Death And The Art Of Pyramid Selling

by Rossi

Chapter Seven: The High Cost of Living.

***

"It's started. All going perfectly to plan." Geraldine clasped her hands together, her tone business-like. The soothing familiarity of routine, the adulation of her audience... they had done much to help her regain her composure. "The child, is she ready?"

Jessica tightened the rope binding the thin wrist to the table, and then looked up to smile brightly at Geraldine. "Ready as she ever will be, aren't you, lovie?" She stroked Alice's cheek, and the girl shuddered, whimpering. She was spread-eagled upon what had been an ornamental table in the entrance-way next to the Great Hall, ropes tied around each ankle and wrist and then around each table leg. The school uniform had been removed – torn off, to be more accurate – leaving her in her singlet and underwear, her skin goosepimpling in the chill of the small space behind the curtain, and the greater space of the large room beyond. Bruised fingermarks showed livid red on her pale skin, testaments to the rough treatment she'd received. Her eyes were dry – but the swollen, red skin of her face showed that this was probably because she had no more tears left.

Behind the lethargy created by the Cottage Magic spells, Constantine raged. He was used to being a target for this kind of thing – his brand of magic was sometimes akin to wearing a giant cosmic 'do your best to torture and kill me' sign – but the kid was an innocent, regardless of her own small tampering with things occult. Lead astray by her darling 'Auntie', no doubt. And now he was going to have to watch whilst that same caring relative carved the kid up in some kind of blood ritual intended to open a portal into Hell. Where, he had no doubt, a few old enemies would be lining up for a piece of him.

Literally.

He struggled to raise his hands, bound in front of him with that bloody lavender scarf, and succeeded in a kind of half-jerk. The compliance spell in the Cottage Magic cosmetics was starting to wear off, either as a consequence of his own stubborn willpower having a target to act against, or just through natural attrition – the sheer amount of ambient power in the atmosphere here, generated by the invocation Geraldine had disguised as some kind of morale-boosting exercise certainly didn't hurt either. Whatever it was, it was important that Jessica didn't realise he had slipped her hold until he had his hands around her throat.

And thinking of Jessica, just where did a dozy bint like her get so much power?

His gaze fell on the child again, struggling feebly against the ropes holding her down. She had guts, he'd give her that. Most kids would have been screaming the place down, or catatonic with fear. Not this one – she was stubborn, like her grandfather. And then the answer to his previous unspoken question hit him hard like a hammer between the eyes. It was so bleeding obvious even a novice could have worked it out – he told himself it was the spell on him that was clouding his thinking. Jessica was feeding off the kid, using whatever latent power Alice had to boost her own. And increasing that power by teaching the kid magic, just enough to give her a jumpstart, but not enough that Alice would be able to sense what was happening. No wonder she had hesitated before agreeing to use Alice in this ritual – she'd lose her power source. Which meant she was banking on whatever reward she'd be able to claim from the First to replace that loss.

But in the meantime, in the period between Alice being drained by the spell and the portal opening, Jessica would be vulnerable.

An evil grin slid across Constantine's face.

***

Up on the stage, Kingston paused, his hand grasping the curtain. He could hear voices on the other side, another chant providing a counterpoint to the seemingly nonsensical stream of sounds coming from the Cottage Magic saleswomen. This one also stirred the hair on the back of his neck, made his skin crawl as if a thousand insects were working their way beneath his skin, but unlike the other, this one _sounded_ evil. It spoke of the unspeakable.

"Come on, you daft old bugger. Alice needs you," he told himself. Then he parted the curtain and slipped through the gap.

And stopped.

He wasn't sure whether to laugh or to scream. The scene on the small stage behind the curtain was straight out of a bad horror movie, one of those Italian ones his son had occasionally brought home on tape as a laugh. Geraldine was there, wearing some kind of hooded robe, but the pink business suit still showed underneath, jarring horribly. And there was Alice, tied to a table in her skivvies, poor kid, trying to twist away from the knife that Jessica was holding over her. Constantine was over in the corner with his hands tied in front of him with what looked like a bloodied silk scarf. He looked even more out of it than usual...

Kingston's thoughts abruptly screeched to a halt.

"_Jessica_? What the hell do you think you're doing, love?"

She laughed at him, pushing the hood off her hair. "What does it look like, old man? I'm _trying_ to sacrifice an innocent to unholy powers, so if you'll excuse me..."

