C11. I'm Constantine
Notes from MimicLord:
Edited chapter 10 and updated it. Got to Vegas sooner.
Sitting at a poker table with the Demons Three in the same week feels like a bloody death wish. But to me, it smells like opportunity.
"Last time we crossed paths, I seem to recall Etrigan making it perfectly clear you lot weren't welcome topside," I say, my tone light but sharp enough to cut. "You know, right before he slayed you and sent your sorry arses back to Hell."
It's not just a jab. It's a statement. A reminder that I'm not the same Constantine they've tangled with before. This time, I'm demanding respect, not scraping by.
Rath's the first to bite, leaning forward until his massive bulk practically blocks the bloody table. His words slur thick with something guttural, his vowels dragging like the rest of him. "Aye, listen to 'im! Talkin' big now, like he's finally grown a proper pair o' stones!"
Ghast jumps in, his wiry frame twitching with excitement. His voice is sharp, like broken glass, and his accent twists around every word. "Big stones, aye, easy fer cuttin'!" He bursts into laughter, a rasping, cruel cackle that Rath mirrors, their grotesque voices blending into a chorus of mockery.
But Abnegazar's quiet, studying me. His sharp eyes flick over me, taking in every detail. Finally, he leans back and asks, voice smooth and mocking, "What's up wit' yer accent, Johnny boy? Bit more polished than I remember. Tryin' t' sound posh now, eh?"
Before I can respond, Rath chimes in with a sneer. "It ain't just the voice, lads. Look at the mug on 'im! Face's changed too—what, didn't pull enough birds wit' the old one? Finally noticed yer reflection weren't doin' the job?"
Ghast leans in, squinting like a feral dog catching a scent. "An' look at that—he's gone an' got tattoos! Tryin' t' be a proper tough guy now, eh, Johnny? Gonna scare us wit' yer little scribbles?"
Their laughter grows louder, crude and cutting. But Abnegazar's gaze sharpens. He squints at the tattoos, the runes etched into my skin, and his mocking smirk drops. For a moment, his eyes widen in recognition.
Then, without warning, he lashes out, smacking Rath and Ghast upside their heads.
"Oi, what's all this hostility fer?" Rath growls, rubbing the back of his thick skull.
"Yeah, we were just havin' a laugh," Ghast whines, his wiry frame jerking away from Abnegazar like a kicked dog.
Abnegazar doesn't bother with an explanation, his voice dropping into something cold and commanding. "Shut yer pie-holes. Behave yerselves. We're here fer the game, not fer yer bleedin' jokes."
Rath and Ghast grumble but settle back into their seats, their earlier bravado replaced with sullen silence.
Abnegazar turns back to me, his grin returning, but this time there's a weight behind it. Something calculating. As he shuffles the deck with practiced ease, he finally speaks, voice smooth as oiled silk.
"So, Johnny-b-... John," he drawls with a half-stammer, his fingers expertly flicking the cards. "What's the stake?"
A smirk creeps across my face, the thought gnawing at me: Abnegazar might actually be unnerved by the symbols inked into my skin. For all their bravado, maybe these demons still recognize power when they see it. Still, I don't let the satisfaction show. Poker faces win games—and wars.
I let my voice drop, cold and deliberate. "We play by my rules."
I raise an eyebrow, my hand gesturing slightly toward the deck in Abnegazar's clawed grip.
Rath leans back, his sneer stretching wider, his thick voice dripping with derision. "Aye, in yer bloody dreams, lad."
Abnegazar, though, hesitates. His eyes dart between me and the cards, his expression calculating. For a moment, it looks like he's going to refuse. But then he exhales sharply, his shoulders slumping like he's just made a deal he already regrets.
With a flick, he sends the deck flipping into the air. The cards don't scatter; they hang there, weightless, suspended by something unseen.
I let the moment hang, drawing out the tension before summoning the deck. It lands neatly in my hands, and I shuffle it, slow and deliberate. The whisper of the cards slicing against each other is the only sound at the table.
Rath shifts, his bulk practically vibrating with suppressed rage, while Ghast twitches like a wire ready to snap. They don't like what they're seeing—don't like that their elder is giving me this much space.
