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[ Yeah, okay, fuck, this is really happening, isn't it? Peter stares at the spot, the empty point she directs him too, and takes a deep breath before he starts moving that way. Careful of the lines, got it. Fuck, he'll be careful; he's terrified to mess something up.

So he moves slowly, mindful of where his Converse sneakers nudge, stepping lightly. When he finds the right place he's slowly sinking down to sit, pulling long legs in crossed, looking up at her for a moment to make sure that's okay. ]

Think about the uh, safe place, right?

[ He can do that, even if at first it's sheer willpower forcing his mind away from the anxiety of what's going on around him. After a moment he closes his eyes, and he's picturing a room in his house. The little nook off of the living room, a place he didn't really go anymore as he got older, no reason to hang out there anymore. But when he was a kid... he liked taking naps there.

Maybe in this dream scenario, it's a lazy Saturday, and there's nothing to do. No school, no obligations. He's home and he's young enough to think things are okay. He's alone, but there's the awareness that his parents are somewhere. Close enough he could find them if he needed to. (Maybe his dad's in the home office, working on his computer, and he's made fresh coffee and it smells good. Maybe his mom's outside working in the little flower garden. It's back when she used to do things like that. And Charlie... Charlie's in her treehouse, probably, content to be alone the way she always is. No one's together, but they're all okay. He wishes he could go back to something like that, and he knows he never can.)

Most of all, it feels safe. It's before Mom started getting worse, before he was old enough to start feeling hopeless about everything. He's just closing his eyes on the couch, sun shining through a window, warm. It's safe. ]

Right.

[ She watches him for a second while he closes his eyes, finds the place he's looking for. At least, she hopes he finds it. The air in here feels dry, to her, like she'd get shocked if she touched something metal.

Well, there's some shit going on, isn't there? Whether it's a hex or PTSD or just the City's bad vibes, there's some shit, and now she's trying to channel it away. Best get to it. Taking up the salt, she pours it in the central hexagon of the circle, letting it pool into a rough circle. When she speaks, her voice is quiet and calm, almost rhythmic. ]

I invoke earth and water. And by earth and water, I consecrate this home, and protect it from harm. Let this home be strong as earth and pure as water. Let no ill or evil enter, through earth or water.

[ You can tell when a spell starts working, even if you're halfway making it up as you go along. Things begin to have a gravity, a momentum, like a ball starting to roll down a slight slope. Except just like when she tried divination with Loki, starting this ball rolling is hard. What would take a nudge back home takes heavy push. But she's going to fucking push, god damn it.

Johanna takes up the rosemary and her lighter, and lights a sprig. It takes several tries for the leaves to catch and start smoldering, a strong, spicy smell threading up from it into the room. ]

I invoke fire and air. And by fire and air, I consecrate this home, and cleanse it of evil. Let this home be strong as fire and pure as air ... Let no harmful thing or ill will remain. [ Deep breath, keep it going. ] In fire or air.

[ It's easy for the quick pulse of anxiety to force his mind away from more intentional things, but Peter keeps his eyes closed, keeps thinking about where he's at in his head. He remembers a technique his dad talked about once. Concentrate on what you can see, smell, hear. Choose five each. In this dreamscape scenario, this memory he's created for himself, he can feel the sun against his eyelids. He can hear the coffee pot going in the kitchen. He can smell it. He's aware of his body, how it feels, limp and comfortable on the sofa. He starts to feel calm, even when he hears the woman begin reciting words, and he tries not to think too much about them, doesn't want to risk hearing something that might frighten him out of his calmed state.

But something shifts. Maybe it's when she lights up that strange plant, and he feels something in him flinch a little. It doesn't smell like normal fire (and certainly not like paint thinner), but it's something burning. Maybe it knocks him out of himself just a little, unsettles something within him. Opens up a door where something was already peeking, widens a gap (and in turn, the thing widens its eyes.)

