10
C onstantine was eleven years old, at the threshold of Hell. The orange-red circle of energy surrounding the World of the Damned resembled fire. At first, Constantine feared the flames would burn his flesh, but as soon as he dared approach them, a pleasant warmth invited him onwards.
So, he continued. And then he was in Hell. It was a dense world, like the earthly realm, with grey stone paths and towering walls that disappeared into the foggy sky. Massive staircases wound up between cobalt streets and seemed to lead nowhere.
A tortured cry reached his ears, piercing him deep and causing unpleasant vibrations through his stomach.
He turned towards the source. An old woman in black rags stood before him, her body nearly folded in half by a giant hunchback, and two dirty soles stuck out from under her clothes with fingers like an eagle’s talons.
A thick belt circled her waist, connecting her to a small metal cart filled with rocks.
“Please, I have repented… I am atoning…” she cried, not lifting her eyes from the ground.
“Repentance happens in the other worlds, sinner. It is too late for that in Hell!” the deep voice – belonging to a portly man standing beside the old woman – echoed, followed by the sound of a whip hitting flesh. The old woman’s flesh. She yelped again, but moved the cart slowly up the hill.
Constantine hid behind a winding staircase, peeking for a second to examine the man with the whip.
He was at least eight feet tall, with burgundy-coloured skin, a hairy chest, leather pants, hooves instead of feet, and two black horns sticking out of his head.
A demon. Constantine recognised the creature from the stories he’d heard about the World of the Damned.
Demons were its guardians, torturers, and executioners.
If they existed, then everything else about this place must also be true.
He waited for the demon and the old woman to move on before hurrying back to the orange-red energy guarding the exit. The moment his skin touched the flames, a burning pain pierced him. The veils were no longer gentle and warm – they attacked like murderous fire, blocking his escape from Hell.
His heart raced, sweat forming on his eyebrow. He summoned his secondary form. Fires might burn skin, but his skeleton could sustain anything. Seconds passed, and the transformation wasn’t beginning. The realisation that he was still a child, unable to transform, formed a lump in his throat.
But he was no child. He was a grown-up man, a necromancer…
The sinner woman pulling the heavy cart emerged before him like an apparition. She raised her head and Constantine finally recognised her. Mada, the witch who had taken his spiritual abilities.
Eyes wide, he darted around for escape, but there was none. He had no powers and was stuck in Hell forever.
The flames engulfed him.
A continuous, furious horn awoke Constantine.
He clutched the steering wheel and glanced at the side mirror. The truck driver he had almost collided with moved back into his own lane.
“Fuck!” Constantine pulled off the road. He had dozed off at the wheel, just for a second…
His eyes darted to the rear-view mirror again, this time to examine his reflection. A several-days’ beard darkened his jawline – matching the number of days since he had been home.
It had taken him about half a day to erase the traces of the attack on Mikhail. A street camera, a few witnesses with altered memories, and a homeless man no one would believe. The rest of the time, he’d spent with the stranger from the Righteous’ bar.
Though drained, the memory of her stirred his desire. He hesitated, contemplating whether to get himself off right in his black Prada pants.
Necromancer. A mental image of Mada assaulted him, dousing his arousal. He had dreamt of the witch. Her eyes bled crimson tears, staining the earth beneath her dark robe – just as they had before Constantine had consumed the last part of her that could be reborn and perhaps redeem her sins.
The consumption of souls was a special ability of the necromancer species.
When he absorbed someone’s soul, he gained access to all the intangible elements it had ever encountered: a plethora of memories, thoughts, and emotions.
Doing so was meant to give them the upper hand – to help them find information about the perpetrators behind the Hospital murders.
Instead, all it had done was screw him over.
Since he’d consumed Mada’s soul, he hadn’t been able to return to the Beyond or tap into any astral projection.
He didn’t know if Mada’s soul had ascended to higher planes or if it still lingered, entwined in his energy, but somehow it continued to obstruct him.
Before dying, Mada had cursed him – first, he would lose his supernatural abilities, and then his physical body, until only a skeleton remained. A eulogy.
Eulogies are for humans, witch. You don’t impress me.
Constantine glanced at the mirror again.
He was not young, but he still looked it, despite the tiredness etched across his face.
Fine lines under his lower eyelids and shadows of sleep deprivation marked him.
He hadn’t slept in a week, which should have been trivial to him.
Yet, he had dozed off behind the wheel – a sign that his body was losing its resilience.
Another aftermath of Mada’s hold on him.
***
Zacharia had called earlier with news of Mikhail’s improving condition. Although the manticore was already recovering, Nyavolski wouldn’t allow any visitors in the ICU – unless life-threatening matters arose.
Despite his presence being unrequired, Constantine found himself on the Hospital’s grounds.
He headed to the training room, where he hoped to find Diana.
