Constantine (21 page)

Constantine smiled sadly. “No. I imagine you wouldn’t.”

Xavier hesitated. Constantine didn’t have to extend his psychic feelers to know what Xavier was thinking. He could guess.

Should I hold Constantine? Can I really prove he caused this mayhem at BZR? Can he tell me where Dodson has disappeared to, and if so, if I hold him to ask about it, am I interfering with him in a way that’s going to cost Dodson?

The answer to the last question must have been yes. Because Xavier finally said, “Do whatever you do, then.”

Constantine nodded. Trying to look more confident than he felt. And there was a wide gap in between.

“That’s the plan,” he said.

He could feel Xavier watching him as Chaz drove him away. Probably Chaz figured the main thing was to get Constantine clear of the cops for now, before they changed their minds.

But where to?

Constantine needed another puzzle piece. He had to find the blood of Christ - which was known to physically exist only in two possible places. The Grail - and the spear that had pierced his side. Constantine was sure Mammon couldn’t get hold of the Grail. That left the spear. So where was it?

There was one place he could go to find out, maybe. Only one anywhere near.

“So… where to?” Chaz asked, right on cue.

“Papa Midnite’s,” Constantine said.

--

Chaz and Constantine faced the bouncer with the peculiar deck of tarot cards once more. Chaz muttered something about not wanting to be left behind again. Maybe this time…

But Constantine had a headache and he wasn’t sure he could get in himself this time. He was tired, his lungs were killing him, his head was full of psychic shrapnel, and he didn’t feel up to reading the bouncer’s mind right now.

He gave it a shot, as the bouncer at Midnite’s club, at that secret door, held up a tarot card, showing Constantine only its back. But the telepathic image was blurred, uncertain.

“A bird on a ladder,” Constantine hazarded. The bouncer shook his head. “Sorry.”

Constantine nodded, started to turn away, as if disappointed - and then spun back, and clocked the bouncer hard in the face.

He’d caught him on the cheek, instead of the point of his chin as he’d hoped, but there was enough force - and maybe a little extra telekinetic pressure and the bouncer went down, eyes crossing.

Chaz stared at the guard. Shrugged. “All right!”

He followed Constantine past the fallen guard and through the door.

And came to a dead stop on the other side of the door, staring.

They were standing at the top of the stone staircase. But this time, with the nightclub closed at the moment to customers, the interior of the space spreading out beyond the stairs was illuminated from a source Chaz couldn’t make out. Below there were tiers on which were bars, tables, stools, doorways to secret places - but out beyond the edge of the landing the space stretched on and on, lost in mist, seeming infinite. It was a room that had no interior, because it went on forever.

“Wait here,” Constantine said, descending.

Chaz just nodded. He was content to “wait here.”

He didn’t want to go any farther. He definitely wasn’t ready. Not today.

He watched Constantine descending, down and down, getting smaller and smaller in the distance, and finally vanishing.

Chaz felt a chill breeze lap at him from those impossible, infinite spaces. It seemed to snuffle at him, to taste him, to consider whether or not he might belong to the darkness it had come from.

Chaz turned - and found that the door was shut. And that there was no knob on this side. No way to open it.

The curious breeze snuffled at the back of his neck…

Chaz huddled back against the wall, crouching, clutching his knees.

After a moment he called out, “Uh… Constantine? Hey, yo, uh - say, man, do I have to uh… I mean… Constantine?”

No response. His voice was swallowed up by the depths.

--

Midnite was wearing his black Borsalino hat with the wide brim; his shirt was open at the chest. Doing some last-minute paperwork at his desk, before going out somewhere, Constantine guessed.

At this hour, maybe he was going to the Special Stage, where his gladiatorial events took place - a highly secret and secretive show for Hollywood’s most decadent elite, another unique entertainment project from the voodoo impresario. And its audience included many of Hell’s half-breed Elite too - often as not they overlapped with the Hollywood set. The gladiators were zombies, usually, using knives and machetes and sometimes chain saws against clubs with nails sticking out of them. Convenient recruiting, Midnite being the master of a small army of zombies. In the old days he’d brought Haitian zombies with him to New York and L.A., but lately he’d been converting washed-up fashion models and former soap-opera actors and producers of failed reality-TV shows - people who’d gotten into debt at his gaming tables, on Level Seven; they seemed to convert to the Walking Dead with such ease it was like they were mostly zombie already.