I lay the deck down with a thud and lean forward, fixing them with a stare that could freeze blood. "Here are the stakes," I say, voice sharp and heavy with intent. "I stake nothing for a pair of wings."
Rath snorts, his lip curling with mockery. "Wings? Ye've gone daft, Constantine. What bloody wings?"
Ghast cackles, the sound sharp and ugly. "Wings, aye? Maybe he means chicken wings! Yer flesh, roasted right proper, eh?"
I don't take the bait. My gaze doesn't waver, and I let silence drag until it starts to bite.
Abnegazar finally raises a hand, silencing his brothers. His voice is low and measured as he speaks, his sharp eyes fixed on me. "Wings, is it? You don't strike me as the angelic type, Constantine. So what exactly are you after? Demon wings, or something more… celestial?"
A flicker of something crosses my face—deliberate, just enough to spark their curiosity. "Angel wings. Demon wings. Doesn't matter." My tone is steel, but there's a crackle of something deeper underneath. "The kind that can take you places."
Abnegazar's eyes narrow. "Fine. Wings it is. But you'll stake something in return. How about that Dreamstone you… *won* from us?"
I let the words hang in the air, pretending to consider. My fingers drum lightly on the table, each tap a countdown to their answer. Finally, I lean back, letting a sly grin spread across my face. "In honor of the game, I'll stake something of my own. Mercy."
That throws them off. Rath and Ghast exchange confused glances, and even Abnegazar raises an eyebrow.
"If I lose," I continue, my voice sharp enough to draw blood, "I won't be merciful. But if I win? Maybe I'll let you lot walk away unscathed. Spare you the humiliation of losing everything you've clawed out topside—the Lucky Devil, Caesar's Clown, the rest of your filthy little empire."
Abnegazar's lips curl into a sneer, but there's something behind his eyes—a flicker of doubt, a shadow of curiosity. He leans forward, his clawed fingers drumming rhythmically against the table, each tap a little louder than the last.
"And what," he says, his voice low and edged like a knife, "makes you think you've got the power to back that up, Constantine?"
The question isn't just a challenge; it's a test. A way to measure what I'm made of, to see if I'm bluffing or if I've truly got the weight to tip the scales. For the first time, he doesn't look slack or unsure. His sudden boldness ripples across the table, and I can see it in Rath's widening grin, in the way Ghast's bony fingers twitch with excitement.
But I don't bite. Don't defend myself, don't puff out my chest or throw down a flashy spell. Power doesn't need to announce itself; it's felt. I shuffle the deck again, slow and deliberate, my fingers gliding over the cards like they've got a will of their own. The silence stretches, and just as the tension hits its peak, I divide the cards into neat stacks.
Then I look up, catching Abnegazar's gaze dead on, and say, calm as the grave, "Do you really think you've got a choice?"
The weight of my words lands like a hammer, the room heavy with something more than smoke and shadows. Rath's sneer twists into something nastier, his hulking frame shifting as his hands slam onto the table. "Think yer somethin', do ye?" he growls, his thick accent bubbling with anger. "I'll rip that tongue outta yer mouth an' use it fer—"
Ghast cuts in, his high-pitched cackle grating on the ears as he rises halfway out of his chair. "Aye! Let's see him talk big without a tongue!"
But before either can lunge, Abnegazar slams a hand on the table, his voice snapping through the room like a whip. "Enough!"
Rath and Ghast freeze mid-motion, glaring at me but sinking back into their seats.
Abnegazar's eyes narrow as he surveys the scene. "Three to one," he says, his tone measured but sharp enough to command. "The odds are in our favor, boys. There's no need for this... fuss."
Rath grumbles something under his breath, and Ghast mutters a curse, but they both fall silent.
Abnegazar's gaze shifts back to me, and for a moment, the air between us feels charged, like a storm brewing on the horizon. "Deal the cards, Constantine," he says, his voice quieter now but no less dangerous. "Let's see if you're as lucky as you think you are."
I don't say a word. Just pick up the deck and start dealing, my smirk returning as the game begins.