(no subject)

[dangeroushabits.livejournal.com]

Date: April 6, 2000, Mid-Morning
Setting: Belfast, Northern Ireland
Status: Private (John and some NPC's)
Summary: The nightmare continues.



Its name was Nephrithraxus, and it hated everyone. Humans, angels, and most especially the Fallen.

Before the Landing that had placed Lucifer and his kind in control of Hell, it had been one of the elite among the vile, scrabbling things that made their home there. Now all its kind were no more than whipping boys and scapegoats for former angels, assigned the lowliest tasks and arbitrarily tormented or destroyed when one of the Fallen was in a temper, only to re-form later and begin the whole miserable cycle again.

---

John had dealt with at least one of this type before. He could only be grateful that this one lacked Calibraxis' insatiable appetite for human flesh, and had not forced him to attack anyone--though he'd given a few children the fright of their lives, staggering into them unawares in the midst of a violent struggle to reclaim control of his own body. Their parents would want to know where they'd heard the ugly words both he and the demon had snarled at them using the same mouth--one trying desperately to warn them off, the other simply swearing because it enjoyed blaspheming and frightening human spawn--but at least they hadn't been hurt.

---

Nephrithraxus was practically a pacifist by its own standards, in fact. It wasn't interested in perpetrating crimes against humanity in general, had no use for the damning of souls. It had snuck up here without permission, at first looking for nothing more than a temporary escape from the unending abuse Below.

For weeks now, it had been jumping from person to person more or less at random, taking a voyeuristic pleasure in tearing carelessly through their minds, examining thoughts and memories and trying puzzle out what made a human being tick. Later it had occurred to the demon to wonder why they seemed to be of such great concern to the Fallen, and how it might use that information to its own advantage.

That the minds in question weren't equipped to house an infernal presence, and that their owners might be unwilling to serve up their most intimate thoughts and secrets to an intruder, had proved only a minor inconvenience; Nephrithraxus simply ripped what it wanted out of a victim's cerebral cortex until it was too severely damaged to function or there was nothing left of interest, then moved on.

It had left its last host sprawled in an alley a few hundred yards from where John had stood, bored with the woman's increasingly disjointed chatter and attracted by the weirdly colored and distorted aura that surrounded this new plaything.

At first, it informed him as it sifted through the clutter of John's short-term memories (the most accessible bits, and therefore usually its first stop,) it had thought it might have bitten off more than it could chew. The mortal's will was stronger than most; only his state of distraction had allowed it entry at all, and he'd put up an impressive fight--kicking, biting, clawing and pummeling it until it was metaphorically black and blue, and seriously considering giving him up in favor of less troublesome prey.

But, tantalized by fleeting glimpses of what lay inside John's battered psyche, it had persisted, pulling out a few of its nastier tricks (some of them learned from the Fallen, who it grudgingly admitted were a damned creative lot when it came to inflicting pain and anguish) to distract the mortal and wear him down. It had finally gained full access as he'd laid open his own arms, face and chest, clawing them raw in a frenzied attack on nonexistent vermin projected into his mind through a hairline crack Nephrithraxus had managed to open in his defenses.

Moments later, it had realized with a thrill of diabolical glee that it had hit the mother lode. It had heard the name of Constantine--there were very few in Hell who hadn't--and the man had been privy to more betrayals and subversions of the Morningstar and his interests than Nephrithraxus could have contrived in its wildest dreams. Bringing before Lucifer the data stowed in here would not only elevate it to a position of prestige hitherto unknown to any of its kind, it would tumble several of the other Fallen permanently out of favor. It was the metaphysical equivalent of the Watergate files.

John was still trying to fight it, snatching thoughts and images out of its "hands" or throwing up less relevant information to keep it away from the good stuff, and it had to proceed somewhat cautiously to avoid doing too much damage before it had extracted what it needed. That was all right, though. The body and its chemically encoded memories could survive for several more days, at least, and its rightful owner would retreat into madness or coma some time before then, leaving Nephrithraxus unimpeded access to its treasures.

It was ironic beyond words that the demon should be tripped up by exactly the same mistake that had been its victim's undoing. Absorbed in its plans and John's continuing attempts to hinder its work, expel it or wrest back control of his motor functions, it paid very little attention to what lay in front of them.

