up. 
 
Christ knew what would have happened if he had lifted the bottle against him...
 
"... Sorry." John stepped back. "Mate, I am starting to think the circle is not as useful as I previously thought," he grumbled. Or maybe he did not recall it right. There was the acrid tinge of urine staining the air, mingling with the putrid reek of cheerful ghost bastard. 
 
Plan B.

----
Maybe it wasn't the circle so much as the circle was meant to protect the living.  What was the Corinthian?  A creature who could exist in several planes of existence at once, and dream the dreams of dead things.  He was a servant of humanity, a loophole to be fucked to its heart's content.  That is until they wisened up to the spook.

It couldn't hurt John, that was the truth.  It wouldn't make Cori raise a bottle to his face, and perhaps it gave the smell of mild disappointment too, that the white horror hadn't instinctively attacked the magician for the marks on his pale stomach.  No matter, it had more tricks up its sleeve.  The deadbolt clicked again, unlocked.  Get out.

"I'm a god damned mess," Cori stated the obvious.  He hadn't lost enough blood to warrant immediate medical attention, he would live, only painfully so for the night.  "This isn't the boy," he spat over the edge of the circle, teeth drawn into a snarl.  As John had said, the nightmare was immortal, and with it some advantages.

----
John grimaced at the door upon hearing it again. "I appreciate the invitation, mate, but we're not fucking leaving this time." He turned to Cori: "Deal with it. Sodding around with the pissed off dead is messy business." He was irritated, but he wasn't going to yield. They couldn't don uniforms and blast the thing with some magic lasers into a box like some goddamned stale 80s bollocks, now could they?
 
He pulled back his sleeves, taking the blade stained with the nightmare's blood and slowly slid it along his skin of his paler underarm, below his wrist. It left a red, burning slit. He wanted it to see.
 
"You can't do anything to me, tosser," his hissed through his teeth. "Anything but nothing."

----
"Who's sodding," muttered the nightmare who certainly hadn't asked to dream its memories nor was he leading this ghostbusting.  Hell a proton pack might have done the job faster, but in a City where the living walked with the dead and the dead with the undead a ghost vault would have been useless.

The scratching started again, just as it had before.  Nails along the walls, shredding at the paper to reveal what lies beneath.  The sound of it rang throughout the entire room, shrill and loud, for their ears only.

What's dead is mine, magician.  Now leave.

"Or the boy gets it," Cori growled to John under the noise, his theory.  This wasn't the ghost of a frustrated victim who wanted closure.  This was the ghost of a murderer.  No wonder it connected so well to him.

It laughed, raucously.  The brat's mine to pop, jealous?

----
John hissed through his teeth to Cori, ignoring the spirit, or tried to: "Come again, mate?" The sounds of the walls were murder on his sensitive ears, dulled as far as his humanity would allow it. It melted his nerves with a raw screech that borderlined true pain, trilling worse in his ears than the blood beading in his long wound on his arm. 
 
He would not. Fucking. Yield.

----
Those words prickled the Corinthian's skin.  Heh, fucking spook thought it knew him well.  It merely tapped into a fragment of him, something allowed to remain upon his recreation.  It gnawed at the nightmare's conscience, but this fucker had made the mistake of thinking he no longer had one.

"Shut the fuck up while I tell the old man about your suicide," he snapped through his rasping eyemouths.  The mention of the S-word was just as effective on the ghost as the M-word.  It silenced the shrieking creature for whatever good reason.  It worked regardless.

"This," he said to John, gesturing to his own chest and the stab wounds, "self-inflicted.  Killed the boy, then himself, the fucking seven know why."  The Corinthian spoke callously, but maybe John would have an idea.  A game of undead cat and mouse.

----
John's lip had curled into a disgusted sneer. "Then I was too nice to you," he spat at the ghost. "You don't have hands, so you feign wanking off to your senseless bullshit.
 
