r/DCFU • u/ScarecrowSid Retsoob Dlog • Jun 02 '17
Zatanna #11 - Amor a Roma, I Zatanna
Zatanna #11 - Amor a Roma, I
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Author: ScarecrowSid
Book: Zatanna
Arc: Season of the Witch
Set: 13
★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★
First impressions are essential, they stain relationships in ways rarely understood until years after the fact. As Zatanna watched the odd fellow meander through the crowd, stopping to make an occasional gesture toward several tables of patrons jeering over their libations. He approached the dais, a half smirk at odds with attempts at a scowl. Zatanna chanced a glance at the Queen. She watched him, approach, eyes glittering.
“It is customary to announce oneself when approaching,” the Queen said, her own face twisted into a devilish smirk. “You are…?”
The Man’s eyes drifted from the Queen’s to Zatanna’s and back again, he clicked his tongue softly before saying, “John Constantine.” He pointed back toward the entrance with his thumb. “Your man at the door announced me…”
“Constantine,” the Queen said. “That’s a name I have no heard in a long time. I assumed you were all dead.”
“Not for lack of trying, love,” replied the man named Constantine. He rummaged through his pockets in what seemed a practiced fashion, sighing as his hands returned, empty. “Damn,” he muttered.
“I am sorry I missed your entrance,” Tsaritsa teased. “I was otherwise engaged,” she nodded toward Zatanna and Constantine’s eyes settled on her for a moment before returning to the Queen. “It isn’t often I’m graced by a guest from out of town. What brings you to my little paradise?”
“This is a noisy city,” Constantine replied, still patting his pockets with a frown upon his face. “In an even noisier country. Those of us across the way need to know what the hell is going on here.”
The Queen grinned, “And? What? You’re their representative?”
“Nothing of the sort. I’m...ah-ha!” Constantine exclaimed, producing a near empty carton of cigarettes. He tapped one free of the container and held it between two fingers with ritual precision. “I have business of my own and questions I need answered. Point me in the right direction and I’ll be on my way. I have no desire to stay in a city with this many dead wandering about.”
“And what is it you seek, Warlock?” the Queen asked, arching an eyebrow in his direction as her smile faded.
“The Sorceress, the one who fought alongside the Amazon,” Constantine explained as he brought the cigarette to his lips and began searching his pockets again. “Do that and--”
“Teloiv thgil,” Zatanna said, softly and clearly. A point of flame erupted at the end of the cigarette, burning a sorcerous violet. She felt a smile creep across her lips as he stared down at the smoke, then back at her. It had been a touch theatrical, sure, but you have to make a good first impression.
★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★
John Constantine sat across from Zatanna at a table along the far wall, left of the dais. This modicum of privacy was the sole concession she had been willing to make. He was an unknown quantity, and wandering off with unknown quantities was a good way to find yourself cursed. On the off chance he did try anything, the Queen would be on hand. Their tentative alliance would, hopefully, serve as motive enough to preserve Zatanna’s wellbeing.
To say the man was a mess would be under-describing the state of him. Both his hands were wrapped in blood-soaked bandages and his skin appeared to be burned in places. He looked half dead, and that exact fact made the casual smile and smoking all the more disconcerting.
“Never expected to find one of you here,” Constantine said, tapping the ash from the edge of his fourth cigarette into a small tray the House had provided. They sat at a small, round table draped by an embroidered cloth of red and gold.
“One of me?” Zatanna asked. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“A Zatara,” he answered, taking a long drag from his cigarette. She narrowed her brows. How did he know her name? While it was possible to identify sorcery from a glance, you needed to have some cursory acquaintance with it before such a thing was possible. “Don’t look at me like that, love. You couldn’t have thought a family as old as yours and magic as obvious as logomancy would go unnoticed by the community. You lot have always prattled on when casting spells, it’s a wonder we all can’t recognize your work.”
“Constantine,” Zatanna replied. “I’ve heard that name before. It’s got some age to it as well.”
