Summary:Constantine contacts New York's resident Mambo. The Devil is summoned. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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It's been illegal to smoke in a restaurant in New York for decades. So who let in the blonde asshole with the crumpled pack of Silk Cut cigarettes? A businessman, maybe— not any where that requires anything more than a white shirt and black tie, anyway. His heavy trenchcoat, unseasonable for the season, is draped across the booth seat next to him. A menu's tossed aside as if he's read it and made his decision.
His hair's short and spiked, tousled like he just got out of bed and threw some water on it before rolling to the diner. He seems to be amusing himself with a spoonbending trick while he waits for the waitress to come around and tend to his order and his empty coffee cup.
Motion in an apron flickers in the corner of his eye, and he raps his mug twice on the table to get her attention. "Can I get a topoff, luv?"
That motion would be Ifede; naturally she does not service customers, only seeing the day to day operations of her business. Often times she could be seen in the back cooking, but Cook, who is actually the cook, learned from her and does just fine. It would seem that the patrons around the booth that Constantine sat at cleared out, it could have been the smoke or the general bad vibe that usually comes with the vision of a bad boy look.
The coffee was topped off, poured to perfection, the pot dropped upon his table which seems almost threatening. "Ja know you not to smoke in here." She says evenly. "Scarin' customers with da stink."
John eyes Ifede's glower and looks up at her with an unreadable gaze. He rocks his hips off the bench and digs a wallet from his pocket. Four crisp Benjamins are wriggled out. He's smart, smart enough not to let her see just how much is in that wallet. They're held up for her to witness, and then folded in half and dropped on the table.
"There, that'll cover tips for a spell," he says. All the while the cigarette wiggles on his lips, lazy traceries of smoke climbing upwards. "You Mama Ifede?" he inquires of the woman, and collects his coffee for a sip. Hot, black, bitter. John doesn't bother with creamer or sugar for it. "Been lookin' for a mambo that goes by that name."
Ifede stands as tall as she would, her bushy hair making up most of her height. Her eye does cant towards the wallet, and to the bills, following the direction they fall onto the table top. With an inhale and a shift of her weight; she lets this one slide. The money taken and stuffed within her top, deep into her bra and against her breast as a forced smile draws upon her lips.
"Ah. Mama Iffie." She says with a slow nod, young as she is her soul is worn. "Be me. C'mon. Les not do this'un here. We scare customers more than just silly fag smoke.." She breaks out into a laugh, turning to tug at the apron that she wears, tossing the remains into an empty booth. "Come come. We go in the back."
John's smoothly on his feet and shrugging his overcoat into place. The collar flops against the back of his neck, like he can't be bothered to square it properly. It adds to his slovenly appearance, like the unbuttoned shirt and half-lashed tie.
"Fine. But I still want one of 'em strawberry crepes," John advises Ifede. "Bloke told me they were the best in the city, and I had errands here anyway."
He follows the Yoruban witch into the back, hands jammed lazily into his pockets. A new cigarette's transferred to his mouth, though not yet lit; this one from a silver cigarette wallet.
"I'm looking to talk to a dead man. What's the going rate to whistle up a spirit?"
The walk to the door was a short one, a basic door, which was unlocked with a jingle of keys and a twist. The door itself leads to a set of stairs, wall candelabra decor that lights as soon as she passes. "Cook already know."
Once they reach the bottom, the lights flare to open up with a tiny shop. Old timer cashier upon the counter top, glass case filled with bobbles and things, herbs and books that line the walls with a smell of patchouli and spices. "Depends." She finally says, turning to have a seat upon the couch that rests in the middle of the room, circular carpet clearly filled with dust, or it could be ash. "And dat mostly be depending on where Mama gotta go to get 'em. Yeah? Heaven, hell.. or the in-tween."
John idles around the periphery of the room. He makes a show of handling some of the merchandise or displays or artefacts, whatever they are; brow furrowing. From the look over his shoulder, though, he's clearly looking for unexpected guests and fast exits. A paranoid fellow, this one.
"Don't need to resurrect a bloke," John reassures her. "Just need to talk to his spirit, his death-echo. Blighter bit it in an alley in Greenwhich a few days ago. Left behind a bit of his blood." He digs out a scrap of bloodstained cloth from his pocket. "Blood of a dead man and blood of his killer." John puts a nail to the side of his thumbnail. "Should make it pretty easy to dial him up, eh?"
