Capítulo 22: C22. I'm Constantine
###### C22. I'm Constantine
Edited.
What a bloody waste—a good trick down the drain and a gorgeous angel MILF with it. But life? It crawls on, even when demons are lining up for front-row seats to my slow, painful demise.
"Only you could've sniffed out my trick, Nick," I mutter to Neron, keeping my stance steady despite the fact my bag of surprises is running on fumes. "But let's skip the pleasantries, yeah? Time to wrap this up and get me my wings."
The stink of sulfur thickens, and for a moment, I catch a whiff of fear—though not mine, mind you. But Neron? His grin spreads wider than a Cheshire cat on payday, his laugh curling into a nasty sneer.
"You reek of desperation, Constantine," he purrs, each word oozing smug satisfaction. "And I know a bluff when I hear one. You've played every ace, every cheap card up that tattered sleeve of yours. You're spent."
"Which means..." A new voice cuts in, sharp and cold as a guillotine.
The First.
The original Satan.
He strides in like the bloody king of misery he is, shoving Neron aside like yesterday's garbage. Before I can so much as exhale, his hand's wrapped around my collar, yanking me close enough to smell the rotting fire of his breath. Every demon in the room hits their knees, bowing as if their very existence depends on it. And maybe it does.
The oppressive weight of his presence hits me like a freight train. My muscles seize up, my throat tightens, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder if it's too late to suggest he invest in some chewing gum and a skincare routine.
"Constantine..." His voice slithers through the air, dripping with malice and glee. "I've waited a very long time for this moment. Oh, the _things_ I have planned for you..."
My throat's clogging with dread, but if I'm going down, I'm going down swinging. "None of those plans involve a well-stocked arsenal, do they? Because once I get my wings, I'm breaking into Hell's armory and—"
He cuts me off with a hiss, his fingers tightening around my neck like a vice. "Pathetic jokes. Is this all that's left of you?"
His grin stretches into something inhuman, and for once, I feel a flicker of real fear creeping under my skin. I've got to get out of his grip before this turns into a one-way trip to eternal torment.
I turn to the Hellblazer mark, a last-ditch prayer to whatever scraps of magic might still have my back. But nothing comes. Not a spark, not a flicker. Just a void where my hope used to live.
"Bollocks..." I choke out internally, my pulse hammering as the First looms closer.
"Smell that?" he taunts, turning to his groveling audience. His words drip with a perverse kind of relish. "Taste it. The sweet aroma of desperation. Fear. This is how prey smells when it's cornered."
The demons roar their approval, their cheers a symphony of malice.
"Bloody hell," I mutter under my breath, cursing the Hellblazer mark for abandoning me just when I needed it most. Whatever's causing its sporadic mood swings—be it the whims of fate or my own bloody bad luck—can sod off for all I care.
But the First—Satan himself—has gone quiet. His boasting halts mid-sneer, and his eyes drift into the distant shadows, narrowing as if he's seen something I haven't. He grunts, low and guttural, and for a moment, I wonder: has he spotted hope I can't?
Then her voice rings out, clear and commanding, sweet as salvation even when it's laced with anger.
"CONSTANTINE!"
It's not a shout; it's a bloody earthquake. The structures of Hell itself tremble, cracks rippling through the infernal stone at the sheer weight of her will. And for the first time in a long while, my heart leaps—not from fear, but from the joy of knowing I've got backup.
"What mess have you gotten yourself into this time!?"
Her arrival is my window—unseen, unexpected, and unplanned. The kind of opportunity I never waste.
"I'm never out of tricks, mate," I snarl, flashing the First a cocky grin before spitting right in his face. For good measure, I swing a leg up and aim for his crown jewels.
It's a risky gambit—a swing-and-miss situation at best—but then his knees buckle, and he groans in genuine agony.
"You've actually got 'em?" I blurt, more curious than horrified. Watching the Devil himself clutch his groin and swear like a sailor isn't something you see every day. "What for?"
Not waiting for an answer, I bolt, scooting across the battlefield until I'm safely behind her—the Mistress of Magic herself, Zatanna Zatara. She appears in a dazzling burst of chaotic, exploding lightbulbs. It's dramatic, sure, but it also reminds me she hasn't quite mastered her powers yet. A ticking time bomb, my Zee.
Even here, in the heart of Hell, she carries herself with that same flair—the unshakable confidence of a performer who knows all eyes are on her. Vulnerable but never cowed.