“Got a zombie fight set up to regale L.A.’s royalty?” Constantine asked, marshaling his strength.

He ignored the cold fury in Midnite’s eyes, but wasn’t surprised by it. Constantine was not supposed to be here. If he was here without permission, then as far as Midnite was concerned, Constantine was a burglar. The bouncer had had orders to say that he was wrong about the card no matter what he said.

“Always found the zombie fights sickening,” Constantine went on, lighting a cigarette.

“Worst thing about them’s when they tear each other apart without
feeling
anything. Made me sick to watch that. I mean, they’re trailing entrails and brains and still snapping at each other’s throats. Strangling one another with intestines - but feeling no pain. Seems like pain gives you some of your humanity. Lately I’m feeling human.” He paused to reflect, glowing out a cloud of blue smoke. “The local movie agents seemed to enjoy watching numb mutual butchery, however. Old home week for them, I guess.”

Constantine looked at the orrery, trying to misdirect Midnite’s attention that way as he clamped the cigarette in his mouth and put one hand under his coat and around his back, where he’d hung the Holy Shotgun from a strap.

But Midnite saw the motion. “Have you lost what little mind you had?” Midnite demanded, rising from his desk. “Forcing your way in here… and armed!”

And his hands were moving, fingers spread open, at his sides, seeming to draw power from the air - Constantine could see the energies spiraling in, gathering for Midnite’s attack.

“Don’t!” Constantine said, snapping the Holy Shotgun up and aiming it at Midnite’s head.

Midnite glared. But he knew they were at an impasse - that gun was made of a relic, and so infused with sacred symbols, divine energy, that if he tried to freeze its works or knock it aside, his own power would come back at him, rebounding violently: karma in its purest, most immediate form.

He lowered his hands. He waited.

“Where’s the chair?” Constantine demanded. Midnite let out a long slow breath, turning his body in the hopes of keeping Constantine from seeing the spell-casting movement of his right hand. If he could send a pulse of force against Constantine’s body, missing the gun…

“I offer no aid to one side or the other,” Midnite said, feeling the power build up in his hand.

“The Balance.”

“Screw the Balance,” Constantine said simply. Constantine, for his part, knew what was coming.

He didn’t want to shoot Midnite. But -

While Constantine was making up his mind about what to do, Midnite struck, flashing his hand out, sending a pulse of magical energy that struck the occultist, knocking him back into the wall to one side of the door, the impact sending the gun flying from his grip to clatter across the floor, shedding sparks.

Furious at himself for being caught off guard, Constantine fought to keep his feet, the wind knocked out of him.

Midnite vaulted the desk, coming at him like a runaway freight train. “You dare. In my house!”

Midnite slammed his hand hard into Constantine’s chest, staggering him against the wall, power flickering between his fingers, power enough to pin Constantine against the wall or to reach inside him and stop his heart cold between one beat and the next.

Midnite was a man of power - and that power was about face and self-belief and respect, a
mana
that built up according to his psychological dominance of his territory. And Constantine had threatened that. Constantine had broken in, and worse, had drawn a weapon on him. This pale magician was making demands of him on his own power-ground!

Dissing Midnite had consequences - supernatural and physical.

“What do you know?” Constantine wheezed. “You can still do the right thing!” He held Midnite’s eyes; their wills locked. And Constantine’s was strong enough to hold Midnite in abeyance long enough to speak his mind. He caught his breath, and went on.

“Neutral, Midnite? Bullshit. You’re the only one still playing by the rules. And while you’ve been imitating Switzerland, people are dying. Not zombies. People that matter. Hennessy. Beeman. They were your friends once too. Slaughtered. And there’s so much more blood to come. Don’t you get it yet, Midnite? We’re at war! Nobody’s neutral! Not anymore!”

Midnite just returned stare for stare. He was not going to let down his guard for mere rhetoric.

Constantine played his last card. “I need your help.”