"You're not done murdering, are you?" The magus had indeed caught on, noticing that tiny little break. It was all he needed. "Or is it easier to pull this shit now that you're not around anymore?" He flicked his cigarette. "Hard to prosecute a ghost, or are you taking advantage of the City's leniency?"
 
The end of the spent Silkie glowed in the corner.
 
"Fuckers like you make me sick."

----
Every night, you live sack of flesh.  Every bleeding night.

It sneered in the face of insult.  Why should it care how sick Constantine felt?  Unfortunately for it, being a spook meant little change.  It had no idea the two had a reputation as thick and dangerous as poison.  The door remained unlock, as if it wanted them gone for its own comfort now.

"No.  This guy's a shit killer, even in the fucking afterlife the brat doesn't stay dead," the nightmare shook his head.  "He kills the same exact boy, every bleeding night," Cori rolled his toothy gaze upward, "your words, not mine."

That explained the recurring dreams, the same murder several nights in a row.  They had both died decades past, but this sick bastard wasn't done with the child, not even in death.  "Am I right," asked the white horror with a smile.

You can't even save yourselves if you step out of that ring, you stupid little shits.  The man hissed angrily.  Remember that, I can't get in, but you can't get out.

----
"Oh, you admit it then. I did something right for once," John rolled his eyes, feeling putrid, a red pulsating hatred burning for this killer. He had nothing but anger for him. This guy deserved nothing better. John narrowed his gaze again, directing it towards where he felt the largest concentration of psychic pus. "Humor us: Why haven't you come back yet, you deprived shit?"
 
Momentarily he glanced at the door. It wasn't open, was it unlocked? He did not recall another clink indicating their sealment inside. "We're going to be here for awhile, shithead. Pull up a chair."

----
Fuck you lot to Hell, her sneered again as the psychic pus vacated its corner once John's gaze had settled upon it.

True he admitted it, the piss circle worked and his way into it, the Corinthian, was marked beyond his influence now.  The ebb swirled around them, stalked them like a predator who need only wait for either of them to leave the den.  He meant to cage the pair in their own filth but the door remained unlocked.

"What time is it," Cori asked John curiously.  Although his wounds still hurt he managed to steel his nerves against this spook.  'Chanel' was a poor excuse for a killer, just like that Marked Brother who knew only how to murder the stuttering idiot.  At least they made a good show of it.

"I have shit to do in the morning, you know," the Corinthian said in irritation, a pure bluff to piss the spook off.

You're certainly 'special' you piece of shit, but the magician son of a bitch has to eat sometime.

----
"It hasn't even been an hour," replied John, feeling the spirit move itself. He could follow it easily, its motion reminding the magus of a caged panther pacing impatiently about. This git was hardly a predator worth his fear. "I don't know, mate, I wonder if you can make it. I can stand here all day, watching you entertain me with your half-arsed threats. 
 
"Oh sod it," he added in hindsight, eyeing his Silk Cut for a moment as if that was deserving of more attention. "You're all trousers and no balls. 
 
"Answer me this: What were you doing with the Corinthian's skivvies? I take it that boy's ringpiece could only take so much, eh?"

----
I'll watch you starve then suck your soul out of your dried husk, magician.  Then the nightmare's sleep will be my raping ground.

"You need to fire whoever writes your dialogue," Cori suggested before the ghost commended his wild laughter again.

HAH!  This rat doesn't have wings you fuckwits.  He tittered, more than willing, needing to play their game of who could outlast the other.  Magic, the supernatural, gods and dreams, everything came down to posturing didn't it?

"........."  A rat with wings.  "Rosiel.  I'll kill that mirror sucking cunt," Cori growled.

Good.  Perhaps Constantine felt the ebb stretch towards the brief anger emanating from the nightmare.

----
John squinted, then...
 
Smacked Cori. He hissed in his ear (in the least kinky way possible), "Arsehole, he feeds off emotions! Think about how nice Rosie's wings are going to look on our wall, right?" Cori was angry indeed, and Constantine was not going to give the bastard any fuel for his fire. "Hope they won't clash with the furniture. You're the faggot here, you'd know about home decor!"
 