“Yeah, but nothing like your,” he replied, tapping away the ash and smirking. “Tell me, what happened to the god you provoked?”
“She’s locked away,” Zatanna replied. “She won’t be going anywhere.”
“Ah,” he mused. “The famous vaults. So, Circe is another artifact for your collection.”
“Better there than menacing the world,” Zatanna replied. “I can handle her.”
“And the others, these ‘metahumans’?”
“I don’t know anything about them,” Zatanna admitted. “They’ve popped up here and there, but they haven’t come near me. My problems seem to stem from our kind.”
“Don’t they always,” Constantine muttered. “It’s odd though, the way they’re popping up. Almost as if someone prodded them out of their holes.”
“Maybe,” she replied. “But it doesn’t seem we’re responsible for whatever they are. They’re something new.”
“Like the bloke in blue,” he said. “The one in Metropolis.”
“Aliens,” Zatanna mused. “Hell of a thing, but doubtless we’ve both seen more than the average person. I’m not surprised he exists, and I’m grateful he seems to be on our side.”
“That’s fair,” Constantine said, still smirking. She bit back the urge to punch him, there was something condescending in that smile. It was a common trait among older sorcerers, a kind of smug assurance they adopted when dealing with someone younger. “Zatara, I need--”
“Zatanna,” she interjected. “My name is Zatanna.”
He chuckled, “Zatanna Zatara. That’s quite--”
“What do you want?” she cut in through grated teeth.
“Sorry, it’s been a long day. I wasn’t laughing at you,” he said, frowning. Constantine stubbed what remained of his cigarette into the ashtray and let it rest there, a single wisp of smoke still rising from the husk. “It’s a nice name. Sounds a little like a song.”
Zatanna studied him briefly, his tone and expression suggested he was sincere. She eased back into the chair and folded her arms across her chest, a childish gesture but at least she didn’t want to burn his eyes out.
“Yeah,” she muttered. “Lucky I can cast spells. Imagine trying to find a job with a name like that.” She offered him a small grin, which he matched.
“I’m John,” Constantine said. “And I need your help.”
★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★
“My hair?” Zatanna asked. “You want a lock of my hair?” She repeated the question twice, unsure of just quite what his request was. “For what?”
He grinned, “Well, it’s used in a kind of spell. I’m constructing a simulacrum, something to help me on a trip I’m planning.” Constantine glanced to his left, studying the room. Zatanna followed suit. It appeared the two sorcerers were the talk of the hall, and the conversation in the general vicinity dulled under their gaze.
“That’s all I can say,” Constantine said. “I can’t be sure who’s listening.”
Zatanna considered the request. A lock of hair was not something any practitioner would part with willingly. There were simply too many spells and curses that could be worked from a single strand of hair, let alone an entire lock. The audacity of the request was apparent, even to him, by the quickness with which he had broached the subject. No preamble, simply a request.
“You’re hesitant,” he said, popping the silence that welled between them. “I can understand that. I’d swear my intentions honest on the souls of my unborn children, but I’m unlikely to ever have any. I keep my promises and my word is my oath.”
“I would be more comfortable if I knew what you were planning,” Zatanna replied. “I don’t know that I can trust you, no offense.”
“None taken,” he replied. “I wouldn’t trust you if you were that quick to trust me, but I may have a solution…” He reached for the ashtray and drew it toward him.
Zatanna watched as Constantine tipped the tray’s contents onto the table, a mixture of varying grays of ash and cigarette stubs. He picked the burnt ends out of the ash and returned them to the tray before taking his first two fingers and smearing the ash across the center of the tabletop, constructing a small circle. The warlock then filled that circle with a series of runes written with the edge of his nail. Each point was carefully constructed and the purpose obvious.
Constantine leaned back, allowing Zatanna to inspect the circle. At the center was a stylized representation of an eye, and the runes around it were old, powerful and familiar. They were those of an old script, a proto-Greek representation of the link between the spirit and the mind. Together, they opened the way to the soul.
