[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xPfAC72.jpg[/img][/center] [b]Bel Air 7:00 AM[/b] Detective Charlie Rembrandt slowly slid open the window of the study with his gloved hands. Ray stood behind him, watching while Epiphany sat on the ground, cross-legged with her eyes closed. Rembrandt pulled out a penknife and cut the screen so that he and Ray could climb through. He made it easily, but Ray needed a boost to fit through the opening. “Can you feel anything?” Charlie asked once they were both in the study. The study looked to Charlie like a movie version of a study. Expensive wooden floors, an even more expensive wooden desk, tall shelves crammed with books. Books that Rembrandt was sure had never been touched by their owner. He yielded to Ray, who looked sorely out of place in his Slayer t-shirt and jeans. Ray paced through the study, his eyes shut in concentration. “There,” he said, pointing a pudgy finger towards a shelf of books. "It's distant, but I can feel something." Charlie walked over, flexing his nitrate gloved fingers as he went. On the third shelf was a nondescript hardback book labelled “CHICAGO” He pulled it from the shelves, having to use two hands to offset the heftiness. “It’s metal,” he said as he walked it towards the desk. He dropped it on the surface of the desk. It made a solid thump. It looked like a hardcover book, but thick metal was where the pages should have been. A neat little keyhole was in the middle. Charlie reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a set of lockpicks and a rake. “Hey,” said Ray. “Quick question: Why the fuck does a cop had a set of picks?” “The short story is it’s none of your business.” “And the long story?” “Long story? It’s none of your [i]fucking[/i] business.” Charlie shucked off his sports coat and passed it to Ray before he started in on the lock with the pick and rake. --- “... so she lifts up her dress, and she says, 'You’re Thor? Well, I’m tho thor I can hardly pith!'” John looked between Jimmy the Saint and Henry Grigoriyan, neither man cracking so much as a smile. John scowled and took a long drag off his cigarette. “What do you fucking American bastards know about comedy?” “Jimmy,” said Grigoriyan. “Kill this man.” “I don’t think so,” said John, putting both palms in the air. “And I think Jimmy knows he can’t kill me.” “There’s something there,” said the Saint. “I felt it when he dropped his cloaking spell. It’s protective, but ill-defined. I can' tell how powerful it is.” “I have people vested in my interest,” said John, flicking ashes on the kitchen’s marble counter. “Powerful people. It’s no so much as they care about my well-being, and more so that they are afraid to let me die. I know things.” “You know who he is with?” asked Grigoriyan. “People who have changed the histories of entire nations. You fuck with them, then you are a dead man.” “I know all about your lot,” John said with a look towards Jimmy. “But, his guild is a lot like of hardcore magi. It’s all bound by a bunch of rules. Like for instance, the contract you two signed. For all your powers, Jimmy, you still got to jump when Grigoriyan says to. He has power over you. You can't hurt him and you can't refuse him as long as he doesn't order you to kill yourself. Powerful, yes, but so fucking boring. I know all about how you and your kind do business.” Constantine flashed a smile. “That’s why I’ve come to bargain.” --- Ray looked over his shoulder out the window. Epiphany was still on the ground, her back towards him, her hands raised and frozen in mid-signal. E. wasn’t like Constantine when it came to casting. She was above Ray, but still on the amateur side. The only reason Jimmy the Saint had yet to figure them out was because of John running interference. “Got it,” Rembrandt said, the pop of the lockbox following. Charlie lifted the top of the lockbox and he and Ray looked in. The only item inside was a folded piece of paper. Ray could feel power on the paper. It was slight, a simple protection charm for the unaware, but even he could disable it. But then Rembrandt reached out with his gloved hands and picked it up. “No,” Ray shouted. The second Rembrandt’s fingers touched it, he shot back and collapsed to the floor. He could smell a bitter sulfur scent wafting off Rembrandt. The gloved hand that had touched the paper was glowing red. Ray cursed and quickly disarmed the protection spell. With the coast clear, he picked the paper up and bent down over Rembrandt. “You okay.” “Fuck,” Charlie said softly. “That was like getting tased in the face or some shit” “Let’s hope that’s the worst of it,” said Ray. "If you start breaking out into boils then we're going to be in trouble." Ray opened the paper up and scanned it. Behind him, Rembrandt stood on shaky legs and wiped sweat from his brow. “Is it what we need?” asked Charlie. “Yeah. Get your phone out and text John.” --- “Armenian Hank here cancels his contract with the guild, and Jimmy scampers back to wherever the fuck it is the guild live. Wisconsin, maybe? I got a copper mate who would love to nick you, but it would be hard as hell since all the evidence is magic based. Anyway, Hank here goes back to using conventional means to run his grubby little drugs business. Old Bill will eventually catch him, but that’s the nature of things. Nothing gold can last, yeah?” "In exchange?" Jimmy asked. "I let the two of you walk away and in good health." As annoyed as the Saint’s face was, Gregoriyan’s was positively livid. His face was already in the process of turning beet red. “Fuck you,” he roared. “I do not care whose protection you are under, you do not come into this home and dictate to me. Jimmy, kill this bitch. Make his fucking body burn.” John let out a sigh as Jimmy started to make hand signals. He was preparing to counter the spells, but the notification chirp on his phone caused him to break out in a big smile. He reached into his coat and pulled out the phone, reading the text message. “James Phillip Smalley,” he said. The Saint’s jaw dropped open, the spell he was in the process of casting forgotten. “See, that's why I prefer my type of magic to yours,” said John. “Good ole stage magic has never let me down or bitten me in the arse. I can preform a sleight of hand trick with the best of them. While I was prattling away here with the two of you, three of my mates were busy on the other side of the house. Can you feel them, James?" "Yes," Jimmy hissed. "Another goddamn cloaking spell." "Not a good one, but good enough thanks to me keeping you occupied. Like I said, James, you’re bound by rules. That contract you signed with Hank here, it has your real name on it. That’s what gives him power of you. Well, James my boy, now I know your real name.” Constantine began to trace something in the air with the smoke of his cigarette. Suddenly, Jimmy cried out in pain and gripped his left arm. He fell to his knees while Constantine stared at Gregoriyan. “Names have power,” said John, a broad grin on his face. “Like making you feel immense pain, heart attack type pain without the actual heart attack. I wonder what I can do with your name, Hank. I'm sorry Haygaz Garo Gregoriyan. If you don't take my deal, then you're about to fucking find out.”