The magus' head snapped in the spirit's direction; he certainly had not forgotten about him. 
 
"You can resurrect at anytime, fucker."

----
"What the--" the nightmare narrowed his teeth eyes, the side of his head smacked back to his senses.  Those wings would look too garish against their casual furniture, John had to know better.  Oh he did.  "Thanks," he mumbled to the other, "stuffing the bed with the feathers is a better idea."

Cori let the interior decorating reference slide.

Fuck your resurrections.  Fuck them.  The spirit screamed at the pair again, his energy moving in around the piss circle, but he still couldn't touch them.

"I guess that means it's not an option for our buddy here," said the Corinthian, his cool regained.

The noise and the arguing went unnoticed by the patrons below, but a single green eye was watching them from the hall.  A hand kept the door just barely ajar, enough to let the ghost of a boy observe.

----
"Nothing like fucking on a bed of angel feathers, eh?" John grinned. The Corinthian might have grown angry, but that was something Constantine could control while enjoyed the spirit's anger. He lived for it. 
 
The magus made a motion to check his wrist. "Oh, look at the time. Looks like you missed your daily murder, you sad twisted fuck." His voice was a nonchalant sigh. "What are you going to wank off to now?"

----
"Fucking heavenly," he returned a smirk, having a grip on his anger now.  Besides, more laughs were had at the expense of the angel.  This wasn't the cause for the ghost's interference, he hoped, but they would find out eventually if it was.

Don't come back.  The man snarled at the pair, a threat as his web slithered away from their circle to the door.  It slammed open, throwing the boy to the opposite wall.  To anyone else in the Coliseum the sound was nothing more than a bottle falling over.  He looked as real as Constantine, flesh and blood, because he was innocent.

"Shit," Cori hissed, "that's him."  He recognized the green eyes, a smooth jade.

The boy was dressed in the same clothes he had before death.  Simple shorts and a t-shirt.  He had something particular around his wrist, a bracelet with a stippled stone carrying little lighter bits in the black.

----
John had to cock an eyebrow. That seemed familiar, could it have been? It couldn't have followed him here, no, but...
 
"Mate, look at that, around the boy's wrist," John motioned to the Corinthian, pointing, his voice low. "That kid has a friggin' soul trap. You catch'em by touching your victim with the stone. No death necessary, really. Sort of comes for you like the fucking reaper, if I was told right."
 
Was that why he was "stuck?" Or the murderous shitbag was in need of some company with other daft fucks like him. John left the circle, running towards the scene. Was that bracelet tangible? Shit, why didn't he notice it on the body before? Was it even there?

----
Whatever it was John certainly had some interest in it.  The Corinthian narrowed his teeth at the bracelet.  He didn't recognize it nor did he understand its importance, other than it being a fucking soul trap.

"Does that apply to them both," he asked the Englishman who was supposed to be the expert in these things, "John wait!"

Christ, he broke out of the circle and followed.  The ebb concentrated on slithering after the boy, a degenerate illness on the hunt.  The boy crawled away from the door, his chest heaving as he tried to escape.  They didn't even know his name.  The bracelet here wasn't tangible at all, it only looked real enough but to touch it was to dip a fingertip in coal dust.  They were only ghosts.

I'll have my 'wank' now, magician.  The murderer laughed again, sending one of the lights in the hallway bursting in a fit.  Now they'd be drawing attention to themselves, but only to those who believed.

----
John's lip had curled into a sneer, indifferent to the debris resulting from the supernatural exploded fuse. Even the biggest skeptic could see that the light bulb had exploded, but that was the least of his worries. Rubbing the dust from in between his fingers, he knew he had given the body in the morgue a thorough examination.
 
He was sure of this: There was no bloody bracelet on the boy.
 
In that instance, where was the real body? Constantine's business here he felt was finished, but the ghost had fucking pissed him off enough, he'd rather seem him shafted good and proper before drowning the rest of the day in the drink.