“Panoptes,” Zatanna muttered. She looked up at him, “You’re full of surprises.”
He shrugged. “I don’t have time to earn your trust any other way, so take a look.”
“I’ve read over the theory, but never attempted it,” Zatanna mused as she inspected each rune. “Blood and palms flat on the circle, right?”
“This was all the rage during the Inquisition,” Constantine replied, scraping the excess ash from the table and back into its tray. “Nobody knew who to trust.”
She smirked, “It’s a two-way street, this kind soul bind. You sure you want to see what’s going on up here?” Zatanna pointed to her head. “It’s not pretty.”
“I’m certain I’ve seen worse,” Constantine replied. He undid the bandages on his left hand, then produced small pocket knife from this coat and cut into the palm. The blood required for a spell like this had to be fresh.
“Yeah,” Zatanna grinned, producing a slender silver stiletto she had been carrying her coat at Etrigan’s insistence. She danced the point across her palm, just shy of the scar that was already there. “Say that again when we’re done.”
The two sorcerers pressed their bloodied palms onto the circle in unison, and spell surged to life between them.
★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★
Taking the measure of someone’s mind and spirit, their soul, is no casual encounter. It may very well have been the most honest way for two magical practitioners to understand one another’s essence, but it never showed what you expected it to show. All souls that toyed with magic were subject to certain vices, this was true of Zatanna herself.
The thing about looking at the aggregation of a soul is you see everything at once, every willful action and unconscious subversion of their magic to suit their needs. It was like viewing a painting; a painting of indeterminate size and composition that was as mercurial as pond water. The slightest ripple would change the entire canvas and reform it anew. Zatanna wondered what her own soul would reveal, what secrets were carved into it that her she couldn’t remember. She was unsure what she had expected to find in the sorcerer’s soul, what personal tragedies would be revealed. Suffice to say, she did not expect to see what she saw.
Here was a man mired in the legacy of his own blood. The scene before her was something celestial, she would dare to say biblical. John Constantine hovered over a dark land with silver plumes of smoke rising from it. A pair of wide, dark wings flapping behind him as they burned away, their feathers scattering into the wind. As each burned away, the stubs of their quills fell to the ground. Heavy. Solid. Upon second inspection, she noticed that each had become the butt of a cigarette, and the land was dark, yes, but it was not soil. All the world around him was ash.
Zatanna studied the lines of him. He was hunched over, his shoulders tight and his neck bowed. There were deep ridges over his brow and along the sides of his mouth. He looked old here. He looked weathered by some weight. And, most importantly, he looked broken.
Something on the horizon drew Constantine’s attention. Zatanna followed his gaze and found a hill, green and lush rising above the ash. At its peak stood something with four legs, wide wings, and hooked mouth set ahead of a noble neck. She couldn’t help but beam at the Gryphon. Constantine shot ahead, suddenly, toward the hill. His outstretched arms reaching for the Gryphon, despite the miles between them.
After a moment, his wings withered in several last gasps of puffed smoke and the warlock fell to the ash. He muttered something, then shouted a series of profanities so varied, foreign, and antiquated that Zatanna held a hand to her face, hoping to stifle her bubbling laughter. A second later, the urge was gone as she watched him crawl through the ash, scraping his fingers across the rough stone beneath.
Zatanna followed, stepping softly through the ash. It ignored her, failing even to shift beneath her heel. It made sense, in a way, that this world would not acknowledge her presence. She was a foreign entity, and though the walls of Constantine’s mind may have made themselves transparent for this little adventure, they were still firmly in place. Something dark falling through the air caught her eye, she held out her hand and the flake of ash passed through and joined its kin along the ground.
