Speak of the Devil
a little thing i wrote for my motw game group. idk i was bored and i thought if y’all are also bored you might like it.
It was getting close to Christmas, and Daniel was getting close to desperate.
These were perhaps not perfectly honest assessments of the state of affairs. Christmas was still a few weeks off, though judging by the state of the town’s decorations it might as well have been tomorrow. The Excellence Holiday Planning Committee had done their work well, and there were lights or wreaths or tinsel on every street light, road sign and traffic signal. There was a general sense of cheer in the air, so Christmas seemed to be just around the corner.
Daniel, for his part, had passed desperate some time ago. He existed in a general state of extreme anxiety, and Father Constantine had been his rock since coming to town. As long as Constantine was alright, Daniel felt a little bit more like he could be alright. Currently, Constantine was not alright, and it set Daniel so on edge it felt like at any moment he could jump out of his own skin.
Constantine had been distant since the battle against Father Birch’s coven. He’d cloistered himself in the back rooms of the church, mostly emerging to do his duty as a priest, but had spent most of the rest of his time in silent contemplation. Daniel didn’t blame him for that, discovering that one was technically the Antichrist had to be taxing on one’s relationship with God, but on the rare occasions when he saw Constantine the man seemed deeply listless. He barely ate, by Daniel’s estimation, and rarely slept through the night. He stared off into space as though not really seeing what was in front of him.
He had also -- Daniel noted with a deep, gnawing sense of guilt for even thinking of it -- not offered his blood to Daniel since that fight. Daniel knew he had no right to ask for or expect such a thing, but its absence was almost as unbearable as the thought of inquiring after it.
In short, Daniel was growing more uncomfortable by the day, and he didn’t know what to do about it.
It was at this point, a few weeks from Christmas and after an unbearable, interminable length of time since things had been normal, that Constantine stopped eating. It was after a visit from Lucifer -- and wasn’t it strange to be considering visits from Lucifer so casually -- which had left burning hoofprints on the church floor, the devil in good spirits, and Constantine pale and drawn and deeply morose. It was Friday, two days before a sermon needed to be given, so when Constantine locked himself in his office and refused to come out it had seemed at the time as though there was a natural endpoint to his isolation. Then Saturday came and went, and when it came time for the Sunday service Constantine still refused to make an appearance.
“Please,” Daniel pleaded quietly at the office door, “please come out and get ready. People will be here soon!”
“Go away,” came Constantine’s gruff voice, tired but insistent.
“What am I supposed to tell them?” Daniel begged, nearly whispering through the door as though he were afraid of being overheard. He did not know who he thought might overhear. Perhaps God, or the devil, or both.
“Tell them their sins could not possibly damn them any more than listening to me defile the name of God,” Constantine replied, and Daniel didn’t know what to say to that.
Daniel did his best to cover. He had locked the church doors before anyone arrived, unsure whether it was a good idea to have people inside when Constantine’s state was unknown, and now he poked his head out a window and explained that they were having problems with the heat. Some penitents turned right around to go home, but a few of the old ladies stood stalwartly outside and many of the town followed their example. No matter how Daniel insisted that it wasn’t fit for man or beast inside the church, they still were unmoved, until he hit upon the idea of telling them that the heat was too high, rather than too low, and had made the church an ideal nesting ground for an entirely fictitious species of notoriously aggressive wasps. That thankfully sent the remainder of the congregation grumbling for their cars, and allowed Daniel to draw himself back inside to consider what to do next.
After nearly an hour’s contemplation had produce no solution, Daniel’s thoughts were interrupted by his phone ringing.
“Hello?” he asked cautiously. The number had flashed up as Unknown on his caller ID, so he hoped it wasn’t one of the church ladies Constantine had for some reason given his number to.
“A little birdie told me services got cancelled today,” said Lizzie-Jean’s voice, sounding unconvincingly bored and disaffected. “I was totally going to come. I got all dressed up and everything.”
“Yes,” Daniel admitted, curling in on himself from where he’d been sitting against the wall a few yards from Constantine’s door. “Father Constantine is, uh, in silent contemplation of-”
“It’s me Daniel,” Lizzie-Jean cut him off flatly. “You don’t have to lie.”
Daniel let out an undignified little whine. “He’s locked himself in his office, and he won’t come out!”
“What hornet’s crawled up his shorts?” Lizzie-Jean asked, with her usual brazen lack of respect. “Get a visit from daddy dearest from down below?”
“Yes,” Daniel admitted quietly. He knew his voice must sound very small.
“You seem upset,” Lizzie-Jean realized, a note of seriousness creeping into her tone. “What’s standard procedure for this? Is it not working?”
“There is no standard procedure!” Daniel protested wildly. “He’s not usually . . . I’m not the one who . . .”
I’m not the one who fixes things, Daniel thought. Constantine is the one who makes everything alright again.
There was a pause on the other end of the phone, then Lizzie-Jean said, “Hang tight, I’m coming to you,” and hung up.