----
The nightmare had seen this before, and he recognized the sound of the humanist in the magus.  Cori whipped his hand out to grab John by the wrist.  To stop him.

"Don't."  His grip stayed firm.  "Let him, then you'll find his body," he said to the Englishman, stern.  It was the sad truth, let the murderer eviscerate his sheep to find where he left the wool.  Cori knew the type, this ghost was a poor excuse for a predator (but a murderer none the less).

"He's going to take him to the alley and stab him sixteen times.  Then he'll strangle him and dispose of the corpse, not far from here because he didn't plan this till the night of the murder."  This he explained to Constantine coolly, hoping he'd understand.  It wasn't for the sadistic pleasure of reliving the events of his recent dreams, the boy had to undergo this nightly ritual if they were going to find him at all.

The tendrils of ethereal energy bled into the walls as the electricity had fizzled out.  Poltergeist activity, the Coliseum claimed, the shit they closed over to avoid.  Their interference brought it to complete fruition, now it was a matter of ending it.

----
John's fist tightened, but he understood. That wanker... The magus' disgust was in the extreme. He wanted him to suffer so fucking much; this balless excuse of a shitsack was only lucky that he lacked a corporeal neck for which to fucking strangle him.
 
Huff.
 
Poor lad. He could suffer for just these last few times, or he could walk away and let the cycle continue. The magus understood the concept of the greater good all too well and the suffering that would occur either way. It was a matter of choosing the path that would yield less. 
 
He backed off, and watched. Waited.

----
They were witnesses to the two; the Corinthian from the murderer's perspective, Constantine from its actual manifestation, both which triggered the appearance of the child.  It was played like a third Act, the noise ringing in their ears.  The boy protested, cried, gurgled from his throat when he bled and suffocated, even if they couldn't directly see the crime.

Cori zipped his jacket up to cover his own wounds.  He wiped his hands on his jeans, leaving stains but at least it kept his palms from crusting over.  Although it hurt, he knew John wanted that ghost wanker gone, and the nightmare wouldn't mind have it permanently evicted from his sleep.  Fucking loopholes.

He motioned for the Englishman to follow him down the stairs, assuming John would use his magic to mask them from the patrons' awareness.  The side entrance would lead them to the alley, but just as they approached it the man in his true appearance revealed himself.  He looked only a decade younger than the magus, with short black hair and a stiff build.  He dragged the body of the boy by his ankle into the Coliseum, unnoticed by anyone else, caught in their nightly cycle.

The Corinthian squeezed John's wrist; don't interfere.

----
John had masked the both of them under synchronicity, his focus on the scene, the world a blur. It made the patrons ignore them and kept them on the trail. He wanted that bracelet. He knew exactly who he was going to test it on, assuming he had figured out the crux of why he was still dead and pissing on the walls. 
 
The world could use less shitpiles like him.
 
Still, he kept at a distance, and watched. Do not disturb.

----
The better to keep the patrons from noticing the man with teeth for eyes.  Cori had lost his shades for the umpteenth time thanks to that fucker's intervention in Room Five.

Said fucker dragged the 'lifeless' body of the dead boy down a cross hall.  That alone was a contradiction that seemingly worked for spooks.  They were caught up in a game, well... a game for the killer and a never ending cycle of torture for the victim.  The boy didn't know better, he hadn't been given a chance to learn otherwise.

The nameless man dragged the boy to a backroom with various items cluttering the shelves.  Old world whiskey, bottles of grog, a few handy tools and sacks of flour.  That was how he remembered it.  To Constantine and the Corinthian it might have appeared normal, more modern and updated to the City's current era.  The two ghosts descended through the floor, ebb sinking away into a basement.  Another place of supernatural power; where the boy was imprisoned.

"... Seniors first," Cori gestured to the storage room's basement door.

----
John's nose wrinkled from the scene, offing the nightmare's remark with a snort of "arsehole." He took the door, finding it locked, but it was as easily deceived as the others they had encountered before.
 