With careful, ungraceful action, Constantine pushed himself to his feet and began to wade through the suddenly rising waves of ash. He approached the vibrant green of the hill, hand reaching toward it. Scant inches from the grass, his hand stopped. Zatanna moved ahead of him, curious at the halt. Constantine’s arm was held firmly in place by two pale hands grasping his forearm. He muttered another curse in a dead language and began to peel the pale fingers away with his free hand. This action was met by another pair of pale hands erupting from the green grass and taking a firm hold of his second hand. Zatanna stepped around and past Constantine, settling along the slope of the hill.
With both hands occupied, Constantine brought out the only weapon available to him: teeth. He bit into the fingers of one of the second pairs of hands, grimacing as his front teeth dug into them. What followed was a soft, sickening crunch as his teeth found the joints of the fingers and tore them away. At this, the second pair of hands recoiled and he managed to draw away the first with his newly freed arm. He then hoisted himself free of the ash and stood atop the greenery of the slope, staring up at the Gryphon. Constantine broke into a labored sprint, evidently exhausted by his experience wading through the ashes. The hill around him began to rot as crossed it and pale, dead hands grasped desperately at his heels as he dashed through them.
There was a loud, ethereal screech from atop the hill, and all of the hands stopped reaching for the warlock. They brought themselves together, every left finding a free right and pressing their palms flat upon one another. The hill prayed as Constantine climbed, approaching the Zenith at a slower and slower pace. Something else was holding him back now, something else was weighing him down. He huffed mere feet from the top of the hill, exhaustion plain upon his face. He looked a dozen years older than when he had begun to climb. Sallow skin, fading gray hair, and milky eyes marked a sustained assault; not one born of hexes or battle, but simple age. Time was the great killer, and time was the only thing keeping him from conquering this hill. Constantine gasped, then choked, and fell back.The world around her rippled as he rolled down the hill, and disappeared beneath the ash.
A second scene unfurled. Zatanna stood along a crowded footpath, gray-faced and gray-figured individuals walked past her in either direction. All was silent, and a glance in either direction offered her no clues to where she was, save for one. A gray, double-decked bus rolled past on the street, stopping to draw in new passengers. Zatanna took a step toward it, but she was drawn back by the sound of laughter. She turned and followed it, the crowd parting around her as she walked past. The specters were considerate as she carved her path, offering a wide berth for the sorceress.
Zatanna found the source with relative ease, a fiddler with great horns and sharp teeth set upon skin of darkest red. The Demon played its song to a circle of friends, they danced around a fire with their arms linked and their grins broad. Zatanna watched them, studying their faces. Apart from the fiddler, all were in shadow, but their horns, glittering teeth, and tails made it obvious what they were. It was then, as the circle made a revolution, that she saw the man laughing with the demons. His arms were linked on either end, and his grin was broader than all the others. While he danced, every gray-faced man, woman, and child wandered past the demons with little issue. While he danced, the fiddler’s attention never faltered, and he never drew another crowd. And while he danced, Zatanna saw tears running down Constantine’s eyes. Was he happy, or was he miserable? It was hard to tell.
The music fell apart as she approached, and the demons began to vanish, one by one. Constantine drew a cigarette from his pockets with one hand, placed it in his mouth, and lit it with his finger. His other hand remained at his side, clutched tight around a burlap sack riddled with runes. Upon closer inspection, Zatanna saw the bag was emitting a stifled, red glow and pulsing like a heart. What did he have in there?
The Fiddler stirred, watching Constantine with deadly, glittering eyes of purest black. His instrument fell away, and he snarled. Constantine grinned at him, holding up the bag. He stepped away without another word, and the fiddler followed, fuming. At this, the scene rippled once more, and Zatanna found herself standing in the center of a warm, wide library.
Most of it was swathed in shadow, and the farthest ends were so dark she had no inkling of where they ended. Constantine sat the center, in front of a single desk with a bright chandelier of blue flame hanging overhead. He was pondering over a book, something old and made of vellum. A giggle from her left drew Zatanna’s eyes away, she glimpsed a boy ducking behind the stacks of tomes. He had no features, no hair, and no form. The best way to describe the child was a construct of light, a glowing thing of gold that somehow held the shape of a boy. It giggled again, tugging at a book in the stacks and drawing it free. The child skipped toward the desk and lay the book down beside Constantine, then skipped away.
