Chapter Text
I've seen people veil buildings, hiding them from view so completely that you'd never know they existed. My late and somewhat lamented parole officer (who was both a stern, austere man who lived his life by an exacting code of honor and a complete and utter dick) had a habit of popping into place so conveniently, at least for him, that I suspected he was capable of teleportation. I can rip a hole in reality and take a stroll in the dimension next door.
But until that May night, I never saw anyone flung from one reality--or universe, if you like that better--into another. And, naturally, it happened right in front of my car.
I was driving home from Winnetka, a yuppie village a little to the north of Chicago, around one in the morning. My client, whom I'd heard of through the Paranet, had been convinced that hostile spirits--possibly human, possibly not--were plaguing her house. When I got there, though, I found that she'd omitted a few details when she asked for help. Like having some very non-magical stepkids who were hostile to their dad's new wife. They'd gotten pretty good at putting their hands on a table and rapping its underside with their knees or feet, and sending pebbles sailing into chimes and against window panes with rubber-bands-turned-slingshots. It didn't help that the stepmother was a serious advocate of ghost photography and kept trying to take pictures of whatever was haunting the house.
When I tried to tell her that the stepbrats were deliberately trying to play on her nerves and were doing a pretty good job of it, she brandished a sheaf of photos in my face. "Look at these images!" she exclaimed, pointing at little grayish-white specks floating in every single picture. "Spirit energy displayed in every one!"
I sighed. "I'd call those 'reflections from the flash of your camera,' with a side order of 'you and your family don't dust very much.'" Which wasn't criticism, just observation. I'm not an obsessive cleaner--though the brownies who keep my apartment spotless certainly are--but I wouldn't claim that dust bunnies are spirits from the vasty deep.
Things never really improved after that. She accused me of being a close-minded skeptic, tossed Hamlet's there-are-more-things-in-heaven-and-earth line at me, informed me that she was going to e-mail some reality show that boasted of impartial paranormal investigations, which struck me as a contradiction in terms, and flounced off. And, naturally, she refused to pay me for my time. Didn't surprise me, really. Paying for someone to confirm that her house was crowded with spirits would make her feel special. Paying for someone to tell her that she'd been fooled by a thirteen-year-old, a twelve-year-old and a nine-year-old, not to mention her own belief, would have made her feel semi-moronic. Which would you rather shell out money for?
After that singularly unsatisfying day, all I cared about was getting home. I had just started driving the Blue Beetle down North Racine Drive when...well, it was as if a great hand had touched the sky and torn a hole in it.
I gaped at the torn and tattered sky. Then I pulled off the road. (Unusually sensible for me, I know. However, the last time I tried driving and staring at something that should not be, I nearly ended up both catatonic and careening into other cars. When you hit me over the head with an unpleasant lesson often enough, I do start to learn.)
I just pulled off in time, too, for suddenly there was a brilliant, blinding light of a color that I couldn't identify if my magic was at stake, followed by a snarl mixed with laughter.
It was one of the most consummately wrong sounds I've ever heard in my life. And I knew in my gut that if I didn't focus on something else right away, I was going to attract some dangerously undesirable attention. So I ducked down in my seat, put my hands over my ears as if I were two, gritted my teeth and struggled to distract myself by trying NOT to think of pink elephants.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the sound stopped. It didn't fade away or dissolve into dying echoes. It just stopped, as if it had been cut off. And the hole in the sky smoothed itself away as if it had never been.
And lying in the street, as if he'd been hurled there, was a man--or something that looked like a man--wearing a brown trenchcoat and covered in blood and some blackish liquid that I didn't recognize. His left arm was splayed at an angle that made me wince. Human bones are not supposed to bend that way.
I've been in enough magical fights that I know what the aftermath looks like. And--despite the fact that I knew nothing about this man and nothing about who his enemies were--I couldn't do the sensible thing. I couldn't go home and call 911; I couldn't pull a fire alarm and let firefighters and paramedics deal with the guy. It was idiotic, and I knew this...but that didn't change anything.
Grumbling, I got out of the Beetle and walked over to the guy. Unfortunately, he was out cold, which prevented me from asking any useful questions. And TV and movies aside, I really didn't feel that I could search an unconscious man for his wallet without a cop materializing to arrest me for mugging, assault and battery, and attempted manslaughter.
So--out of self-preservation, I swear--I picked him up in a fireman's lift and did my best to stuff him into the back seat of the Beetle gently. I managed. More or less.
Once I got him in the car, though, I realized that I couldn't very well take him to the hospital. No doctor, nurse, orderly or cop would believe that a man had just appeared on a street in downtown Chicago. Even the Special Investigations Division--think "X-Files department for Chicago police"--would have a very difficult time accepting that. Odds were that both cops and docs would believe that I'd attacked John Doe here. I couldn't blame them. It was the logical explanation.
