John slowly turned from the obstinate animate flora with whom he was playing tug-of-war, and found himself face to face with a skinny, sneering, very very blond youth, who for some inexplicable reason was pointing a stick at his sternum. "Oh, for the..."
It was bad enough he'd had to brave the inner recesses of half the classic-car enthusiast hangouts in London, flashing a picture of the Bentley, and endure endless monologues about suspensions and model years and bloody V-something engines before turning up someone who could verify that yes, that particular Bentley was often seen in this particular neighborhood.
He'd then spent the better part of an afternoon ingratiating himself with Crowley's neighbors, chatting up the absent-minded little old lady whose tiny flat was filled to bursting with the demon's cast-off houseplants, and finally narrowing it down by guesswork and process of elimination to this particular flat.*
Bribing the janitor to let him in had been the easy part. Apparently it had occurred to the landlady after more than a month of the place standing empty that she hadn't seen a rent payment in over thirty years, and she was planning on binning the contents and letting the place out again (John could have told her that was a bad idea, and also that the lawsuit she allegedly planned to file for back rent was doomed to bear no fruit either, as Hell had access to most of the best lawyers. Sadly, she wasn't likely to ask.)
Finding the place full of sentient houseplants with prehensile leaves, holy water pistols and an attitude had come as a minor shock. It was by no means the weirdest thing John had ever seen, and of course holy water wouldn't hurt him. But it did suggest that whoever had booby-trapped the place had a sadistic streak and a sense of black humor, which wasn't something he typically associated with angels. It made for a very bad combination. And the sodding ivy wouldn't give up the damn gun so John could have a look at it, not the he really thought it would tell him much, it wasn't like Heaven or Hell distributed standard-issue squirt pistols, but there was sod all else in the way of clues to be found and he wasn't about to leave until he'd investigated the place properly and thoroughly.
And now here was Peroxide Lad With A Stick, making like bloody Scotland Yard. It really was too much.
John let go the water pistol, snatched the pointy stick out of the kid's hand, and rapped him smartly over the head with it. "Watch your mouth, you snooty little shit. And get your nose out of the air before something flies up it," he snapped.
He would have added more, but at that moment two things registered that brought him to a surprised halt.
One, the stick in his hand was vibrating slightly. Humming, almost, in a distinctly un-stick-like fashion. It sent a strange resonance coursing up his arm, something like pins and needles and something like a solid crack to the funny bone, but not quite like either one.
And two, smoke had begun to rise from the kid's head.
A slightly fuzzy memory of a conversation with an inebriated werewolf came suddenly to mind. "I have heard of wizards - am one myself -" He pulled out his wand and waved it, the tip sparking before he put it away again.
John blinked. Was he serious? Magic wands? Nah, it can't be...
"Um," he added intelligently. "Your hair seems to be on fire."
---
*The discerning reader might well wonder why John didn't take the easy route and just go ask Crowley where the place was and whether he could have a look around. Answer: He felt Crowley had enough on his mind, figured he'd come around when he was good and ready, and also wasn't in the habit of asking permission in general.
no subject
It was bad enough he'd had to brave the inner recesses of half the classic-car enthusiast hangouts in London, flashing a picture of the Bentley, and endure endless monologues about suspensions and model years and bloody V-something engines before turning up someone who could verify that yes, that particular Bentley was often seen in this particular neighborhood.
He'd then spent the better part of an afternoon ingratiating himself with Crowley's neighbors, chatting up the absent-minded little old lady whose tiny flat was filled to bursting with the demon's cast-off houseplants, and finally narrowing it down by guesswork and process of elimination to this particular flat.*
Bribing the janitor to let him in had been the easy part. Apparently it had occurred to the landlady after more than a month of the place standing empty that she hadn't seen a rent payment in over thirty years, and she was planning on binning the contents and letting the place out again (John could have told her that was a bad idea, and also that the lawsuit she allegedly planned to file for back rent was doomed to bear no fruit either, as Hell had access to most of the best lawyers. Sadly, she wasn't likely to ask.)
Finding the place full of sentient houseplants with prehensile leaves, holy water pistols and an attitude had come as a minor shock. It was by no means the weirdest thing John had ever seen, and of course holy water wouldn't hurt him. But it did suggest that whoever had booby-trapped the place had a sadistic streak and a sense of black humor, which wasn't something he typically associated with angels. It made for a very bad combination. And the sodding ivy wouldn't give up the damn gun so John could have a look at it, not the he really thought it would tell him much, it wasn't like Heaven or Hell distributed standard-issue squirt pistols, but there was sod all else in the way of clues to be found and he wasn't about to leave until he'd investigated the place properly and thoroughly.
And now here was Peroxide Lad With A Stick, making like bloody Scotland Yard. It really was too much.
John let go the water pistol, snatched the pointy stick out of the kid's hand, and rapped him smartly over the head with it. "Watch your mouth, you snooty little shit. And get your nose out of the air before something flies up it," he snapped.
He would have added more, but at that moment two things registered that brought him to a surprised halt.
One, the stick in his hand was vibrating slightly. Humming, almost, in a distinctly un-stick-like fashion. It sent a strange resonance coursing up his arm, something like pins and needles and something like a solid crack to the funny bone, but not quite like either one.
And two, smoke had begun to rise from the kid's head.
A slightly fuzzy memory of a conversation with an inebriated werewolf came suddenly to mind. "I have heard of wizards - am one myself -" He pulled out his wand and waved it, the tip sparking before he put it away again.
John blinked. Was he serious? Magic wands? Nah, it can't be...
"Um," he added intelligently. "Your hair seems to be on fire."
---
*The discerning reader might well wonder why John didn't take the easy route and just go ask Crowley where the place was and whether he could have a look around. Answer: He felt Crowley had enough on his mind, figured he'd come around when he was good and ready, and also wasn't in the habit of asking permission in general.