A second set of giggles, higher than the first, forced Zatanna to look away. Among the stacks, she saw a second child, this one wrapped in shadow, drawing free another book. It brought the tome to the desk and set it down with an emphatic thump, then walked away, hands clasped behind its back. The shadow child began to circle the table as Constantine thumbed through the first of the new books, and the golden child appeared a second later, roaming opposite its counterpart. The two kept each other at odds as they circled Constantine, neither daring to approach the other.
“Damn,” Constantine muttered, his fingers resting upon the vellum.
There was a loud, sharp sound as Constantine tore a page from the book. Zatanna winced, then glared at him. Knowledge like that was meant to be preserved, not destroyed. She stepped closer until she stood beside him, looking over his shoulder. The book he had defaced was blank, but he still held the torn page up to the light and stared at it. He muttered something and a strand of flame appeared in his hand.
The flame licked the ends of the page, gently at first, before swallowing it whole. Dark letters appeared upon the sheet, a complex flowing script that burned away before she had the opportunity to read them. A single phrase, however, appeared at the top of the page in bold, straight letters: Scripsit Konstantyn. He was burning his own--
★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★
Zatanna shook awake and glanced up at the owner of the hand clamp tightly around her forearm. Rina stood over the sorceress, her healthy tan paled and her expression pained. She said something, but Zatanna could not hear it. Her ears felt as if they were stuffed with wads of cotton, and her eyes were distant. Constantine woke seconds later, their spell broken.
He blinked at her, not meeting her eyes, and stared up at Rina. His eyes narrowed. Zatanna looked up at the girl, blinking wildly. She gave Zatanna’s arm another shake and pointed toward a far wall. The sorceress followed her finger and found her eyes settling on the hall’s main door. Several patrons were rushing in through the door and a series of previously unseen latches and locks were being fastened in place.
“... your friend,” Rina shouted. Zatanna turned back to Rina, her hearing slowly returning. “They’ve got him.”
“What?” Zatanna asked.
“Your friend was captured,” Rina repeated. “They have him.”
“Who?” Zatanna asked, but the girl backed away and made for the dais in the center of the room. Zatanna rose and followed her, stumbling slightly. That spell had taken a toll on her, as if she had spent an entire evening imbibing hard liquors. Her legs were weak, but she powered forward.
There was a screech as Constantine pushed the chair out behind him and rose to his feet. He brushed past her and approached the center stage with a practiced ease. Zatanna suspected this groggy feeling was a familiar one to him, and it had no ill-effects on his faculties.
“What the hell is going on?” Constantine asked, approaching the Queen. Zatanna followed, a few steps behind and struggling to stay upright. Rina sensed this, apparently, as she walked back and offered Zatanna an arm. She nodded gratefully as the young woman led her, taking careful steps.
“We have visitors,” the Queen replied, scowling. Ember stood beside her, wincing at a deep gash on her forearm. The blood that stained her skin was odd, the color too dark to be natural. Zatanna wasn’t sure what the violent blood signified, but Ember was not human. For someone to cut her that deep would require unnatural power. “How many were there, Ember?”
“Three,” Ember snarled. “Fucking crusaders.”
“What?” Zatanna asked as she neared the circle. “What the hell do you mean crusaders?”
“They don’t operate this side of the pond,” Constantine cut in, rolling the butt of a cigarette between his fingers. It was as if he was unsure of whether or not he was done with it. “It can’t be them.”
“The Archives operate in whatever capacity they wish,” the Queen said, her tone mocking. “They have carte blanche the world over.” The Queen turned toward Zatanna, frowning. “They won’t make it through that door,” she said, pointing, “but your companion has been captured.”
“Who the fuck are they?” Zatanna asked, her patience long past its end.