Until they passed through an unremarkable wrought iron gate, and it was struck with a searing pain the likes of which it had never before experienced.

Got you, you incredible piece of shit, rang through the man's mind. Choking on the wave of vindictive satisfaction that came with the thought, Nephrithraxus abandoned everything but the effort of taking back control of the body, curling up as deep inside as it could get, using the flesh as a shield as it threw everything it had into forcing them out of the churchyard John had walked them into.

---

Lurching and staggering drunkenly as the monster inside tried frantically to turn him around, John gritted his teeth and compelled his body's obedience, forcing one foot in front of the other as long as he had strength to put into the effort. At last he flopped awkwardly to the ground beneath a large yew tree that stood watch over the consecrated ground, well within the old churchyard's borders.

Even then, he wasn't permitted to rest. Nephrithraxus carried on trying to shove him upright, to make him walk or crawl back outside. He dug his fingers into the ground, determined to keep it here until the holy ground had killed it dead or until he died himself, leaving it trapped in a corpse that could no longer take it anywhere. The clean earth made his fingers itch and tingle ominously, and he guessed it was only a matter of time before it started to burn him. He didn't care. It would just hasten the inevitable.

He could sense the thing's suffering, its growing sense of panic, and took a murderous pleasure in it. "That's right, fucker," he rasped, his throat dry as dust. "Taste of your own med'cine. Picked the wrong bloke to mug this time, din't you?"

It spoke to him, threatening torments the likes of which Lucifer himself would consider overkill, and he laughed at it. Like he'd never heard that one before. Then it threatened his loved ones, flinging up images of the horrific things it would do to them in vivid Technicolor detail, starting with those most recently in his thoughts. Cheryl and Gemma, Zatanna, Kit, Abby, Tefe. Chas. Crowley and Aziraphale.

"You're bluffing now," John whispered, screwing his eyes shut tight against the illusions. "Can't touch a celestial. They're bigger than you are. Can't hurt anyone if you die here, anyway...AAAAHHHHH!" His voice scaled upward in an involuntary scream as Nephrithraxus tried to take control and he fought back, his limbs convulsing with too many conflicting nervous impulses.

"Fucking get on with it, will you?" he croaked when the spasms had passed. "Got places to go..."

Do you? I think not. Isn't that what you were thinking about when I found you? Where to go, where you belonged? You've been cast out, Constantine, just as your pathetic ancestors were. By the same agent, even.

"Don't you talk about Crowley," John growled. "Not allowed. Leave him out of it."

Me leave him out of it? He's all you've thought about for weeks. But forget that. Listen, Constantine, I'll make you a bargain. Its "voice" was strained, bordering on hysteria, but nonetheless laced with cunning. Get up and walk out of here with me, and I'll take what I already have and go, leave you in peace. I have no interest in your family or your human friends. I can't get you in any more trouble Below than you already are, and you've turned your back on those at the Manor. What have you got to lose?

It meant it, John realized with a sense of numb astonishment. Sitting that close to his brain, it couldn't lie to him very effectively. It wanted nothing more than to get the fuck out of this churchyard, flee back to Hell and lick its wounds. He could end the whole thing now just by moving a few yards over and letting it go.

All he had to do was sell Crowley out to the Devil.

Come on, Constantine, it whispered persuasively. It's nothing you haven't done before to save your own skin. What's one more? A deceitful creature who holds you in contempt. Hardly worth so much suffering.

He didn't answer. And the next time it tried to get him on his feet, he didn't fight it.

That's right. I knew you'd do the smart thing. I'll even put in a good word for you Downstairs, tell Him you gave in voluntarily. Who knows, maybe he'll go a little easier on you for that, when your time comes...hey, what are you doing?

Seizing the reins momentarily as Nephrithraxus rambled, John took them careening into the big yew tree and pounded on its trunk, shouting, "Hey, you! Wake up in there!"

Sensing something was up, Nephrithraxus tried to lock his jaw. John stammered out ferociously as his mandibular muscles burned with the strain, "M-message for Ho-holland. Tell th-that--that over...overgrown cabbage...Constantine wants a w-word with 'im."