The shop basically looks like something like Hot Topic, but without the clothes and an added touch of horror.
There was only one way in and one way out, a design flaw, but those magically inclined could perhaps burrow their way out of the basement.
"Ah, no resurrection. Someone gotta be dead and dyin' for me to do that. Body to body and all." She sniffs a little, then stands, approaching him as if they've known each other all along, her hands lifting to grasp his own as he holds the handkerchief to lean down and sniff the blood as well as what's on his finger. Her face screws a bit, and soon she shakes her head.
"Eh. A' summon Eshu. He get the job done. Not easy though, gonna need sage root, whore, and.." She clicks her tongue as she looks around. "..you look like you got the indica, yeah? Little flower bud, no strain matters."
Constantin's brows lift. "Eshu? Of the Orisha? Cor," he whistles, low, and gives Ifede a second once-over. "They said you had the chops, but I didn't know you had a bloody demigod as a familiar." His arms fold loosely over his narrow chest. "Don't have anything but what's on me, luv. Bit short on supplies, my, uh, lab's not exactly available. Best I've got is a few more of 'em Benjamins." He shrugs at Ifede. "Hence why I'm comin' to you."
"Mmhmm. Ol' Eshu. Mad modderfucker if'n you ask me." She grins, then steps away, her eyes scanning the room with an approach of a lion. She begins to open jars, pulling out small items and trinkets, a collection of bones thrown down onto the counter top, rattle here and rattle there. "Was gonna say.. dat the blood of the Hellblazer. If 'e be you, you can magic me up some weed for me trouble." She looks up and grins towards him, then shrugs. "Or a bit of Jim Beam. No need for the good stuff."
Once all the items were gathered, Ifede disappears behind the counter top, kneeling down to open a compartment within the floor to grab a totem. It looked like the devil; goat head, horns and arms depicted behind a pentagram, tongue extending to the floor of the altar that was embedded within the picture. Giving it a good smack, she pops right up and shuffles everything onto the counter, bundling and bunching so that she could grab them and carry to the table.
"Or if'n you don't feel like re-upping my supply I can take da'wallet." Busy body, Iffie is. But she was going to comply with the request. "Few warning though. Come help me set."
"Like I said, 'm … a little short on supplies," John repeats, dourly. He moves to help her set things up, more because standing around watching someone /else/ do spellwork is exhaustive and boring. "I'm runnin' with what I got in my pockets. Lemme…" He looks around, then moves to an empty corner of the room. "I got it, hang on."
John squats and draws a circle with a pentagram in it. Little marks are made. A fast and dirty summoning spell, a nothing sort of Calling.
John cups his hands to his mouth and murmurs something inaudible ,over and over again.
There's a *pop* of fresh-smelling loam and dust, and a brownie appears.
"What do you want of Pookin, Hellblazer?" demands the fae.
"Pookin'. Need an errand run. Ounce of the bud of the plant cannabis indica, a bottle of MacAllan scotch. In good condition, unspoiled, fit fer enjoyable consumption. You've permission to leave the circle for the purposes of this mission, but don't take any detours or side routes."
The fae makes a face, but nods. "Payment?"
"Box of doughnuts, I'll drop 'em for you later today," John offers.
"Deal!" the fae says, and *pffts* out of existence.
"Ahh. You got the touch." Ifede says quietly, fixing things as they are. The table was arranged as such, everything picked out was to serve as homage to Eshu, with the hopes that she had actually caught him on a good day, and the sacrifice would be worthy.
As she watches John in the corner, a wry grin appears upon her lip. Her hands lift to clap as soon as the brownie disappears, laughter and delight at what she had seen -clear-. "IT really -is- you!" It was a relief.
"Gran'pappy speak about you in New Orleans. Say he saw you battle a biggun and sent 'em straight to hell. Made him walk right a few days, got him good into the Houdon. Say if it wasn't for you, demi-gods woulda ripped my soul apart sooner rather than now. Although.." She lets that hang, clearly she was thinking of another stipulation.
Or a trap..