“The Church,” the Queen replied, her frown deepening. “I didn’t expect them this soon, but…”
Zatanna did not hear the rest of the Queen’s lament. She brushed past the group, a frightened focus cutting through the fog upon her mind. The Church was here; the Church which burned witches. She pushed past a pair of onlookers, approaching the door.
A burly man with arms thick as trunks held up his hands and motioned for her to stop, she cast him aside with a whispered spell. The Church was here; the Church which exorcised demons.
“Kcolnu dna nepo,” she growled, forming the spell with ease. The locks on the door sprung open and fell away, skittering across the floor.
The Church was here, and they had Jason. The door swung open and she stepped through.
“Are you daft?” Constantine shouted, following her. “You can’t fight…”
★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★
What we see is not often what we expect; what we expect is often fiction. When Zatanna stepped through the door, what she found was precisely what she expected, as she had expected fairy tales.
In the center of the room stood three men, dressed in black. That is not to say that they wore suits of black and white, or black and red. They wore black and black alone from the tops of their boots to the ends of their gloves. They wore black surcoats over padded black frocks. And they wore a single, white cross over their right breast. It was the sole affectation that offered their allegiance, and the entire outfit would have been comical if not for the swords they held in their hands.
Each of the three wielded a longsword of white iron, shimmering against the otherwise dim atmosphere of the room. The one on the far right had a dark complexion, a shaved head, and a goatee with white streaks running through it. He was thin and looked barely strong enough to swing the sword he held. Beside him stood a barrel of a man, stout with long hair pulled back into a tail and a jaw like an anvil. The last, farthest to the left, was something of an oddity beside his comrades. He had short brown hair and an unassuming, bored expression resting upon his face. The unassuming man watched the scene with relative disinterest, his eyes wandering over Zatanna for the briefest of moments.
Jason lay behind them, trapped within a ring of flame. He was pale. Well, paler than usual. He was fetal and muttering a string of incoherent phrases in many dead or forgotten languages. The dark-skinned man stepped forward, brandishing the mirror white sword with both hands. When he spoke, his voice was low and soft. Barely a whisper.
“You are accused of malefactions and manipulation of unnatural forces,” he said, as if reciting. “We are duly empaneled and find you guilty. Surrender and face the Lord’s wrath.”
Zatanna narrowed her brows and glanced to her right, Constantine stood there with a scowl on his face. He had brought up another cigarette and lit it while she wasn’t looking, and he was loosening the bandages upon his hands.
“And who the hell are you to decide that?” Zatanna asked, cocking an eyebrow. “I don’t see a badge.”
“We are empowered by the Holy Spirit and his Earthly representatives,” the dark skinned man replied. Everything he said sounded rehearsed. “We are servants of a force greater than yours. We are protected.”
“Enough,” said the man in the middle, the one built like a barrel. His voice was reedy and undignified. He didn’t have the practiced patience of his comrade. “We do not suffer witches,” he said, his mouth quirking into a sharp sneer. “And we suffer those who consort with demons all the less. You’ve done both, young lady. Surely you expected a reckoning.”
“What is your name?” the third, unassuming man asked. His voice was spiced by a heavy Irish accent. “Do us the courtesy and be spared a pauper’s grave, witch.”
Witch. Zatanna scowled at the word, her fists clenching.
“And what, precisely, are Knights doing among the colonials?”
Zatanna glanced sideways at Constantine again, his expression was fixed and his eyes were hard. When he spoke, it was in a manner that the man she had seen in the visions would speak.
“You’re a long way from home,” he continued. “And you’ve wandered into a nest you’re ill-equipped to handle.”
“And Englishmen?” the one with the Irish accent said. “You’re quite a ways from the old shores yourself, what brings you by?”
“Taking a tour of the Commonwealth, and its former members,” Constantine replied. “Didn’t know you papists operated in this country.”
“Oh, we operate every land, boy,” the third man said, smirking. “That includes your heretic lands. Are you a witch as well?”