Daniel wasn’t sure what ‘hang tight’ was supposed to mean in this scenario, but if Lizzie-Jean was coming to the church then it seemed prudent to unlock the door. The girl had a habit of barreling through any obstacles placed in her way. This proved to be the correct decision when Daniel noticed out of one of the high windows that Lizzie-Jean was cresting the hill not far from the church on her bike, and then a few minutes later the heavy double doors flew open and banged against the front wall.
“Oh Father Constantine!” Lizzie-Jean shouted, marching into the church with long, confident strides as the doors creaked closed behind her. Her voice echoed off the high ceiling, giving the impression that her small body somehow filled the whole room.
“He’s still in his office,” Daniel said uselessly, locking the doors behind Lizzie-Jean and falling into step behind her.
Lizzie-Jean reached the part of the floor where the old stone entryway met the less-old dark green carpet of the rest of the church and paused, looking down at the dark hoofprints down the center aisle.
“How long has he been in there?” she asked, transferring her weight to one foot and giving a little hop until she was standing one-legged on the first hoofprint, her worn leather boot completely covering it.
“Since Friday,” Daniel replied, watching nervously as Lizzie-Jean continued to play hopscotch with Lucifer’s hoofprints, muttering indistinctly to herself.
Curiously, when she took her foot off a burnt patch of floor it suddenly looked exactly like the floor around it, and it took Daniel several of her steps to realize that the burn marks were being overgrown by moss, the exact same color as the carpet. He stepped experimentally onto a patch of moss to find that he barely noticed the slight rise in the floor where it bloomed, and it released a fresh, clean scent when he lifted his foot. It was quite impressive, actually.
Eventually Lizzie-Jean reached the last of the hoofprints and resumed her dauntless stride into the back rooms of the church.
“What are you going to do?” Daniel asked as she approached the office door.
“I’m going to get him out,” Lizzie-Jean said simply, then raised a fist to pound loudly on the door.
Daniel winced at the noise, but there was no immediate answer.
“DAD!” she screamed through the heavy wood. “YOUR WIFE AND CHILD REQUIRE ATTENTION! COME OUT OF THE GARAGE AND SPEND SOME TIME WITH THE FAMILY!”
Before Daniel could parse out what in Heaven’s name she meant by that, Constantine’s voice growled, “Go away!” through the door.
“I will smoke you out, you old devil, don’t think I won’t,” Lizzie-Jean threatened good naturedly.
“Poor choice of words, child,” Constantine said, but there was something of his old bite to it now. “And if you set fire to this church I will end you.”
“You think you can kill me?” Lizzie-Jean asked, amused.
“No,” Constantine admitted, “but I can tell your Aunt.”
“Firstly don’t think i can’t make smoke without fire,” Lizzie-Jean argued, “and secondly don’t think all smoke is literal.” She smiled, showing teeth, though only Daniel could see the threat display and be suitably intimidated by it. “Through God and my magic all things are possible.”
“God doesn’t live here,” Constantine said grimly.
“Well I do,” Lizzie-Jean said, apparently choosing to interpret ‘here’ as Excellence, Michigan. “Its cold and boring and dangerous at night, so come teach me how to fight with a sword.”
“You can already fight with a sword,” Constantine countered sourly.
“Not as well as you,” Lizzie-Jean said, and Daniel might have wondered how her pride let her admit to such a thing, if he didn’t know her need to be contrary far outstripped it.
“I am not fit for-” Constantine began.
“Speak!” Lizzie-Jean shouted over him, and suddenly she was holding an antique sword. “Don’t make me pry this door open Connie.”
There was a pause where Constantine said nothing, and Lizzie-Jean stood with sword poised to dig into the space between door and doorframe. Then there came a rustling of movement, the sound of footsteps, and a loud scrapping as though a piece of furniture were being shifted away from the door. Then the door opened to reveal Constantine, looking grumpy and disordered and a bit like a bird with its feathers ruffled, but at the very least alive, upright and glaring at Lizzie-Jean with a very un-apathetic vitriol.
He also, Daniel was horrified to note, had stubble. Constantine was usually not one to neglect shaving, but he didn’t grow much facial hair even if given the chance. The three days growth on his face had, however, taken on a most unfortunate shape.
“You’ve got a satan goatee!” Lizzie-Jean howled, her sword point falling to the floor as she nearly doubled over in laughter.
“Silence brat,” Constanine grumbled, which did nothing to stem the tide of Lizzie-Jean’s joyful giggling.
“It doesn’t look that bad,” Daniel said consoling, and quavered when Constantine turned his glaring eyes on him.
Daniel hunched his shoulders, curling up small under Constantine’s piercing gaze, and Constantine’s face softened. “Thank you, Daniel,” he said, quiet enough that Lizzie-Jean likely couldn’t hear over her own mirth.
“Ok, ok,” Lizzie-Jean said, leaning on her sword as she wiped tears from her eyes, “go get cleaned up. You look ridiculous, and I’m not taking sword fighting lessons from Mephistopheles.”