As far as he knew, this cycle was going to be broken.
 
He descended the stairs, these threatening to give on him more so than the set above. The Coliseum was overdue for renovations. Constantine tightly gripped the old handrail with its discolored and chipping paint. The last thing he needed was a broken ankle to compliment his mangled hip. The chips became flakes of dust.
 
It was dark, but the magus did not need any light. His eyes were altered and he could make out just enough to nestle himself within the darkness, his element. He could stalk. No light would illuminate this room just yet.

----
The spooks kept the basement dark, the killing zone their element.  A very real creak sounded the door slamming shut behind them as Cori followed John down the stairs.  Shit these things needed to have some sort of light but when the nightmare brushed a hand overhead he felt no chain to spark a light bulb.  His teeth eyes saw extremely well in the dark, but only under the cover of a natural pitch.  This one was not natural.

The murderer palmed the boy's body, his shoulders and waist, his thighs.  He cupped those smaller balls then grinned with delight and began to unzip.

"Oh Christ," hissed the Corinthian, anticipating the killer's next act; defilement of a teenager's corpse.  It filled the basement with an air of grotesque sexuality, pure enjoyment for the humiliation of another.  The murderer had grasped his victim's wrists, palm covering the stone and thus sealing his later doom.

Would John interfere now?  Cori assumed the body was down here, they could make guesses with a sledgehammer or two, otherwise they could let the act continue and wait to see where he left it specifically.

----
John's expression and aura dripped with his disgust like shit on the wall. He felt a small, sick twinge in the Corinthian's direction; he did not think any more on it after. His nails had pushed out, hands acquiring a bonier appearance yet retained their dexterity. Just a subconscious reaction, his base desire to rend this nameless cunt to bloody shreds.  
 
Constantine's sense of smell had exploded at that point. He sank to the floor to his hands and toes in a crouch, sniffing, trying to detect the corpse while the murderer occupied the murdered with his twisted ritual. John hope the fucker enjoyed himself just long enough for what the magus had in mind after, should he find what he was looking for.

----
If only the murderer had left a body for him.  Cori wondered though... he wondered what the eyes of a ghost could yield.  His toothy gaze settled on John instead, noting the man crouch in the dark, sniffing, searching.  How strongly did a scent last long after the decay of the flesh?  They had to be bones by now, well hidden bones.

The Corinthian wanted to try this.  "Don't look," he said to John but let the man interpret those words for himself.  He approached the pair, the murderer taking far too long with his pleasure, far too invested in it, and Cori was impatient.  If that fuck of a spook could invade his dreams, why not the other way around.

The white horror stood behind the furiously engaged ghost.  What had John said before, all magic were lies and illusions?  Make him believe.  He brought his fingers around the murderous ghost's face, tips hovering over his ghostly eyes, then he gouged.

The ebb spread across the basement floor, illuminating it with surprise and rage for having his ritual interrupted.  The light bulb in the ceiling flickered to life and the ghost scrambled off the corpse, hands covering his own eye sockets.

That isn't how it goes!!!  He roared, shaking the shelves.

An empty jug teetered off the edge and shattered near the boy's hand, his dead finger pointing to a patch of cement behind the boiler.

----
That was beautiful. Constantine managed a mangled smile, but he did not linger for long, a shatter drawing his eye to the broken jug, then the pointing finger. His nose could not find anything other than the dry dust of times past. Momentarily, the magus had to wonder how long the City had been in existence. He would let the nightmare test and possibly dine.
 
The Corinthian had learned something after all. 
 
The inhuman features retracted as Constantine slid to the boiler, fingers feeling around the concrete. He knocked against it, led his fingers around the edge, perhaps even pulled.

----
Nothing gave way, the cement old and dry, but upon closer inspection the magician might have felt a change in texture, a square of only two by two feet just a little bit rougher than the gray around it.  It was thick, as thick as the iron head on the sledgehammer in the corner on the opposite side of the room.