Something snapped in Kingston then, and he lunged forward across the table, grabbing for the knife with one hand whilst he punched out at Jessica with the other. His gnarled fist caught her nicely on the nose, and she staggered back, momentarily dazed. Blood poured down from between the hands clapped to her face, staining the flowing frock underneath.

"You fucking _bitch_," Kingston snarled, putting the knife to the rope around Alice's right wrist. "I trusted you. _Alice_ trusted you. And all along you were... Urk!"

Two impeccably manicured hands locked around his throat from behind, retaining their hold even as a noisome smoke rose from their skin where it touched his. As he bucked and clawed, desperate for air, he could hear Geraldine's voice hissing venomously in his ear:

"You fool. You thought a child's puny charm would halt me? What are you but a used-up old copper, too broken to go on policing, so he takes enforced early retirement before they can throw him out? Your friend Constantine couldn't stop us, what makes you think you could, old man?"

"Hold him," Jessica rasped, clambering back to her feet, power crackling around her like a static cloud. "I'm going to flay him alive, inch by inch..." She stumbled around the table so as not to vaporise Alice in the cross-fire, a move which brought her directly in front of Constantine.

Bad move. Constantine brought his bound hands up and clubbed her with his interlocked fists across the back of the neck. She crashed to her knees, dazed, and before she could recover, he hooked his arms over her head, the scarf around his wrists pulled tightly across her windpipe.

"Forget about me, Glinda? Not very clever of you, was it?" he snarled into her ear, teeth bared in a ferocious grin as he yanked viciously on the scarf. Jessica could do nothing more than gurgle, spit slicking her chin as she struggled to draw breath.

The sudden turning of the apparently-compliant Constantine startled Geraldine, and for a moment she loosened her hold on Kingston's throat. A moment was enough – he twisted in her grasp and head-butted her in the face, adding a knee to the stomach for good measure, and then shoving her as hard as he could. She fell back, the front of her jacket smoking where his hands had touched it and her hands clutching at empty air, then closing on the curtain and her momentum taking her onto the stage and then past it. She plunged into the audience in a flurry of red fabric, her weight tearing the heavy velvet from its moorings.

The chant faltered, and died away into a buzz of confused murmurs and half-shrieks. Pink-clad women, blinking as if woken from a deep sleep, looked from the stage to the struggling mass of velvet curtain, to the stage again. Some rose from their seats, unsure of what to do without Geraldine's commands. A couple, less affected by the cosmetics, perhaps, or maybe just with a greater sense of self-preservation, slipped out of the hall, but the majority remained, stunned.

Bending stiffly, Kingston retrieved the knife that had slipped from his hand when Geraldine had pounced on him and returned to Alice. "I'm here, love. Grandad's here, and he's going to take you home," he muttered as he sawed at the rope pinning the girl to the table. She merely whimpered, pushed beyond her small, stubborn strength, tears leaking from beneath her closed eyes.

Over in the corner, Jessica thrashed, eyes bulging alarmingly in a face that was rapidly turning dark red. Constantine merely pulled tighter. "Looks like we're even, love. I underestimated you, and you sure as hell underestimated me," he told her, ignoring her nails clawing into the back of his hands. "Should've stuck with your Mother Goddess – demons are notoriously unreliable to bargain with. And they have a nasty habit of eviscerating you when you turn your back on them." Then movement caught his eye, and he half-turned his head to see the mound of red velvet curtains rising from the floor.

"Kingston!" he called out, but too late: his cry was drowned out by a discordant screech as Geraldine cast off the curtain and the last of her humanity, revealing her true shape. A mixture, as most demons were, of various creatures, she had the bloated torso of a maggot, coupled with the long legs of a praying mantis. Uselessly small, leathery bat wings sprouted from her back, and clustered eyes glared balefully from a pointed, insectile face. Absurdly, though, she retained the perfectly coiffed blonde hair, perched ridiculously on the head like some kind of hat.

Screams filled the Great Hall as panicked saleswomen stampeded for the door.

"_Fleshbag_," Geraldine hissed from between multiple layers of sharp teeth. "You're _mine_. Your death will take _eternities_." Awkwardly, dragging her bloated body towards the stage on those spindly-looking legs, she approached Kingston. He had paused in his hacking away at Alice's bonds to stare at the approaching demon in horror. He'd already freed one wrist and one ankle, and now Alice was tugging at the remaining ropes, frantically sobbing and wailing for her grandfather. To no avail – it seemed his own stressed sanity had finally toppled, leaving him incapable of doing more than to watch Death approaching him, almost painfully slowly. Another heave, and Geraldine was at the base of the stage. She reached a clawed leg forward, grasping at the edge...

