Page 31 of Anatomy of the Immortal Species
Constantine hid behind a winding staircase, peeking for asecond to examine the man with the whip. He was at least eight feet tall, with burgundy-coloured skin, a hairy chest, leather pants, hooves instead of feet, and two black horns sticking out of his head. A demon. Constantine recognised the creature from the stories he’d heard about the World of the Damned. Demons were its guardians, torturers, and executioners. If they existed, then everything else about this place must also be true.
He waited for the demon and the old woman to move on before hurrying back to the orange-red energy guarding the exit. The moment his skin touched the flames, a burning pain pierced him. The veils were no longer gentle and warm – they attacked like murderous fire, blocking his escape from Hell.
His heart raced, sweat forming on his eyebrow. He summoned his secondary form. Fires might burn skin, but his skeleton could sustain anything. Seconds passed, and the transformation wasn’t beginning. The realisation that he was still a child, unable to transform, formed a lump in his throat.
But he was no child. He was a grown-up man, a necromancer…
The sinner woman pulling the heavy cart emerged before him like an apparition. She raised her head and Constantine finally recognised her. Mada, the witch who had taken his spiritual abilities.
Eyes wide, he darted around for escape, but there was none. He had no powers and was stuck in Hell forever.
The flames engulfed him.
A continuous, furious horn awoke Constantine.
He clutched the steering wheel and glanced at the side mirror. The truck driver he had almost collided with moved back into his own lane.
“Fuck!” Constantine pulled off the road. He had dozed off at the wheel, just for a second…
His eyes darted to the rear-view mirror again, this timeto examine his reflection. A several-days’ beard darkened his jawline – matching the number of days since he had been home.
It had taken him about half a day to erase the traces of the attack on Mikhail. A street camera, a few witnesses with altered memories, and a homeless man no one would believe. The rest of the time, he’d spent with the stranger from the Righteous’ bar.
Though drained, the memory of her stirred his desire. He hesitated, contemplating whether to get himself off right in his black Prada pants.
Necromancer.A mental image of Mada assaulted him, dousing his arousal. He had dreamt of the witch. Her eyes bled crimson tears, staining the earth beneath her dark robe – just as they had before Constantine had consumed the last part of her that could be reborn and perhaps redeem her sins.
The consumption of souls was a special ability of the necromancer species. When he absorbed someone’s soul, he gained access to all the intangible elements it had ever encountered: a plethora of memories, thoughts, and emotions. Doing so was meant to give them the upper hand – to help them find information about the perpetrators behind the Hospital murders. Instead, all it had done was screw him over.
Since he’d consumed Mada’s soul, he hadn’t been able to return to the Beyond or tap into any astral projection. He didn’t know if Mada’s soul had ascended to higher planes or if it still lingered, entwined in his energy, but somehow it continued to obstruct him. Before dying, Mada had cursed him – first, he would lose his supernatural abilities, and then his physical body, until only a skeleton remained. A eulogy.
Eulogies are for humans, witch. You don’t impress me.
Constantine glanced at the mirror again. He was not young, but he still looked it, despite the tiredness etched across his face. Fine lines under his lower eyelids and shadows of sleep deprivation marked him. He hadn’t slept in a week, whichshould have been trivial to him. Yet, he had dozed off behind the wheel – a sign that his body was losing its resilience. Another aftermath of Mada’s hold on him.
***
Zacharia had called earlier with news of Mikhail’s improving condition. Although the manticore was already recovering, Nyavolski wouldn’t allow any visitors in the ICU – unless life-threatening matters arose.
Despite his presence being unrequired, Constantine found himself on the Hospital’s grounds. He headed to the training room, where he hoped to find Diana. Sure enough, the vampire was punching a heavy bag, engaged in a vigorous workout. Clad in a sleek black athletic outfit that accentuated her muscular physique, her glossy chestnut hair was neatly braided to keep it out of her face while she landed forceful blows with her bare hands.
If anyone had questioned what Constantine was doing there, he couldn’t have replied. He simply needed to seeher.
Leaning against the wall, he observed Diana in silence. He knew she was aware of his presence – her intensity seemed to spike under his gaze – yet she continued to pummel her inanimate opponent, as if determined to tear it apart.
Diana and Constantine hadn’t talked much since they’d returned from Turkey, and it seemed that moment of weakness she’d shared with him after her brother’s death had been long forgotten. After arriving at the Hospital, and testing out the secondary form liquid, she had become reticent, secluding herself into the training room. And Constantine had left her to it. Until now.
“I might’ve mentioned it before, but you’re quite skilled,” he said, growing weary of Diana’s sparring with the punching bag.
Diana landed a few more punches before halting her training. She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Thank you.”
He approached. “A range of martial arts, including Taekwondo, Judo, Karate, Viet Vo Dao, firearms, traditional weapons like bows, knives, and nunchaku… And you’ve managed to plant a tracking device in my car, using just a simple cell phone…”
She turned to face him, giving him a once-over with her toffee-coloured eyes. “Yes, I did. What’s your point?”
He allowed his gaze to linger a little longer on her soft lips. “You lied when I asked where you got those skills from, but you might tell mewhyyou got them.”
Diana knelt to pick up a white towel from the floor and wiped the sweat from her forehead.