"TeLl It To ThE jUdGe," the Corinthian's eyemouths rasped together.  He kept his fingers wedged in those sockets, struggling to keep the poltergeist under his control, because he was the bigger predator here.  Nightmares were neither dead nor living, and this murderer was living a dream, his dominion.  He shrieked and roared under Cori's hold, clawed at his arms and sent more shit crashing from the shelves.

It would be a temporary fix, one night of relief for the victimized teenager until the next 24 hour cycle.  It would be a permanent fix if John could recover the body buried in the wall.  They were only bones by now, compacted into that tiny burial plot behind five inches of concrete.

The ethereal corpse remained silent, lifeless jade green eyes staring at Constantine, waiting for his release.

----
Constantine was happy to oblige, but there was no magical quick fix here. The only quick fix would be brought by that sledgehammer he had taken, the handle comfortably nestled in his palms. The Corinthian still had the poltergeist occupied. 
 
John brought the hammer back and swung. The concrete cracked, dust crusting off, blasted away from the blow. He brought it back and swung again, the metal ringing against the hard gray. The crack had penetrated to what the magus had figured was a hollow inside. A few more swings and he could reach at the dried husk of boy, taking interest in his arm. He wanted that bracelet.

----
In the storage room above, nobody was the wiser.  The basement door rattled on a particularly hard swing from the magus' hammer, but the sound was nothing of which to take notice.  Synchronicity worked to hide them although at the same time it could kill them.

One heart attack could halt Constantine and should the murderer invade the Corinthian's body again he would never be found.  Ahh but that was the spook's mistake.  While his vicious desires swelled in noxious ebb he was a creature wrapped up in himself.  He didn't have the brains to know who he was fucking dealing with.

The sound was too loud to be natural.  The nightmare made him believe he'd just ripped one of those ghostly eyes out, milky white vitreous humor spilling into his eyemouth like smoke.  The illusion felt so real Cori thought he could taste it.  He tasted the memory of an eye.  Black and blue bodies distorted by the stone, had taken this murderer's corpse into their oblivion.  Only the boy's spirit kept his spirit anchored to the Coliseum.  Not for long anymore.

As the cement crumbled and cracked away a bony arm still wearing a dusty t-shirt came tumbling out of the dark hollow space.  The bracelet was loose on his wrist, the stone speckled and unassumingly deadly.

----
John only had to feel the presence of the stone to know what it was capable of. He was not going to use himself for the experiment, oh no, someone else would do. He removed it from the thin, skeletal wrist and squeezed it onto his plump own, careful not to touch the cursed rock. The metal was cool and itchy against his skin, forbidden. Desecration.
 
"I'm trying to help you out, kid," he mumbled to the old bones, taking that arm and slowly pulling it out, checking the scene for a reaction. 
 
Sod the above. He'd handle the masses later.

----
Checking the scene for a reaction would have yielded John coming face to face with the boy.  He was much shorter than the Englishman, more frail and his clothes disheveled and bloody from his experience, but his eyes showed he was wiser.  His jade green eyes knew, now someone understood what had happened to him for all these years.

He held a hand out to the magician.  The boy had no family or even identification on the remains, there was no point in bringing closure to that.  How he had wound up with the bracelet, whether someone thought it would protect him or not, would remain his mystery.  The ephemeral young teenager really wanted only one thing.

Can I sleep now, he asked the blonde man in a quiet voice.

----
This took Constantine aback, but that was brief, settling into cool direct eye contact, smiling as used the hammer to push himself back up to his feet. He looked down as he looked up, holding up that small hand. He took it. It was cold.
 
Maybe this information about the boy, lost to time, was not as important now. It was just a little less suffering, a little more closure, a little peace.
 
"Off to bed with yeh, son." He upnodded. "Past your time."

----
Cool, said the boy as John took his cold hand.  His manner was casual, almost resigned to the fate that had been dealt to him, but a deep sleep was far more preferable to a nightly shame.  Thanks, he nodded to the Englishman, then to the nightmare, Mr. Coat and Scary Tooth Fairy.