"HOW DARE YOU!" An eminently sensible handbag smacked down on that questing limb and, her incredulous expression clear even on her inhuman visage, Geraldine turned to face her new foe.

Nora was livid. This was _her_ day, the day she finally got the prize she had been working towards for the past year, the day she had dreamed about. Her diamond pin, a symbol of her hard work, of the sacrifices she had made, the deals she had done. It was for this day that she had held countless make-up parties, hosted simpering, stupid women she ordinarily wouldn't acknowledge on the street, worn out countless pairs of shoes, spent untold hours preparing leaflets, filling orders, signing up distributors... She had lived and breathed Cottage Magic for the past year, and she was damned if she was going to miss her moment now.

"I will not stand for this!" She swung the handbag again, striking Geraldine's fleshy torso. "This is outrageous!" This time the handbag smacked Geraldine's head, threatening to dislodge her hair. "This is no way to treat those who are loyal to you! I won't stand for it, I tell you!" Smack! "I want what's coming to me and I WANT IT NOW!"

"Very well, you shall have it, Nora dear." And with that, the Geraldine-demon lunged forward, catching the outraged saleswoman in her barbed forelegs. Nora cried out, swatting ineffectually with her handbag as those sharp points pierced her skin – the cry became a scream as she was lifted up towards Geraldine's face, and the gaping maw her mouth became. Then the woman's screams were muted as her head was engulfed by that mouth and those rows of teeth closed down, severing her neck. Almost contemptuously, Geraldine threw Nora's headless body down, blood pumping from the neck stump. "Beastly woman," she muttered to herself, chewing briefly before swallowing the saleswoman's head. "I'm certain to have indigestion after that." Then she recalled her original target. "Kingston..." she hissed, turning towards him...

...Only to be borne backwards as the retired policeman flung himself off the stage at her, knife clutched in his hand. Nora's intervention had given his tottering mind the leeway it needed, and instead of waiting for his death, he was going to confront it. The Great Hall rang with Geraldine's shrieks of pain as the knife cut deep into her body, but the greater damage was being done by the ward – he held it tight in his other fist, the fuzzy pink wool wrapped around his hand and wrist, and he was alternatively stabbing the demon with the knife and punching her with that fist. Where his hand touched her, great smoking welts appeared, and Geraldine struggled, not to kill her foe, but to escape him.

Unfortunately that wasn't the only distraction Nora caused. In those crucial seconds, Constantine's grip had slipped, ever-so-slightly, and allowed Jessica to catch her breath. It was all she needed. Again there was that starburst of light, the deafening roar of noise, and Constantine was flung away from the kneeling witch, smacking heavily into the wall. He landed heavily, clothes smoking, hands already blistering from the force of Jessica's magic – the smouldering remains of the scarf clung to his wrists. Instinctively he tried to think of a shielding spell, something quick and immediate, curling up against what he knew would be Jessica's fatal retributive strike, but it never came. Instead he saw, as he opened his painfully dazzled eyes, Jessica half-sprawled over Alice, her hand on the child's forehead and the final words of the portal spell on her lips.

"Too late, magician!" she cried, seeing him trying to rise. "I don't need Geraldine's pack of bimbos, not whilst I've got my little battery here! She's got enough energy left in her for me to open the portal myself, and then I'll get my reward! Power and life everlasting, and there's nothing you can do to stop me, not without killing the child!"

Even as she spoke, the hall darkened, the walls and ceiling creaking ominously with the strain the spell was putting on the fabric of reality. Beneath the table a small funnel swirled open in the worn boards of the stage. Constantine's skin crawled with ambient power, sparks crackling and popping from his blackened fingertips.

"NO!" Kingston screamed. He clambered back onto the stage, clothing tattered and splattered with foul ichors, the knife dripping in his hand. Behind him, Geraldine's bulk shifted, collapsing into itself, so much dead meat. "I won't let that happen!"

"There's nothing you _can_ do to stop it, 'Uncle'," Jessica cried, hair flying in the hot wind rising from the opening portal. She was beyond madness now, consumed by her need for power. "I can't stop the spell, not without killing Alice, and the spell is going to drain her completely any way! Either way, she's dead!" Beneath her hand, Alice bucked and thrashed, eyes rolled up to show the whites.

"I won't accept that!" he shouted back, staggering closer. "There has to be a way!"