"Babatun, right?" John confirms. "Yeah. Hell of a shaman, your old gramps. I think I remember that bid in N'awleans. Big shaggy bastard, whatever he summoned up. Never get your nouns in a twist when doing the Chant, luv," John admonishes Ifede. "But he spoke highly of you when I talked to 'im. Figured you might do ol' John a professional courtesy."
Theres the booze and indica, delivered in the corner of the eye while they were looking elsewhere. He collects them both and provides them to Ifede. "Shall we do this, then?"
"Mmm. Yes.." Ifede confirms. It almost looks like she wasn't paying attention, but to summon Eshu, she had to get everything right in the proper place. She leans down to snatch a small dagger from her boot, her fingers soon playing along the edges as an nod of agreement is sent. "Gran'pappy taught me right. You do well no worry bou'dat." She grins, slipping forward upon the couch to keep her ass planted upon the edge. "Da warning now." She states, pressing the blade against her hand to drag against her flesh, splitting it open and cupping her hand so that she could hover it over the statue.
"Eshu not be kind. Mean me not be kind. When we summon the demi-god he ride my soul, oft time 'e get loose. Best way to speak to deceased is to ride 'long with me. I be keeping Eshu at bay." Her dagger clad hand, reaches up to touch at her bosom. "You ai't got the mark, he eat you." She cracks up at this, mostly because it was a total lie, but if what her grandfather said of the Hellblazer, he would not be scared.
"Come. Sit widde Motha'o'Nine. And bleed."
As she says this, the dagger was tossed towards the Hellblazer, and her injured hand hovers over the devil's statue to pour the blood as she begins to chant quietly.
"He comes gnashin' and wailin' of teeth at me, luv, he'll get a punt in the tiddlybits," John grunts. He sits down with his legs loosely crossed and tugs back his sleevecuff, revealing a path of skin that looks like old, ugly burn scars. It's where the skin is thick and the nerves are dead. With only a small grimace he pushes the daggertip into his wrist and lets it flow. Drip blip blib. Enough to patter on the wood without flowing outright.
He enters the counterchant, mumbling and rattling through the shaman's Calling. It's Ifedea's blood and voice that will summon Eshu; Constantine's offer of flesh and word just adds some extra … flavor to the spell.
Ifede slowly begins to sway left and right; while she would have laughed she did not. The chant has started, the concentration was flowing. The added flavor that John puts in drew out a certain intensity to this spell. It felt right. Right in the sense that there was power in this room, more power that she could have imagined. And goddamn, what a rush!
The room slowly begins to feel impacted, for along with the swaying, there comes the tapping of her foot. A cadence that was near thundering, though if anyone without the magical inclination could only hear it as tiny thumps. The bones were reached for, moved across the table with blood, which sparks the sage. Soon both feet, soon the quiet chant becomes a song, and soon the room itself seems to swallow hole..
On the outside, all is quiet. Ifede's eyes were open, milky white, staring into the distance..
But what they see is a place covered in a navy blue hue. The canvas itself was vast; almost desert like. Barely a hint of vegetation save for a broken tree that still seems to be living. It cracks down the middle just a bit, showing hints of fiery red with with a clawed finger attempting to get out. Eshu.
Ifede was there, a large totem woman herself. Dressed in the traditional African garb, two rods within her hands as if she prepared to do battle. She stands nearly ten feet tall, her skin pitch black that could nearly resemble the look of Shiva, but she was certainly not.
The lesser prepares to battle a Demi-God. All for the sake of answers.
"Beckon your spirit, Hellblazer!" Her voice booms across the landscape, but lips do not move. "Say his name and he shall be pulled!"
Constantine looks … exactly like he did in the real world. Short. Wiry. Overcoat and tie and all. But his /shadow/, the reflection of the pale light— that is huge behind him, in this sliver of the Astral plane. This demesne that Eshu resides in.
Despite the phlogestein of the immaterial congealing into matter around them, despite the fact he doesn't have any lungs— Constantine conjures fire in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Puff puff.
He takes a breath, and when he speaks, red hellfire pours from his mouth like a geyser of burning flame. "Black Devil God!" he shouts. "I call you!"
"Eleggua! I know your hidden names— come to me!"
"Father of Ogboni! I seek your counsel and the wisdom of the fleet!"