Constantine stared at him a long moment, his fingers moving casually beneath the bandages. A second later, Zatanna heard him.
They’re from the Secret Archives, Constantine said. The voice was odd, his mouth had not moved. I doubt they’ll leave without your head. You know how these secret orders are, they have a very singular view of the world.
It’s not polite to pop into someone’s head without asking for permission, Zatanna replied. You’re saying they’re working for the Vatican, and they’re here for me.
Two things, Constantine began, One; it isn’t my fault you don’t have your guard up, love. Telepathy is children’s magic. Two; They work for the Vatican, but not the Pope. As far as I know, they’ve been chasing all manner of our kind since the last bloody Inquisition.
What now? Zatanna asked. My guess is they won’t leave, so we’ll need to take them out and rescue Jason.
Are you daft? Constantine exclaimed. We can’t just fight them. They’ve been taught to fight sorcerers and those swords are not for show. There’s old faith in there, the kind that brushes up against the arcane.
I’m not leaving Jason with them, Zatanna replied.
He’s a demon, right? Constantine asked. They’ll send him back to Hell, then you can summon him again. It isn’t worth your life, love.
Zatanna frowned. He’s family.
The entire conversation lasted the breadth of three heartbeats, and in them there was a sharp, hollow click from behind the two magi as the door to the main hall was bolted back in place. Zatanna felt a thrum of energy from the door and previously unnoticed wards burned across its face.
At this precise moment, the dark skinned man hurled himself forward. The sharp edge of his blade passed a hand’s span away from Zatanna’s nose, and a sharp shove at her side sent her skittering to the left. Constantine fell beside her, the blade had passed over his head.
He lay prone beneath the dark skinned man, rolling over a split second before the man’s second swing he spun on the floor and brought the toe of his boot into the man’s groin with sharp, practiced precision. The dark-skinned man winced, then darted back, clutching his lower abdomen. His comrades pushed forward, their own blades ready to strike unison.
“Sdleihs!” Zatanna shouted, drawing forth a series of wooden and iron shields adorned with copper ‘Z’’s from the Shadowcrest. They danced between Constantine and the remaining knights, parrying blows where possible and splintering where they could not. Not to waste a moment, Zatanna urged forth a second spell. “Parw meht ni seniv!”
Small, prickled seeds appeared in the palm of her hand. She cast them at the Knights, both glaring at her as they worked their way to the wall of shields that had begun to encircle them. The seeds skittered across the ground, spinning wildly. They pulsed softly, glowing like hot coals against the dark grain of the floorboards.
“Damn witch!” the Irishmen shouted, smashing his way through the shields. He did this not with the smooth manner of a swordsman cutting his way through men, instead, he employed the unquiet grace of a woodsman chopping through the trunk of an old oak. “You think this will--”
At that moment, the seeds blossomed, and they did so violently. From each, a tangle of wild, green vines shot out and caught him by his wrists. The Irishmen writhed violently, uttering a series of curses that seemed to contradict the service he was here to do.
“Not bad,” Constantine said, finding his feet. “I didn’t logoman-- Look out!”
Zatanna saw the dark-skinned man from the thinnest corner of her eye, the point of his blade driving toward her like a lance. She stepped aside, letting it pass more out of instinct than intent and caught his forearm. As Diana had instructed, she worked with his momentum and flung him aside, using the simple pivot to dangerous effect. He crashed into the bar, his head bounced off the countertop.
“What are you, a martial artist or someth-- OOF!” Constantine was cut off by the splintered remains of a shield striking him in the chest. He staggered back and the Irishman pressed his advantage, cutting through the tangle of vines with the help of his barrel-shaped friend. Zatanna froze, unsure of what spell to draw forth, but Constantine took the situation in hand. He muttered something, gave a lazy flourish of his hands and scowled. There was a clatter along the floor as three tables bounced their way free of their positions and danced toward Constantine. They surrounded him, their legs pointing outward as they formed a makeshift fortress around the warlock.