"Good to see you, luv," I greet, bracing for the slap I've probably earned for some forgotten slight. But she doesn't spare me a glance—her attention's locked on the demons still lurking in the arena.
"Hope you brought the cavalry."
"Just me," she says sharply, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Me, a whole lot of questions, and one priority: we're not staying here to chat." She glances at me, her eyes narrowing. "Did you sell your soul again?"
"The night's still young," I quip, shrugging. "But I'm on a righteous path now, remember?"
"I'll be the judge of that, Hellblazer."
The voice that interrupts isn't Zatanna's. It's colder, harsher—laced with the sanctimonious tone of a universal arsehole second only to me.
Doctor Fate.
"Came solo, eh?" I ask Zatanna, raising an eyebrow.
"Guess the men in my life aren't big on keeping promises," she mutters, her voice edged with betrayal. "I told you to stay put, Fate—until I confirmed Nergal's location."
Fate ignores her, his golden helm glinting even in the dim hellish light. "It's time I face my demon, Zee. No more running from this."
A sinister chuckle ripples through the air, and Nergal rises, his monstrous form coiled with malevolence. "If it isn't the boy trapped in the shadow of his uncle's demise," he sneers. "I can already taste your despair."
Ah, of course. Nergal loves his little psychological games. I'd know—he dragged me into the pits of madness with Astra. Now it seems he's got his claws in Khalid Nassour. That's why Fate's been AWOL—tormented by a demon who thrives on pain.
Without another word, Fate surges forward, his magical energy colliding with Nergal's in a blinding clash. The arena erupts with raw power, heat, and fury.
The Devil, still clutching at his pride—and his wounded bits—straightens up, his eyes narrowing with renewed greed. He turns his attention to Zatanna, his face darkening to a molten red. Steam curls off his horns, and his lips twist into something between a leer and a snarl.
"Such a pure, powerful soul," he murmurs, his voice thick with hunger. His gaze flicks back to me. "Offer her soul on a platter, Constantine, and the wings are yours. No sweat."
"Wings?" Zatanna's eyes snap to me, her face sceptical, her tone razor-sharp. She's braced for the worst—for me to say or do the one thing that'll prove her right about what a selfish bastard I can be.
God, I wish I had the luxury of disappointing her. Divide and conquer: Zee versus the First, Fate versus Nergal, and me walking out with Lucifer's wings.
But I can't. Not to her. Not now.
I grab her arm—roughly, maybe too much so—and the First chuckles, expecting me to show my true colors. Zee's gaze cuts into me, vulnerable and searching, hunting for the crack in my facade.
"Remember what I told you, luv," I whisper, slipping a talisman from my coat into her hand and folding her fingers around it. "I can help you with your magic... if you let me."
Her confusion lingers, but she nods, just barely.
"Trust me," I say, and I half-expect her not to. But Zee always does, and that's her greatest mistake—one that keeps dragging us back into this mess we call fate.
"You want her soul?" I bark, turning to the First with a sneer, and shove Zatanna forward with brutal force. She stumbles but stays upright, glaring daggers at me.
The First watches, his expression guarded. He's wary now—suspecting a trick, the cunning bastard.
"Bamifist viscfirian zceskanol..." I start chanting in the Enochian tongue, letting the ancient, angelic syllables roll off my tongue. Zee's body begins to glow, an ethereal light radiating from within her, growing brighter with every word. An unnatural wind rises, swirling around her, whipping her clothes and hair.
I don't stop, don't falter. The First leans in, his fallen-angel ears parsing each syllable, looking for traps, tricks, anything that reeks of Constantine.
The light in Zee's gut intensifies until it bursts forth, a glowing orb of white energy escaping her lips and hovering in the air. Its light dims to something tolerable, almost gentle. Zatanna collapses, and I catch her before she hits the ground, cradling her like the fragile thing she's never truly been.
"There it is," I say, nodding toward the floating orb. "Her soul. Yours, if you trust me."
The First hesitates, his eyes flicking between me and the glowing essence.
"By the Light of the Father, free her soul from this mortal body," he mutters, repeating my chant in English, dissecting every word.
"You heard it," I snap, my poker face firmly in place. "You see the soul, don't you? It's all legit, mate. No tricks this time."
I hold his gaze, letting my smirk twist just enough to keep him off balance. "I'm a selfish bastard, yeah. And there's nothing I won't do to get those bloody wings."
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