And there were too many unanswered questions. The man had serious power; I could feel that much. And the torn sky, the laughing snarl and the obscenely wrong light...yeah, something very strange and very magical had happened tonight. As both Warden of the White Council and Regional Commander of the East, I was obligated to find out what.
As I braked at a stoplight, I glanced over my shoulder at the blond, sharp-faced stranger sprawled--still out cold--across my back seat.
"Yeah," I muttered. "You better be worth all this trouble."
***
Despite my reservations about bringing the stranger to the hospital, I didn't end up driving him to my apartment, either.
I took him to the Illinois Forensic Science Center to see a friend of mine named Waldo Butters.
Butters is an Assistant Medical Examiner at the local morgue. Thanks to his medical training and growing knowledge of the magical world, and my ability to annihilate life support equipment just by existing in its general vicinity, he's become my go-to guy for all things medicinal. Though there are forms of healing that wizards are better at--a man I know named Joseph Listens-to-Wind is quite possibly the finest magical healer in the entire world--I don't have that kind of finesse. And I don't have 24/7 access to Listens-to-Wind, either. I wasn't sure where he was at the moment, but Edinburgh was a good bet. Granted, I could carry the stranger along the Way from Chicago to Edinburgh, but that's dangerous at the best of times, and one conscious wizard plus one who was wounded and unconscious was just asking for trouble from every threat the Nevernever had to offer.
So it had to be the morgue. And Butters.
There aren't many ways to enter a morgue without being noticed, especially when you're nearly seven feet tall and carrying the purported corpse. I ended up shorting out the Forensic Science Center's alarm system, then forcing a side door open by using both magic and my handy-dandy-lockpick-and-burglary-kit. The one that Murphy pretends doesn't exist.
And once I was in, all I had to do was find Butters' office. Which wasn't too difficult, since I've been there a number of times before. But even if I hadn't, I would have known how to find him--just listen for the sound of polka music.
It must have been a slow day at the morgue, because as I approached the area where Butters worked, I could hear his computer going in perfect rhythm to "Pennsylvania Polka." Reports for his boss, no doubt.
"Butters?" I called out. "You might want to save whatever you're doing, log off and then unplug the computer. And turn off your radio or CD player or whatever that is, if you wanna keep the music."
"Harry? Are you bleeding to death?"
"No."
"Then give me a minute."
It took more like five. But at last he shouted, "Okay. You can come in now."
He'd used his time well, shutting off, unplugging and moving every mechanical device that he probably wouldn't need to use in an examination. I wish I could convince the Chicago Police to be that sensible.
He blinked at the sight of the man I was carrying, but stayed professional. "Put him down on one of the tables next door," he said. Next door was Autopsy Room Number Five, where Butters did most of his work. "Don't worry; the room's clean, and so's the table. I can wash off your friend's blood later."
I didn't argue. I just hoped that I hadn't surprised Butters mid-dissection.
I carried the guy into Autopsy Room Number Five and placed him on one of the tables as gently as I could, trying to be careful of his broken arm, but he groaned just the same.
Butters glanced at the man and shook his head, sighing. "That arm's pretty messed up. I'm going to have to cut off that sleeve."
I wondered if he'd be able to. My own leather duster is so powerfully enchanted that anyone trying to cut it off of me would probably end up with a pair of broken shears. I didn't say anything, though. The arm was already starting to swell. Slipping the sleeve from his arm was no longer an option, if it ever had been.
Butters picked up a pair of what looked like giant economy-sized scissors and started cutting. I think he got in two snips, maybe three. Then, abruptly, and quite inconveniently, his patient woke up. I thought I heard him mutter something like, "Oh, shit, what...?" A moment of stillness as he realized that some sharp blades were very close to his arm. Then he reached up and gripped Butters' shirt with his good hand. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, in a British accent that was miles away from Masterpiece Theatre.
I give Butters credit. Dealing with a pissed-off wizard is no joke. But he just glanced at the guy clenching his shirt and said, "Hey, if you don't want to keep your left arm, fine. I can wait an hour and cut off a lot more than the sleeve."
The man didn't answer--he was too busy scrutinizing the room. "I'm fairly certain I'm not dead," he said in a thoughtful tone that made me suspect he'd counted the exits and spotted at least twenty possible things in the autopsy room that might be useful weapons. "You're not demons. And if I were dead, there'd be nothing but demons surrounding me--aside from the odd archangel cheerin' them on."
I got a chill when I heard that. I've felt that bleak conviction that everything's going to turn out wrong, and I know first hand that most of my enemies want me dead and damned, preferably in that order. It sounded so familiar.
Butters, however, wasn't impressed. "Yeah? Who are you, the Antichrist or something?"
That provoked a harsh smoker's laugh. "Or something."
Butters gave him the patient look he generally favors me with when I exasperate him. It's been a difficult day already, that look says. Why you gotta make things worse? But all he said aloud was, "You have a name?"