With that said, he climbed into the hole to join his body, ghostly flesh melting into the hollows of his dried dark bones.  Then the boy was gone.

"You're completely fucked now," hissed the Corinthian, his attention having been split the entire time.  He released the murderer by the empty socket.  The one-eyed ghost scrambled along the basement floor, towards where the boy had disappeared.

NO, what's mine is mine.  He groaned, ghostly fingers scratching along the ground. 

----
John's comforting expression as he saw the boy off to the other side had disappeared when he turned around to what had lingered.
 
"Listen to the bloke with the teetheyes," he snorted in contempt, approaching the miserable fuck on the floor bee lining for the gap where the corpse once remained. The bracelet glinted. "He's gone and you're still here. We have a few pints with our names on it, but we won't leave you alone, mate." His finger rubbed along the rim of the stone's mount, dangerously close. Flesh contact was how it marked, but there were other ways for it to drink. The magus was teasing it. "We're not that cruel, not unlike you."

----
Scary Tooth Fairy... at least it rhymed nicely.

"I don't enjoy having my bedtime interrupted by a miserable amateur fuck like you," muttered the nightmare as he stood over the crawling ghost.  His pants were still around his ankles, disgusting and depraved.

You can take my eye but you can't get rid of me, I--

His gaze fell on the bracelet in John's hand.  The murderer's flesh was already pale from death, but if he could go any whiter he did so when he saw the stone.  His anchor was gone, free to walk away hand in hand with the chipper Lady.  He on the other hand....

Oh fuck.  NO.  NO.

The light flickered again.  This time it dimmed to a warm orange glow, illuminating only the space in which the two stood over the spook.  Fingernails skittered along the basement floor, first a pair, then a quartet, then several more.  Bodies crowded around the ring of light, black and blue ones in a sea aching to finally have that bastard son of a bitch join them.

"Are we safe," from the stone's creatures, Cori asked Constantine coolly.  The nightmare was unaware of the blonde's history with the bracelet.

----

Constantine looked satisfied. Relieved.
 
"Just don't touch the stone," was his only caution, removing the bracelet. He eyed it for a moment, respecting its power and perhaps thanking it before reaching around his coat, searching for a handkerchief or a tissue to wrap it up. Best not damn himself when he was looking for a fucking smoke. He needed one right now. 
 
A flicker of light in the darkness, a few features illuminated by the freshly lit glow. Puff. Ah, that was much better. "I'm famished. How about we get smashed?"

----
Cori stepped over a crawling inky blue body as if it were a pile of rags.  They weren't here for them.  The creature took hold of the ghost's ankle, tangible to them because touching the stone had marked him as theirs just as he had marked the boy his.  Not anymore.

The murderer screamed epithets, threats, claims to take the pair to Hell.  The nightmare ignored him as the bodies swarmed him till his mouth couldn't move.  Just desserts or something like that.  Cori gestured to share John's smoke, needing a drag himself.

"Sure, but I need to clean up," said the nightmare as he unzipped his jacket.  The blood soaked fabric peeling from his slowly healing flesh made a wet sticky sound.  "Then we can toast to another job that wasn't ours to begin with well done," he smirked at the blonde.

He only acted like he didn't care too much for the boy's closure.

----
John did not forget that some of those wounds were inflicted by himself, but those were done with good reason. Ignoring the faint hint of piss splatter on his companion, John filled Cori's silent request for his dear fag, producing yet another one and lighting it. The bodies melded away, twisting back into the other planes, absorbing themselves back by the magical binds of the bracelet's stone. The nameless murderer would remain nameless like the rest of the trapped souls within the rock. Just desserts.
 
"A point," he said, smelling that immortal caked blood as the drier portions dusted the air. "We could do with a shower." Together.
 
It was silent now, and the hum of the business of beer and booze they had called their second home above continued on with a warm indifference. John Constantine gave those teetheyes a look. He had known otherwise.