Exhausted, he slumped down the trunk of the tree, taking comfort in its cool solidity against his face as the demon tore into him again, driven into a paroxysm of rage as it saw what he intended.

Retreating to the furthest recesses of his awareness, John curled protectively around a few precious images he couldn't bear to sacrifice to its wrath--Kit's smile, Brendan's rumbling laugh, Crowley handing over the claim to his soul--and blocked everything else out for a while, to wait on an answer from a very old friend.

---

"Constantine." It was a familiar voice, full of the creaking and groaning of trees in the wind, and by the sound of it, every bit as annoyed with him as ever.

John came out of his reverie a second too late to stop Nephrithraxus from snarling a venomous response, but then managed to blurt out before it could stop him, "Alec, 's not me--" Then his jaw snapped shut painfully and refused to open. He groaned and let his head sink back against the yew tree, knowing he couldn't take much more of this. He was no longer even certain exactly how he'd got here, though his immediate dilemma was all too painfully clear. Too much of his short-term memory had been savaged beyond recovery, leaving only fuzzy holes littered with random snippets of pictures and sounds.

"I see that," the voice rumbled, still with that undertone of perpetual annoyance, but gentler now. Enormous hands, a little too cool to be human, took hold of him and pulled him away from the tree, supporting him effortlessly.

John looked up into strange reddish eyes that weren't really eyes, set in something that was equal parts human face and rhododendron, and his mouth twitched into a faint approximation of a smile. "Ugly as ever," he whispered, his uninvited guest withdrawing to sulk and moan about its own pain. It couldn't hurt this one, an Earthly power too firmly rooted on this plane (literally and figuratively) to be vulnerable to a relatively minor demon.

"I could return the compliment...but I think that would be...belaboring the obvious," Holland observed in his painfully slow fashion. "How did you manage...to get yourself into...such a fix, Constantine? And what do you expect me...to do about it? You know such things...are far outside...my jurisdiction."

John leaned into the slightly spongy mass of the elemental's body and momentarily lost track of what they were discussing. It never failed, whether they were in Northern Ireland or an African rain forest or St. James' Park; whatever local foliage Holland used to manifest his lumbering body, he always managed to smell like the Louisiana bayou from which he'd first risen. The rich loamy scent took John back years, to memories as yet untouched by his demonic tormenter, of youth and confidence and the reckless belief that somehow, no matter the odds, he'd manage to come out ahead in the end.

The things he could tell his younger self, if he could only go back for real. Just for a minute...

"Constantine?" Holland repeated. John realized he had said it several times, and shook himself back to reality. He'd lost track of how long it had been since he'd slept. "Sorry. Yeah, I know, not your department. Something else I need you to do..."

"I do not recall that I currently owe you any favors, Constantine."

"You don't," John said, trying not to sound too desperate. "Listen. This thing can't get away. Knows too much. 'Bout me, my friends...Abby and the Sprout, too. Don't think it can survive the churchyard, by itself, but I could be wrong..."

He stopped suddenly, his guts lurching as Nephrithraxus abruptly changed its tactics and tried a new means of shutting him up. Twisting violently out of Holland's grasp, he fell to his hands and knees and retched up what little was in his stomach, bringing up a gout of blood-streaked bile before the spasms finally eased up.

"Fucking hell," he whispered hoarsely when it had passed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. His entire body was shaking, on the verge of collapse. One way or another, this had to end soon.

Holland heaved a deep, exasperated, earthy sigh, picked him up, and eased him carefully to the ground several yards off, where a thick bed of soft moss had not been a few moments before. "I am listening, Constantine."

John coughed softly. "There's this bloke staying in the Manor house at Lower Tadfield, just outside London, name of Anthony Crowley..."

"I know the name," the elemental broke in, sounding displeased. "A demon who wears sunglasses...and is unkind...to his houseplants, correct?"

John blinked. "Unkind...? You mean the ones he gave to the little Yiddish lady 'round the corner, or the ones that sprayed him with holy water?"

There was a long pause, and then Holland chuckled. "Never mind. You were saying?"