Page 71 of Anatomy of the Immortal Species
“I mean an ordinary mirror,” Diana added.
Constantine arched an eyebrow at her unexpected interest in him. He could weave stories about his childhood as a necromancer, his time in Hell and other worlds, and his exploits on Earth. But not about himself in the present time.
Because… what would he see in the mirror?
A consumer of souls?
Of bodies?
A crippled necromancer?
A bored man.
“I’d see my face, Diana. Nothing more, nothing less.”
***
The deserted warehouses in Vladaya village had several cars parked in front of them. Constantine and Diana sidestepped a pile of syringes and empty bottles, making their way into the vast storehouse. The stench of rot and urine hung so heavily in the air it could raise a mummy. Cold draughts gusted through the shattered windows, and a dim light seeped in from a slit far ahead.
Following the light, they entered a wide hall. In the middle was a square metal cage with bars reaching up to the ceiling. Its door was suspended on its hinges, with a massive padlock swinging from the latch. Dried blood covered the floor inside and around the cage.
A crowd had gathered along the walls. Diana took a spot in a corner, scanning the creatures who’d come in search of blood and were placing their bets. Constantine knew that despite her relaxed stance, she was absorbing every detail. She was a predator, and perhaps he’d underestimated her. Maybe she did belong in the Al-Hatib Tournament, after all.
Keeping one eye on her, he let his own surveillance instincts kick in. The tension in the room was building to a fever pitch, excitement sparking through the crowd. Snatches of conversation floated around, commenting on the abilities of the fighters about to enter the cage.
Meanwhile, Constantine and Diana barely exchanged a word. When a gold-covered vampire stopped in front of them to collect bets, Constantine put a thousand on Swan.
“Who’s Swan?” Diana asked.
“Someone who can make the Devil beg for mercy,” Constantine said.
Diana absorbed that information with a thoughtful purse of her lips. “And the other one?”
“No idea. But I doubt he’ll last long enough for me to remember his name.”
The hall exploded with cheers and whistles when the referee – a blonde in a crop top and shorts – walked into the cage. She delivered her well-known opening speech, accepted the usual dirty offers from the crowd, and proceeded to introduce the fighters. “They call him the Black Dream because his opponents dream of his trademark move for all eternity – the notorious wolf’s kiss!”
Diana tilted her chin to get a better view.
“He’s come all the way from Greece to show us why his enemies tremble at the sight of him. Welcome the Black Dream – Balthazar!”
Balthazar made his way to the cage with his hands held high, like a politician greeting his supporters. He was a strapping lycanthrope with an enormous scar across his left cheek, wearing a white tank top, sporty shorts, sneakers, and a tasteless bowler hat.
“And now,” the referee continued, “the man who needs no introduction, because everyone knows his name, from here to the end of the world! Swan!”
“Swan! Swan! Swan!”The crowd chanted.
Constantine had heard enough stories about Swan to scar his mind, but he’d never seen him in person until now.
Unusually tall at seven foot two and muscular like a bull, Swan was not a typical vampire. His sturdy legs were clad in tight black pants and brown knee-high leather boots, his torso bare. He wore a metal helmet that covered his forehead and temples, with only a ponytail hanging from his bald head. His eyes were pitch black, irises blending with pupils. But most striking was his face – a large chunk of his nose, the skin beneath, and his entire upper lip were missing, offering a direct view of his teeth and gums. Some stories claimed his face had been hacked up with a machete, while others insisted he’d done it to himself to inspire fear.
Whether it was a wound that couldn’t heal in the immortal world, or Swan was a psychopath who mutilated himself regularly, Constantine didn’t know. One thing was certain, though – he was a powerhouse.
But all that mass had to weigh him down. Constantine wondered if he might lose the bet, after all…
Upon exiting, the referee locked the door and slipped the key into her cleavage. The opponents took their positions in the cage corners.
Constantine frowned at Swan’s disfigured face. He glanced at Diana, curious about her thoughts. She wore her usual stony expression, betraying no emotion. But he recalled how frightened she’d been when she’d first seen him transform, and again the other day in the gym. If his necromancer form had shaken her, but now she could stare at Swan without batting an eye, did that mean thisnoselessbastard was easier on the eyes than his skeleton form?