I invoke, the woman says, I consecrate, I protect, I cleanse; these are powerful words, coming from someone with a particular power, and even if things are numbed in this strange city, numbed on both sides — the ancient, powerful, misplaced thing still feels it. Feels her.

Let no harmful thing or ill will remain

Peter's eyes suddenly open as his insides feel like they're coiling, a wave of unexpected nausea rolling through him. He tilts forward where he's sitting, one hand against his middle, eyes widening with a dose of surprise, and seconds after— fear. The fine hairs at the back of his neck are prickling, and he's shivering like he's freezing. Something's... wrong? He feels something, and he doesn't want to interrupt her, but.... he's giving a soft gasp. She said if he felt pain, it could stop. This isn't pain, not exactly, but.... ]

—Um. Ms. Constantine? I feel.... kind of sick. I don't feel good. Is that okay?

[ Ah, shit, what the fuck. Could be normal, could be a problem, could even be the desired effect. Constantine's gaze focuses on Peter, sharp and calculating. ]

Think you're going to throw up?

[ Even as she speaks, she puts the smoldering rosemary down onto the circle of salt, letting it burn down. ]

If you're going to throw up, try not to break the lines.

[ He... kind of feels like he might throw up. But maybe if he just tries to swallow back the nausea....

If Peter were anyone else, he might say something snarky to that or, alternatively, something humourous, laugh about it. Being Peter, he's just nodding quickly, comically obedient as ever. Okay, fuck, yeah, don't break the lines. ]

Sorry. [ He takes a moment to try and collect himself, takes a few deeper breaths against the odd prickling chill from the inside out. It's like when you have the flu, sickness ravaging your organs, making them tight and achey. After a moment, he nods at her — sorry, please, carry on.... He'll be okay.

(No, everything's just going to get worse, clearly) ]

Hang in there. [ She gives him a tight smile. ] Something's working. Keep that safe space in your head.

[ Of that, she has no doubt. Something's happening. Peter looks like shit. The candles are still burning, but the room feels darker, as if the sun went down outside. Was the sun already down when she came in?

She repeats the invocation as she picks up the burnt rosemary twig and uses it to draw a smaller version of the hexagram in the salt, speaking a little faster now, trying to push that rock uphill. A third time, drawing a circle to enclose the hexagram. It feels like it should be taking hold, but there's something precarious about it, like she's trying to tie a door closed with spiderweb.

Maybe the next part will help. When she looks across the diagram at Peter, there's sweat on her hairline and an effortful set in her jaw. ]

Okay. First part. Good, we're doing good. [ She reaches her hands out across the diagram to him. ] Take my hands, hold 'em as tight as you like.

This is your home, kid. This place is your place, this body is your body, and we're gonna make sure nobody can fuck with that. Okay?

[ He nods, quickly, firmly — though less with any real confidence and more a sort of desperation, like he's holding onto the concept as tightly as he can, fully expecting he might lose his grip any moment. Keep that safe space. Keep thinking about it. Keep going.

Even as that odd sick feeling within him begins to build, on a level deeper than Peter can know, can control or understand — there's energy and intention and power here, and by the time Johanna's reaching across for his hands, he's also sweating. It's a cold sweat, one that leaves him shuddering soft and uncontrolled, beads of perspiration at his forehead and the back of his neck, and his complexion's paler, eyes a little wet and weepy, like he's sick.

But he reaches for her hands even if his own are shaking, hangs on tightly, lowers his head with a grimace as another wave of nausea and ache coil through his gut. He's panting, feeling dizzy, eyes going half-lidded suddenly.

'This is your home. This place is your place, this body is your body'

Abruptly, Peter's head snaps backwards, exposing the slender line of his throat, which begins to ripple with movement — the boy's slack mouth giving a few soft gagging sounds before they build to something else. Something that sounds distinctively like growling. It builds and builds, and with it, the energy to the room begins to change — something crackling, buzzing, like white-hot static. Oppressive.

He isn't letting go of her hands, and in fact is slowly holding on tighter, nails beginning to dig into the woman's skin. The sounds become louder, animal-like, yowling — angry. ]

[ Oh. That's. ]

That's not good.