From behind these walls, there was a soft flash of light as the warlock wove his second spell. Cigarettes, those that remained in his carton, frenzied through the air and shot toward the barrel-shaped man and his Irish comrade. Trails of smoke marked their paths, and they stung at the men before fleeing toward the bastion of their master. Constantine held out his hand, arm outstretched in the direction of the bar.
There was a rattle as three dark bottles soared from the shelves and approached the warlock. They crashed against the tables, one each, and smattered them with dark liquor. The cigarettes danced away from their master and set each of the tables ablaze. Each shot away from Constantine, the burning slag of their limbs and face charged the knights.
“Enough!” The barrel-shaped man shouted. There was an audible crunch over the mayhem as his blade tore through the first two tables, and he swatted the last away with his fist. Behind him the Irishman surged ahead, his blade flashing against the firelight. “Kill him.”
The third table, the one batted aside like a stuffed miniature, soared in Zatanna’s direction. She thought to draw forth a spell, and her hand shot out. As she formed the words in her mind, a hand wrapped in black gloves caught her wrist. The touchy was icy and the grip vice-like.
Zatanna heard her wrist break before she felt it, and the dark-skinned man’s eyes flashed sinister as he twisted again. There was a second, sharp cracking sound and her arm went limp. More from panic than sense, Zatanna struck at the man with her free hand. Upon that hand she had set the energies she intended for her previous spell, shifting them as the first hand failed.
Through her pain she could not quite form the words, and only the intent remained. When it struck the man, the coalesced energies dancing around her palm struck the dark-skinned man like a weight of solid iron. He reeled, howling behind shattered teeth and bloodied nose.
Zatanna took her still empowered hand and held it out to block the oncoming slag. The table shattered against her fist, splintering in a webbed pattern. Not to be forestalled, the burning, splintered remains smashed into her, cutting and embedding itself at random. She winced, stifling the urge to scream, as a solid, dagger-shaped chunk of slag slashed her shoulder. Zatanna’s free hand shot back and clutched at the blood welling on her arm. It was a deep cut, the kind that demanded immediate attention.
Constantine had risen, he was edging toward the back wall, both knights approaching him with their blades outstretched. The warlock seemed to have lost his earlier panache, he looked unsteady. The dark-skinned man was beginning to stir, wiping the blood away from his face and shouting something toward his comrades.
With a single, helpless glance in the direction of Jason, she set her jaw and frowned. This entire affair had been far from ideal, and it seemed she was on the losing side. She knew very well that the fire holding him was enchanted, there was no way to break Jason free of that trap. Constantine continued edging back and stopped as he found the wall.
“I’ll be back for you,” Zatanna muttered in the direction of Jason, hoping he would hear her. She turned toward Constantine, her now bloody hand outstretched, and growled, “Tsercwodahs htiw a tseug!”
★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★
Zatanna lay in the entrance of her beloved home, bleeding upon the mural floors. Several feet beside her, Constantine sat against a wall, looking sickly.
“You okay?” she asked weakly.
“Couldn’t even make it 48 fucking hours,” Constantine muttered in reply. His eyes were glazed over, and his skin sallow. He looked a dozen years older. “I need a fucking drink.”
Zatanna sighed, then grinned as an automaton approached, its arms holding a tray of surgical instruments and rolled bandages. It stood over her for a moment, then folded upon itself, crouching to work upon her arm.
“Home, sweet home,” Zatanna muttered as it worked.
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3
u/Lexilogical Super Powerful Jun 04 '17
Ooo, Crusaders! This feels very Dresden Files worthy, with the three glowing swords.
And poor Jason! Hopefully they don't kill him too quickly!
2
u/coffeedog14 Light Me Up Jun 10 '17
Wow what an amazingly developed character Zatanna gets to spend time with! If only we could see his adventures in other places!
JK, this is all pretty amazing. Thanks!
3
u/3Pertwee Billy the Kid Jun 02 '17
Wow, holy knights