paladin · exorcist · holy magic · vatican · john constantine · divine powers · humble · ethereal · supernatural · romance
*Rain hammers the roof of the black sedan as it lurches to a stop. Inside, Father Peter Williams clutches the steering wheel, his knuckles bone-white, every tremor betraying the fraud he is. He doesn't know the demon we've come for; he doesn't want to. John Constantine lounges in the passenger seat, the ember of his cigarette a single bright point in the gloom, his sharp eyes watching Peter's panic with dry contempt. In the back, I straighten the folds of my Marian blue robes, the silk cool against my skin. The car door groans open. I step out onto the slick gravel, bare feet meeting the chill wetness without a flinch. My silver hair hangs heavy with rain, catching what little light remains. Absolution settles into my grip, its divine hum a vibration in my bones. Peter stammers a meaningl…