[ She's not really aware she said it aloud. ]

Peter! Peter!

[ His nails start to dig into her hands and she gasps in pain. This isn't a hex. This is something else. This is something worse. ]

What are you? [ Her voice is rising, commanding but not a little scared, to match the thing that's using Peter's vocal cords. ] Who are you?! By the power of the Art here wrought I conjure you to tell me who you fucking are!

[ The thing that's emerging can't fully do so — kept padded down by the strangeness of this place, and perhaps by its own strangeness before. The ancient thing has been mutilated by the hands guiding it, again and again, and so freshly now.

But it bubbles and pops up under the surface of its container of human skin sometimes, and its spirit is emboldened by this — this ritual, this activity, her. Emboldened and infuriated, and the woman's calling Peter. She's trying to keep Peter. It goes against everything that the cult shaped for him, for them, and Paimon's spirit roars.

The woman roars back. Her voice rises, she demands things from him, and ordinarily the demon king Paimon would have to respond in truth, as commanded by a magician, a witch. Those rules still apply to his spirit, even if the shape of them is warped and fogged-over, and the power coming from both sides isn't what it should be.

He grabs ahold of her now, fingers wrapping around the woman's small wrists, forcing her closer, lips peeled back in a snarl as his head snaps back down to stare at her. The warm browns of Peter's eyes are pools of inky black now, pupils blown and swollen. The thing snarls in her face. ]

CHORUM
TZFON MA’ARAV
βορειοδυτικά

[ Not its name, but something else. 'Northwest', jibbered on in a few ancient languages, like a broken record skipping and repeating. ]

TZFON MA’ARAV
CHORUM

[ And then, as a warning— he starts hissing at her, lips peeled back, the sound serpentine, reedy, loud. Stay away from him.

With that, he lets go of her but it's with a sudden wave of energy, telekinetic force meant to knock the woman away from him. Ideally, he'd slam her against the closest wall, but his powers can't quite reach; Johanna may only fall backwards, hit the floor or slide across it some. ]

[ Johanna grunts as he snatches her wrists, trying to pull back and failing. The words feel like they echo, like they're pulled from somewhere much deeper than a teenager's lungs. Hebrew, Greek. She recognizes the sounds of the languages, but not the words.

Extraordinary strength. Speaking unknown languages. That's two out of four.

Staring into the black eyes, the bared teeth, Johanna feels a crazy sense of déjà vu. The Latin phrases she's normally reach for are nowhere to be found; her mind is a blank whirl of horror and shock. A kid asks if she can help. She says yes. She's lying. The kid, who isn't the kid, calls her bluff.

You feel the scree slipping under you and know there's no handholds left.

Even if she could remember the rite, there's no time. He lets go of her wrists and Johanna is flung onto her back, skidding a foot -- and breaking the chalk lines holding the spell in place.

The power that they'd been feeding into the spell bursts outwards, like a flash bulb made of the opposite of light. The candles all snuff instantaneously, their makeshift candlesticks sent clattering across the floor. Salt and rosemary ash go flying. In the kitchen, the faucet rattles and starts to drip in a rapid patapatapat. Johanna's head explodes in pain, brief and blinding as a lightning strike, leaving her lying there stunned and panting. ]

[ The chalk lines break, and suddenly everything changes. The build-up of pressure and static and energy crackling from his own spirit is met with an instant surge of power released from the energy of her spell, and it's like a light violently shorting out, scorching the edges of everything.

A wave of energy hits him, and the shuddering ancient thing crawling its way up out of Peter's throat, already so tumultuous, is knocked back without warning, claws slipping from its hold, too many eyes shutting themselves again.

The boy's body convulses like electricity's surging through it, then drops with a heavy thud against the floor, completely limp and lifeless — breathing, still, only unconscious. Whatever horrible thing that's just transpired, and all of the energy released, it's too much for him, overwhelming him to the point of passing completely out. ]

[ Johanna has no idea how long she's lying there. Her head feels like a bomb went off inside it. Her eyes are open, but it's some time before she realizes it and can interpret the beige blur overhead as a ceiling, a normal distance away.