"There's nothing you can do. She's mine, always has been, and she's going to get me the power to do anything I want! Just you wait..." There was a solid "thunk" and Jessica collapsed with a small sigh. Constantine curled his lip contemptuously as he dropped the chair leg he'd hit her across the back of the head with.

"What is it about turnin' evil that always makes people talk in bloody cliches?" he muttered, wincing as he flexed his burnt hands. Cracks appeared in the crisped skin, weeping a mixture of clear fluid and blood. "Stupid cow."

"Forget her, what about Alice?" Kingston stumbled to Constantine's side, seizing his singed coat lapels. "Was she right?" The way Constantine's face twisted told him what he didn't want to know. "No!" he bellowed, twisting the cloth in his hands. "I won't believe it! You have to do something, John! This is what you do!"

"I can't!" Constantine yelled back – the noise of the maelstrom made it impossible to speak normally. "The bitch tied the fucking spell into Alice's essence, and there's no way in Hell I can undo that without killing her! The only choice you have is when she dies – now, before the portal fully opens, or leave it until the spell drains her completely and we're up to our arses in demons! And I can bet you they won't be as easy to kill as your Avon lady down there."

Kingston opened his mouth to argue, to demand that something be done, to howl out his fury at the universe... Whatever it was, it died in the making as he looked down at the still, white face of his eldest grandchild. She lay quietly now, drained beyond fighting. With a shaking hand he brushed sweat-matted hair from her forehead, cupped the curve of her cheek in his callused palm. "I failed you, love," he whispered brokenly, face contorting. "I couldn't keep you safe."

On the floor, Jessica moaned softly, eyelids flickering.

"First things first," Constantine said, glad for the distraction. Kingston would do the right thing, he was a copper and he always would be, but it didn't make the intervening emotional struggle any easier. Heaving Jessica's limp body up by the armpits, he dragged her over to the ever-widening portal, grunting slightly from the effort. Her eyes fluttered open as he paused at its lip.

"What...?" She looked around, dazed, and then realised where she was. "No! You can't!"

"Why not, Glinda? Don't like these mates of yours after all? Pity, 'cause I'm sure they're gonna love you. Oh, yes, I'm sure they'll have all sorts of fun and games, just for you." And with that Constantine shoved her forward. She grabbed vainly at his shoes as she was sucked downwards, and then she was gone, a scream trailing behind her.

Constantine went to brush his hands off on his coat, stopping at the last minute as the pain in his hands reminded him it wouldn't be a good idea and that perhaps when this was over some self-administered anaesthetic wouldn't go astray. But first, there was one final thing to be done.

"Phil," he said as gently as he could. "We need to close this thing up, before it's too late."

Kingston nodded, once. Despite the moisture on his cheeks, his face was hard. He could have been carved from the local granite, so stony and grey were his features. He stroked Alice's cheek once more and stepped back a little, raising the knife in his hand. He'd wiped the demon blood from it on the edge of his jacket, and it gleamed in the remaining dim traces of light.

"Phil, you don't have to. I can..." Constantine began, aware of the voice in the back of his head that whispered nastily that it would even things up after Raguel. After all, Kingston had killed _his_ child...

"I'm her flesh and blood. If anyone should, it should be me." The voice was steady, but Constantine could see the tension thrumming through his arm. And then suddenly, surprising even Constantine with its swiftness, the knife plunged down parting the child's flesh easily beneath it and thunking solidly into the table underneath. There was no reaction from Alice herself, not even a flow of blood from the wound – almost everything within her had been drained to feed the spell, leaving only a shell. The portal halted in its spin, contracting upon itself until it winked into nothingness, accompanied by the wailing of many inhuman voices as the way was blocked to them. There was a final blast of hot wind, and then even that died away into nothing.

Kingston's breathing was harsh and rapid in the resulting silence. Constantine groped for his arm, wincing as his burnt hand brushed against rough tweed.

"Phil? We'd better get going. One of those Cottage Magic birds would have raised the alarm, and there's a lot here that won't bear explaining."

Kingston didn't reply, the arm beneath Constantine's hand stiff and unyielding. For a moment Constantine thought he heard sirens, and then realised it was memory playing tricks. Only this time it wasn't a demonic would-be angel that lay lifeless, it was a human child. One they'd both failed. He steeled himself – there was nothing to be gained by remaining. If his life had taught him one thing, it was when to cut his losses. And when to be hard.