Sure enough, the vampire was punching a heavy bag, engaged in a vigorous workout.
Clad in a sleek black athletic outfit that accentuated her muscular physique, her glossy chestnut hair was neatly braided to keep it out of her face while she landed forceful blows with her bare hands.
If anyone had questioned what Constantine was doing there, he couldn’t have replied. He simply needed to see her .
Leaning against the wall, he observed Diana in silence. He knew she was aware of his presence – her intensity seemed to spike under his gaze – yet she continued to pummel her inanimate opponent, as if determined to tear it apart.
Diana and Constantine hadn’t talked much since they’d returned from Turkey, and it seemed that moment of weakness she’d shared with him after her brother’s death had been long forgotten.
After arriving at the Hospital, and testing out the secondary form liquid, she had become reticent, secluding herself into the training room.
And Constantine had left her to it. Until now.
“I might’ve mentioned it before, but you’re quite skilled,” he said, growing weary of Diana’s sparring with the punching bag.
Diana landed a few more punches before halting her training. She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Thank you.”
He approached. “A range of martial arts, including Taekwondo, Judo, Karate, Viet Vo Dao, firearms, traditional weapons like bows, knives, and nunchaku… And you’ve managed to plant a tracking device in my car, using just a simple cell phone…”
She turned to face him, giving him a once-over with her toffee-coloured eyes. “Yes, I did. What’s your point?”
He allowed his gaze to linger a little longer on her soft lips. “You lied when I asked where you got those skills from, but you might tell me why you got them.”
Diana knelt to pick up a white towel from the floor and wiped the sweat from her forehead.
When her silence lingered, Constantine understood she didn’t feel the need to respond, but that didn’t sit well with him.
“Moreover, you were willing to risk your life to access your secondary form – something you know is incredibly dangerous for that first transformation. That, combined with the aforementioned, makes me think you’re preparing for a war.
Is there something you’re not telling me, dove ? ”
She frowned at the nickname, which made him smile.
Diana stuffed her towel in her backpack and rose to her full height.
When she walked up to him, her unique scent attacked his nostrils and sent a pleasant wave down his spine.
At first, Constantine had seen her as an ally against the reptilians, but if she kept having that effect on him, she might turn into a complication.
A complication he would fuck, if she offered it.
However, her body language revealed no signs of such desires on her side. Especially now, while she stood before him, chin raised and eyes burning with confidence. “You’ll find out soon enough that I’m no dove ,” she said.
“And how am I finding that out?”
Diana crossed her arms. “All right. If you want to know, I’ll tell you. It’s not like you could hinder my participation at this point. I’m taking part in the centennial edition of the Al-Hatib tournament. Got accepted over many other candidates. Would a dove have made it this far?”
She might as well have splashed cold water on his face.
Constantine had heard about the tournament.
It was a ruthless fight among various immortals.
This year’s edition was particularly enticing, offering the Mirror of Hecate as a prize – a rare artefact that had not surfaced in fifty years.
It was rumoured that it could reflect any magic or curse aimed at its holder and break any spells, making it a coveted item among competitors.
“Diana, that fight is to the death. It’s tantamount to suicide.”
“It is, without a secondary form. Now that I have one, I have an equal chance of victory with the rest of the players.”
Constantine’s jaw tensed. He’d let her drink that thing and unlock her secondary form – he had even argued with his friends about it.
And for what? So she could kill herself?
“Most participants in these tournaments are degenerates and monsters. Beings whose lives are truly worthless, so they fear nothing about losing them. They are usually mercenaries for other people – those in pristine clothes who never leave the comfort of the spectator stands.”
“I’m well aware, okay?” Diana turned her back on him and slung a small sports bag over her shoulder.
He mulled over her story. Something about it didn’t quite add up. “You’re sacrificing yourself, all for a mirror. Why?”
That made her face him once again. “I’m going to win, not lose, Constantine.”
“Overconfidence has crushed many brave hearts, Diana.”
“I’m not overconfident, just confident in my abilities.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And you think I care whether you believe me?”
A faint smile curled his lips. How he craved to teach Diana proper manners. “I don’t believe you’re ready to die for a mirror. So I wonder – what are you willing to die for, Diana? Or for whom?”
Perhaps she had a loved one for whom she wanted the mirror?
A darkness passed through Diana’s eyes. “There are no secrets. It’s called ‘personal space.’” She brushed past him to leave through the door.
Constantine refrained from following her.
Though he possessed methods to compel her submission, he hesitated.
In Mada’s underground chamber, he had briefly glimpsed Diana’s soul.
That fleeting insight had revealed a soul as pure as her heart’s bravery.
Such purity convinced him that her participation in the immortal tournament wasn’t for the mere acquisition of a priceless artefact.
She was fighting for someone else’s sake.
Too bad her fate seemed sealed. In a contest overrun by fiends, courage and honour were the most useless weapons.