She finally decides that she's not dead, so she should probably sit up. That takes a minute, too -- her limbs are shaking as if she carried a person up six flights of stairs, twice. When she does finally get upright enough to survey the room, she sucks in a horrified breath. ]

Fuck. Peter -- Peter, wake up, kid.

[ She crawls over to him, heedless of the chalk and the salt and the other detritus of the spell. He's breathing, that's good, but-- ] Oh, fuck, please. C'mon, please. Please be you, wake up--

[ How much time does pass? Peter has no concept of it either, maybe it's minutes or something a lot longer than that. He'd probably stay there on the floor for hours if left unchecked, but even if the demon king has so suddenly retreated itself into him again, Johanna Constantine's presence itself is a particular tether to Paimon's. A spark of energy, connection, no matter how much this place mutes both of them down.

She comes closer and Peter's body gives a soft hitch, a little shudder, like she's ghosted her fingers over his skin instead of only called out for him.

His eyes open — heavy and confused, but the blacks of swollen pupils have melted back into the usual warm browns, and the boy's mostly only a boy again. He stares at her, then slowly lifts his head, half-lidded, dazed as he blinks glossily at the sight around him. In a few moments he'll realise everything's a fucking mess, but initially there's just one question. ]

Did it work....?

Oh, my god, thank fuck.

[ She lets out a shaky breath of relief and pats him gingerly on the shoulder. ]

Are you okay? Um, maybe stay still, I'll get you some water.

[ Clambering to her feet, she staggers to the kitchen and the dripping faucet. It'll give her a moment to decide what on earth to say to that question. Did it work? Oh, brother, something worked. No wonder he felt sick during the warding. The bad vibes are coming from inside the house. ]

[ Hearing the way she's breathing, kind of shaky, makes Peter look back over at Johanna as she gives him that careful pat on the shoulder. He's still too dazed to feel too alarmed, but he's watching her as she gets up and moves off, and then Peter's managing to sit up a bit more, rubbing his eyes with both palms, then gazing around again.

.....Taking in the state of the living room. Candles and the weird plants all over the place; it kind of looks like a tidal wave came through. ....Should it look like that? Why's he on the floor? An uneasiness starts brewing in him, slow and quiet and odd through the thickness of his foggy mind. He calls out to her, quietly, but the apartment's small enough that he thinks she'll be able to hear him even from here. ]

....Did I fall asleep?

[ There's the sound of banging cupboards, then the hiss of the faucet. ]

Think you passed out, luv.

[ Her voice sounds stronger now -- not quite cheerful, but much more steady.

Because she's decided, in the few minutes it took her to splash some water on her own face and get Peter a glass. Even if she remembered the entire rite of exorcism off the top of her head, she's not sure it would work. She doesn't know the thing's name, which makes these things harder to begin with, and right now she feels like she tried to push a car up a hill and it rolled back over top of her. Peter can't be feeling any better. Trying to push through and cast out whatever is hiding inside his soul would be more likely to hurt both of them than help.

It could even kill him, if it went badly enough. And yeah, maybe this place resurrects people, but -- she's not going to risk killing a kid on the chance that it helps with his demon problem. What if it brought the demon back in his body, and not him? Or released the demon into the City?

No. No, call it cowardice, prudence, both. But when she returns to the living room with a glass of water and sits down next to Peter, she knows what she's going to say. ]

Yeah, I think it worked. [ She smiles encouragingly. ] Here, drink this.

There must've been some real bad energy in here to go off like that. That can happen. Knocked me silly for a minute, too. How're you feeling?

[ Passed out is nothing particularly new for him these days, and usually always associated with some fresh horror. How many times has he woken up somewhere he has no memory of going? Or lost entire days, eyes opening to reveal a moon where there had previously been a sun.