"You don't know who I am?" He smirked at that. "Constantine. John Constantine."
I certainly did not yelp that, nor did I grab for a nearby autopsy table in flailing panic. Yelping and flailing are against the Code Noir that all us poor, tough and resolutely honest private eyes on the mean streets of America are obligated to follow...even if we've just encountered a man who's a comic book character.
He tried twisting around to see me...which, given his position on the table, his broken arm, and his tight grip on Butters' shirt, wasn't easy. "So you have heard of me."
Well, I've read every single issue of Hellblazer, I thought. Does that count?
No, I didn't say that. Telling a guy that I'd just met that I'd read everything about him--even his most private thoughts and worst nightmares--would be downright creepy. Even stalkerish. Not to mention...how would you feel if you found out that your entire life and all of its attendant miseries and humiliations had been created by a writer for the sake of entertaining the public? Vengeful? Homicidal?
Now picture that kind of rage fueling someone who has taken on Heaven and Hell and beaten them both. This is why canon-puncturing anyone with serious power is NOT a good idea.
"Yeah," I croaked, trying to swallow and failing. "Yeah, I've heard of you."
"And you are?"
"Harry Dresden." I just barely managed not to stammer my own name. Two minutes after being introduced, and I was reacting like the ultimate fanboy.
Constantine studied me--or tried to--while Butters finished cutting the left sleeve from his trenchcoat. The expression on his face said that he'd thought that I was a garter snake, not a black mamba, and he wasn't entirely thrilled to discover that I was potentially dangerous. I get that look a lot.
"Wizard," he said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "Now I wonder why I haven't heard of you, mate. Your magic feels strange."
I frowned. His power didn't feel any different from any other wizard's, as far as I could tell. "What do you mean?"
He continued to stare at me with a probing expression. "Hard to explain. Maybe I'll tell you later. Meanwhile, I've got some other questions that strike me as a hell of a lot more pressing. Like, 'What happened?' And the old standby, 'Where am I?'"
"You're in an autopsy room in the Illinois Forensic Science Center, Chicago, Illinois. Already told you who I am. The guy working on your left arm is Waldo Butters, pathologist--he'll be your doctor this evening. As for what happened--beats me. I saw it, and I didn't understand it." And with that, I took a deep, deep breath, and explained what I'd heard and seen before Constantine had appeared.
When I was done, Butters simply shook his head slowly. "Damn. The coolest stuff happens to you, Harry."
"Excuse me? One dinozombie wasn't enough for you?"
"Dinozombie?" Constantine inquired, sounding as if he didn't quite believe he'd heard the word.
"Long story, but yes, a dinozombie is exactly what it sounds like. This particular one was a T-rex." Then I grinned at him. "I'll tell you later. Maybe."
It didn't take long after that for Butters to set Constantine's arm. Problem was, Constantine wasn't very talkative about what had happened in his world to catapult him to ours. He was charming, puzzled and completely uncommunicative. I might have actually believed him--despite knowing that Constantine can be a lying bastard, at least in the comics--if I hadn't recognized the behavior. I've pulled something similar on a number of occasions--generally when I'm not only in a swamp of a case but also ass-deep in alligators. So I recognized the message that Constantine was sending, because I've done my best to send it to a number of cops and friends over the years: I know you want to help, but this is way too much for you. And you have no idea how easily this could get you killed.
I had no idea how patronizing that sounded until I was on the receiving end.
I didn't say anything, mostly because it never does any of my friends any good when they say anything. So I smiled, nodded and plotted what to do. An opportunity was going to present itself, that I knew.
Then Butters asked a significant question. "So. Got someplace to stay while you're in Chicago?"
Constantine smirked. "Don't think I've ever been propositioned in a morgue before."
Butters gave him a half-bewildered, half-irritated look, which I understood. A morgue isn't a hospital. Ergo, there was no room for Constantine to stay in while he healed. Even if wizards from the DC universe healed as fast as they did in mine, he'd still need painkillers, and probably somewhere to sleep off the side effects of the painkillers as well. And an injured, exhausted wizard is frighteningly vulnerable to his enemies. Trust me on this one. I know it all too well.
With Butters nodding accompaniment, I managed to explain most of this to Constantine. I was gratified to see the explanation wipe the smirk off his face. Then I sprang the trap.
"If you want, you can crash at my place. It's not much, but I've got a sofa you can sleep on."
He studied me for a moment, as if wondering what was in it for me. Then he slowly exhaled. "All right."
Mentally, I let myself breathe. I knew what I'd just offered was dangerous--John Constantine being no less a trouble magnet than I was--but something told me that the wisest thing I could do, if not the safest, would be to stick close to him. Whatever had brought Constantine here was infuriated; it would mow down every last person in Chicago to find him.
And damned if I was going to let that happen to my city.
***