"Phil, don't be such a pillock. You've got a wife and another grand-daughter, and they're going to need you, you hear? You've still got a family!" Ignoring the pain that shot up his arm, Constantine tightened his grip and pulled on Kingston's arm. "Come on, or so help me, I'll leave you here!"

Kingston took a deep, shuddering breath, and then nodded, the motion barely perceptible in the dim light. "Marjorie. Carrie," he murmured quietly. He allowed Constantine to pull him away then, off the stage and through the chaos of the Great Hall, only turning back at the doorway for one last look. A futile gesture, as the room was shrouded in darkness. Then Constantine was tugging on his arm again, and he let himself be led away.

***

Green fields. White sheep. Dull grey skies.

The unchanging countryside flashing past the window soothed Constantine's tired mind. It was safely boring, undemanding, and he could handle that after the events of the past few days. The slight rocking motion of the train, the regular drumming of the wheels on the tracks... no doubt he'd sleep soon, once the pain killers he'd taken kicked in. And hopefully not dream.

He looked down at his hands, swathed in light gauze. They'd heal soon enough, but in the meantime they made doing for himself a bastard. He couldn't even hold a cigarette, for Christ's sake. Irony indeed, when he considered that he'd actually scored a seat in the smoker's carriage this time. He settled for sucking in the blue haze of second-hand smoke, looking out at the pastoral peace of the countryside and trying not to think about what had happened the last few days. Faces swirled through his memory: Michaela. Geraldine. Jessica. Alice.

Across from him was a young bloke, student by his dress, reading the local paper. 'Mysterious Fire Destroys Historic Manor', read the headline, possibly the biggest news the area had had in quite a while. He repressed a snort. There was nothing mysterious about a Molotov cocktail made from a bottle of nail polish remover and Kingston's handkerchief – he'd lobbed it into the front entrance hall and into a dried flower arrangement that had blazed up nicely. That was the thing about those old houses, they were perfect fire traps, and this one hadn't proved any different. It had taken care of a lot of those awkward questions, such as "What the fuck is this giant insect thing?" The paper went on to say that the owner of the building, director of a pyramid cosmetics-selling scheme, had mysteriously disappeared, and that much of the money made by the company had also vanished. Taxation officials were conducting an investigation into the company's business affairs. Squinting, he managed to make out that several bodies had been found, including that of missing local girl, Alice Kingston. He looked away then, not wanting to be reminded again, but the memories unreeled in his mind, regardless.

Marjorie Kingston hadn't survived her encounter with the supernatural. The heart attack had been a major one, the damage too great. For a while it seemed Kingston wouldn't survive either – Constantine was convinced he would simply turn around and walk out of the hospital and lose himself on those bleak, windy moors, another victim of Constantine's unnatural associations. Then the next-door neighbours, Donohue, that was the name, had appeared, Carrie in tow, and she had clung to him like a limpet, physically preventing him from going anywhere. She'd become his anchor – he looked after her in a fiercely protective way that was going to cause problems in ten years when the kid wanted her independence, but in the meantime would give him something to live for. Everything else, every other emotion, every memory, was gone, walled away behind impregnable mental walls. It was what Kingston had done after the death of his son, and who was Constantine to argue with another man's coping mechanisms?

The thought prompted his own habit, and he groped awkwardly in his top pocket for his smokes. His fumbling dislodged a small bunch of wilting flowers he'd stuffed in the buttonhole of his jacket. Rosemary for remembrance; fern for magic and shelter; the purple tuft of garlic flower to ward off evil; white heather for protection and to make wishes come true; marigold for sorrow; witch hazel to bind the spell... Alice's charm for her mother. He'd picked it up from the railway bridge on his way out of town. Ignoring them for the moment, he managed to fish a cigarette out; flicking his lighter elicited a grimace, but finally he was rewarded with a small yellow flame and a puff of acrid smoke that stung his singed lungs. For a long moment, he simply savoured the sensation, closing his eyes against memory, against everything.

Then he exhaled, a cloud of blue-grey smoke streaming from his nose, and the moment was over.

Constantine looked out the window again, drawing deeply on his cigarette, not caring about the ash that dribbled onto his clothes. He could see, reflected in the grimy glass, a faint ghost of himself. He picked the flowers up, feeling the last vestiges of the spell unravel, and closed his bandaged hand over them, crushing what little life remained. The pungent smell of rosemary filled his nose, even as his stuffed the small charm into his pocket. A small piece of cottage magic, and nothing more.

He stubbed out his cigarette and let the motion of the train rock him to sleep.

The End.

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