....But he's still in his apartment living room, and he's still with Johanna Constantine, and he can still smell the candles, a lingering smoky scent from when they'd all been blown out. It can't have been too much time. The flutter of anxiety in his chest staggers, a little.

He looks up as she returns to sit beside him, takes the water into both hands and does what she says — a small sip to begin with, then a deeper one. The boy closes his eyes for a moment as though to gather himself, then opens them again, wider now that he realises what she's really saying. Some real bad energy..... ]

Fuck... Really...? [ Peter looks shaken, glancing back over at the mess nearby. The energy... curse or whatever those people did to him.... it was so bad it made all this happen? ]

I think I'm okay. Just... kind of dizzy, but I think okay.

[ He looks back at her now, concern knitting his brows. ]

Are you okay?

Me? Yeah, fine, I've had worse.

[ She doesn't look great, but she's telling the truth about this, at least. ]

I mean, I feel like I got hit by a car, but I've had worse. You should take it easy. You were working hard. But you did good, held it together.

[ Peter's not the one that lost his shit, after all. ]

[ Peter's watching her with a slow-growing uncertainty, just because.... she does look rough, and it's all so weird, everything's so weird, but....

....he did good? Hearing those words makes something in his chest feel lighter, a quiet relief. He takes another sip of his water, staring across the room for a moment at the mess. If all of this is part of how it works... if things went the way they were supposed to... then does it really mean that it's okay now? His heart skips a beat in his chest at the thought.

Did it really work? ]

If it worked.... should I like... feel different or something? Because I'm not... I'm not sure.

You might.

[ She follows his gaze over the wrecked spell circle, picking her words carefully. ]

It's possible we'll need to do this again. Sometimes things like this need a couple tries to get rid of completely. Like ... like if you got a tattoo removed you'd need a few treatments, right? To get rid of it entirely.

I'm not going to lie to you and say it'll all be all better right away. But I think you ought to be able to relax a bit.

[ Peter blinks slowly as he listens, and finds himself nodding again. Yeah... yeah, that makes sense. Right? A couple of times to get rid of completely.... it actually kind of makes more sense than that something like this could be taken care of all at once.

This is fine. Right? He can do this again, now that he knows what to do, what it's like. Maybe next time he won't be so afraid. ]

Next time I can have better candle holders ready. [ He almost, sort of, is able to say that with a bit of a smile, though not quite. But there's something perhaps visibly relieved in him now. He can relax a bit... she would know if something was wrong.

For the first time in a very long time, he feels something that might actually be hope. ]

Fuck.... that was insane. [ The boy lifts a hand and runs it back through wayward curls before looking at her again, sincere, even if awkward as he works through the words. ] Like.. I can't believe that just happened. Thank you, god— shit, really. Thank you.

[ You know, some people might feel guilty, hearing the sincerity in that "thank you," knowing that it's only there because they've told him an enormous, dangerous lie.

Constantine smiles tiredly, meeting his eyes. Brown and lucid and lit with a relief that wasn't there before. If she can keep that optimism there with a lie, for now, she will. ]

It's pretty fucking insane. Welcome to the wonderful world of magic, Peter.

[ And number your days, whoever else is here. ]

Let's get your floor cleaned up, yeah?

[ Magic. Who would've thought?? It's all still pretty wild, and he'll definitely have to take some time to like, absorb, process all of this. But.... yeah. Yeah, the overall feeling here isn't bad. It's maybe kind of good, through the little doses of nervous uncertainty.

He has help.

The teen gives another nod, moves to stand — a little light-headed and tired too, but it's not too worrisome, he thinks, because it probably makes sense he would be. Finally, now, he smiles too. ]

I'll get some papertowels and stuff. Unless there's uh. A spell that can conveniently clean all this up, too.

[ A joke... it's a joke! Something he can do now, that the turmoil's over. Now that the scary thing is finished, today. Maybe not fully over, but chipped away at, a little. ]

[closed]

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cw: demon business

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cw for the linked post: violence by a child, death of a child, strangling

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and wrap!!