A ritual circle blazes into existence near their feet as John extends a palm at it. Fast, crisp, sharp lines, the sort of thing a magician might slave over for an hour or day to get 'just right'. It'll hardly hold the wrath of Eshu in his own home, a flash of burned grass and smoke— but it creates a contract, a closed loop, that can forestall even a demigod who submits willingly to the terms of confinement.
"Eshu! Eshu! Eshu! I am the Hellblazer, the Fire-Walker, the Laughing Magician, and I request your counsel!" Fire crackles to life in the runic circle as Constantine completes his own invocation.
A quiet hiss enimates from the broken tree; a shake of a rattlesnake tail that seems never ending. The sound is louder than the cracks in the stump of the tree, which break open and spill with fire. First he emerges by the hoof, one planted upon the desert terrain, shaking the foundations of the plane so much that the ground looks to crack, glow white, and seal itself again.
Ifede moves backward, stick held within her hand, moving with the grace that she quite possibly does not have in the real. Her place was at the Hellblazer's right, long with a knee planted, sticks criss-crossed against her bosom, head bowed in reverence.
The clawed hand grips against the bark of the tree, then a huff of breath that resembles a horse, a heave and the head of Eshu pokes out. Much like the statue, he was a bull. A horned demi-god with a wrought-iron ring embedded in his nose, scaled skin nearly emerald and black, hair that covers his legs and other parts unmentioned.
Ripped to the core Eshu emerges, fanged teeth bared, long tongue lashing against the ground to taste the sand, then to the air to scent the offerings left for him in the real.
And there.. they dissolve. Blood on the wood, totem and all. Burnt sage gone, only left is a scent that it was there.
The first rumblings from the black lips of Eshu sound of irritation. Quite possibly irritation at the Mother of Nine who bows, but as he plants his remaining hoof upon the ground, he relents.
"You awaken me from my slumber, Hellblazer. John Constantine.." There was a hiss within the world at that last name. Something out there was very upset.
He himself spits fire upon the ground at his feet, which dissolves quickly as it came. "Sullier."
"We can't ignore that power."
"Humble us, Orisha. We did not call your lot." Ifede says calmly.
"But we came to witness."
"Unclean."
There were many voices, faint in the wind. And Eshu laughs.
"The Hellblazer gave proper offering." Ifede says quietly, finally looking up. "Fun okunrin naa ni idiyele re gegebi apakan ti okan wa, Papa Legba."
"You accepted. You stood in the circle," John points out, and for once his tone is marginally less than completely bellicose. "You're boundy by your own rules more than mine, mate, at this point."
He exhales smoke through his nose and on the Astral plane, it does look like a dragon huffing indignantly. "Gonna keep this pretty simple. The bloke who owned that scrap of cloth an' blood died. Bad. I put him down 'ard. Now I'm regrettin' not keepin' him alive. You're the Messenger, the Four-Legs," John reminds Eshu. "I want to know whatever you kin tell me about the bloke who copped it in the alley while they nicked the House of Mystery."
Eshu's lashing tail and tense muscles still. The /world/ goes still. "The House… is missing?" Eshu rumbles. "Ill portents, Hellblazer."
"Give the god a kewpie prize," John quips, dryly. "Yes, she's been nicked. I don't know who holds her against her will but I can't Call the door."
Eshu snorts, the sound like a bull tossing its head. "Can tell you his last words weren't of friends and family. Cultist," Eshu says. "Rabid. Convinced you are the enemy. Not sure he's wrong." The bull-god snorts again.
"Taken.."
"..House of Mystery gone.."
"..we are in there.."
Ifede lifts her head. "In the house?"
A low, rumbling voice, much similar to Eshu offers an answer. "Part of us are there, yes. Not the totems, lesser. But our essense. Knowledge of us. The Hellblazer knows."
Ifede clears her throat, then slowly rises to both feet. She resembles a sentry summoned by the Hellblazer as protection.
But all of this, knowledge of them being in the House of Mystery was no surprise. Her grandfather always talked about the wisdom of Constantine, asshole as he was. But if he couldn't call the door to the house.. what magic was greater than what they both performed here combined?
"Shango. Oya. Oshun." She states, looking all around her. Even though they were present, they were wise to not make themselves known. "Moment." And silence..