Half an hour later Constantine was showered, shaven and dressed warm enough for the cold December day. Daniel had stayed close at hand while he groomed himself, not wanting to be alone with Lizzie-Jean any longer than he could help it, and he helped Constantine into his winter coat before the two of them traipsed outside. Behind the church was the old cemetery, the headstones aged and crumbling, many of them crooked as they stuck up from the ground. Lizzie Jean had somehow managed to use her red chalk to make a circle on the dry grass, the outside of which was lined with symbols in her strange, arcane language.
“Summoning something?” Constantine asked, leaning heavily upon his cane as he stood just outside the circle.
“Just creating a space,” Lizzie-Jean said nonchalantly, smacking her hands together to get chalk dust off them.
She stepped into the circle, seeming to step through some invisible barrier that resisted her movements, like she were walking through molasses, or something behind her was pulling her back. It seemed to take a lot out of her, as when she was finally standing inside the bounds of the chalk her breathing what somewhat labored, and there was a light sheen of sweat upon her brow. As Daniel looked at her he couldn’t shake the impression that she was reduced somehow, like some of her boundless energy had deserted her.
Nevertheless, she smiled brightly at Constantine and Daniel. “Magically sealed off,” she said cheerfully. “No magic can get in, so no one has an unfair advantage.”
“You certainly do use your magic to compensate for your lack of experience most of the time,” Constantine said, and stepped into the circle. He did not seem to have any trouble crossing the boundary, but once he was inside Daniel thought he too looked somewhat reduced, like he had lost something as well.
Daniel tried not to think of what that something might be.
Lizzie-Jean walked toward the middle of the circle and pulled Speak from where she had driven it into the hard packed earth. “Have at you then!” she crowed, swinging it playfully. Daniel was surprise to note that, however she used her magic to assist in combat, it certainly wasn’t helping her lift the heavy sword. She must have shoulders like pythons under that coat.
“Your stance is atrocious,” Constantine began, walking around behind Lizzie-Jean and kicking her legs further apart.
Lizzie-Jean accepted the correction without complaint, and let Constantine adjust her grip without even commenting on the brief moment when his side was pressed against hers. Then Constantine took up position opposite her and drew his sword, tossing aside the rest of his cane for the moment. Then Lizzie-Jean ran at him, screaming in mock fury, and he easily parried her swings and had his sword at her throat in a matter of seconds.
“Not so wide,” he said simply, and they began again.
After a few rounds of this had gone by without requiring anything from outside the circle Daniel perched himself awkwardly on a headstone to watch. Within the half hour, as though drawn by their congregation, Theodore showed up in full pillow-stuffed tuxedo and skull mask splendor. He was thankfully alone, without any of the vampires that lived in his house, and he didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised to find the three of them out back. He stood on the sidelines, shouting bits of advice to Lizzie-Jean that Daniel doubted the wisdom of but didn’t know enough about sword fighting to contradict. After a while Richard turned up, wandering around the church with a bug sprayer in hand, having come ready to combat the fictitious wasps. Once he had been briefed on the situation he went back to his car and returned with a golf club, declaring himself ready to take Constantine’s place if the priest needed a breather.
They stayed like that for most of the day, Richard and Constantine trading off when one of them got too tired to continue, Lizzie-Jean’s youthful exuberance never flagging no matter how many times she was knocked to the ground. When Richard took over Constantine took to calling advice to both of them, and in this way Richard somehow became even deadlier with a golf club. Theodore seemed to have nothing better to do, and was apparently perfectly content to spectate as long as they practiced. Despite the cold ground beneath and the freezing stone at his back, Daniel too found himself growing oddly comfortable with watching.
By the time Lizzie-Jean finally grew tired the sun was beginning to set, bathing the cemetery in golden light. Constantine dragged his foot over the chalk circle as he left it, and Lizzie-Jean gasped as for a moment she seemed to be buffeted about by a high wind, nearly lifted off her feet by the forces vying for position in and around her. She glared at Constantine once she had righted herself, and he laughed sharply at her expense.
“Bastard,” Lizzie-Jean growled.
For a moment Constantine stiffened, his features hardening like ice, and Daniel wondered if a single word could undo all the day’s work. Then Constantine smirked in a manner the untrained eye might have thought cruel, and chuckled menacingly at Lizzie-Jean.
“No more so than you, brat,” he said viciously.
Lizzie-Jean stuck her tongue out at him in apology.
Daniel followed Lizzie-Jean out front to where she had left her bike, and stood shuffling from foot to foot as she picked it up from where she’d abandoned it to lie on its side on the grass outside the church. She swung her leg over it, standing balanced on her toes with her center of gravity poised over the seat, then looked back at him.
“What?” she asked, sounding perfectly unconcerned.
“Um,” said Daniel, wondering what to say, before he realized there was only one thing to say. “Uh, thank you. For that. For today.”
Lizzie-Jean rolled her eyes and sat down on her bike. “Whatever,” she said dismissively, and began pedaling leisurely back toward home.