He smiled wryly - he knew it was absurd to ask for help after bulling his way in here. But they’d known each other a long time. And Constantine had once saved Midnite’s life. “Consider it a last request, Midnite.”

Midnite thought about it for a second or two that seemed to last a lot longer. Then he stepped back. “You play a dangerous game.”

“Honestly,” Constantine said. “What have I got to lose?”

They both knew what he meant. He was destined to go to Hell when he died. The suicide had worked - even though he’d been brought back. What could Midnite do to him that would be worse than Hell?

Midnite shook his head, and fished in an inside coat pocket for a key. He led the way to a narrow side door.

Constantine followed, looking down at his shirt where Midnite’s bolt of magical energy had struck him against the wall. It was singed.

“Two-hundred-dollar shirt, by the way,” Constantine remarked.

They went down a hall, to the end, where Midnite opened another door. Midnite remarked musingly:

“That little shit” - meaning Mammon - “has been trying to climb out of his father’s shadow for eons.”

Midnite flipped a switch, illuminating a high-ceilinged, dust-coated storage room - it could have almost been a museum except that its “exhibits” were so jumbled and cluttered together.

“Whoa,” Constantine said, recognizing some of the artifacts. Some were Christian relics, some voodoo, some Ifa, some Santeria, some Hermetic, some Egyptian - and some unclassifiable.

Constantine looked at the body of a man - apparently sleeping, though his chest was motionless - in a glass case. He wore a coarsely woven robe with a hood, a rope around his middle, sandals. There was a scent of flowers around the case.

“A saint?” Constantine asked. “Which one?”

“I’m embarrassed to say I don’t know,” said Midnite. “But I know he was a saint because his body has never decayed, though he is quite dead, in this world. And that scent of flowers, of course. I believe him to be about, oh… thirteenth century of the Common Era, perhaps.”

Constantine glanced at Midnite, then back at the saint. “You see the power of this Christian faith - but you don’t consider, you know…?”

“Converting? Vo’doun is a kind of amalgamation of Christianity and the magic of the old gods of Africa…” He shrugged. “But it’s true I’m no Christian. Still it’s all one in the end, as you know: The same rules apply. You can go to the hell of Vo’doun for the same things.”

Looking around, Constantine shook his head in admiration. “Some powerful, valuable stuff here. I’m surprised you don’t have it in a vault with like big combination locks or something. Laser movement detectors. Trapdoors with spikes.”

“It is quite well protected. There are no fewer than seven murderous spirits guarding this room. Two of them are the spirits of Richard Ramirez and Charles Manson-”

“Waitaminnut, those guys are still alive.”

“Their
bodies
are walking around in prison, yes.”

Midnite grinned wolfishly. “But I took their souls away long ago. And if you had not been here with me, within my field of protection, they’d have tom your head off your shoulders and sucked your spirit out the rag-end of your neck.”

“About now, they’re welcome to it,” Constantine muttered. He felt like crap. The cancer was wearing him down again. His chest throbbed where Midnite had struck him. And worry about Angela was chewing away at his mind. He crossed the room, putting off his encounter with The Chair a few moments - it wasn’t something he was eager for - and looked over a cross of silver that somehow he associated with St. Anthony, the great fighter of demons. Near it was a big jar with a bearded, shaggy, fairly well-preserved human head in it; the head turned to watch him as he went by.

“That is Blackbeard the Pirate’s head,” Midnite said, with simple pride of ownership.

There were human hands cut off at the wrist, with candles tipping their upthrust fingers - no ordinary voodoo artifact, they would be the hands of someone famous, some person of power.

There was a jar full of what appeared to be miniature people, dancing around hysterically; there were several mummies, sarcophagi, a box of relics from assorted Muslim saints, and…

A set of Archie jam jar glasses. Constantine carefully lifted one up. “A full set?” he asked.

“No,” Midnite said, with regret. “No Jughead. I’ve tried eBay. All the stores. No luck.”

Midnite pulled a tarp off a humped shape in a corner. Dust flew. Somewhere in the room, a ghost laughed nastily as the chair was revealed: the electric chair from Sing Sing prison.

Constantine swallowed. “Forgot how big it was.”

Midnite nodded. “Two hundred souls passed through this wood and steel at Sing Sing.”