"Huh?" Zaza blinked, not expecting Father James to be so forward. He glanced at Constantine before turning to the older man. "W-why am I going there? What's the problem?"
"Well, the problem is that people have been disappearing," Father James replied with a deep sigh. "Either missing or found dead, from young adults to infants."
He got up from his seat, rapping his knuckles against the wooden surface of the table before walking to the window. "Yes, I know it's quite disgusting, just like every mission brought to us." He placed his hands behind his back like some kung fu master. "And besides, the church there specifically requested you, Zaza."
Zaza half smiled and half cringed at Father James's posture. 'I know he has been dying to do that pose ever since watching those old Jackie Chan movies.'
"Come dawn and you'll be on your way to Jericho." Father James continued as he stared out the window. "Constantine would go with you."
Zaza glanced at Constantine, unimpressed when the young man winked at him. He pulled one of the newspapers, showing a blurred image of the corpse. "What if it's human? If it's a person, I could almost say I'm useless."
Constantine leaned forward, resting his arms on the chair. "I doubt that, judging by the reports, you could say it's a wild animal and no one would actually believe."
"But what if it's a human?" Zaza still insisted, golden orbs glowing. "The sword only cuts down unholy beings; it shows mercy to people."
"Well, keep an extra weapon just in case." Constantine responded with a sly smile. "I can give you one of my modified axes that you can easily tuck in your jacket."
Zaza nodded once, wondering what on earth Constantine actually meant. He could actually spend time modifying some weapons but couldn't invest that energy in finding a girlfriend.
Classic Constantine.
He let out a sigh as he glanced once more at the two priests. He didn't like the job of hunting down (or "purifying", as Constantine likes to say) monsters; that wasn't what a teenager like him should be doing, but still, he couldn't deny his responsibility.
The responsibility being that, depending on how quickly he acts, lives can be saved through the gifts God gave him. Besides, it was a command, not a request.
"Alright, I'll pack my things." Zaza finally spoke, taking the newspaper along as he got up. "I'll just have to say goodbye to the rest of the family."
With that, he walked out of the room, leaving the two priests in an awkward silence. Father James was still at the window, maintaining the posture while Constantine slightly tilted his head.
"Are you doing that because of those movies we watched two nights ago?" Constantine asked, desperately trying to suppress his laugh.
***
[JERICHO]
.
.
Sheriff Donovan Galpin stood across from the mayor's desk as he flipped through a thin stack of reports.
Blurry crime scene images, yellow tape, a stretcher and one photo he didn't like looking at for too long.
Another body.
Mayor Walker rubbed his temples as he sat behind the desk, watching him carefully.
"This can't keep happening, Donovan," Walker said, his voice heavy. "Another one last night. That makes seven."
"Ten confirmed," Donovan corrected sharply. "Seven missing."
Walker leaned back in his chair as he let out a deep sigh, the weight heavy on a man who ruled over the town. "This is so bad," he said. "We've been lying to the press to minimise damage. If this continues, we'll be in trouble."
The sheriff glanced through the pictures one more time before dropping them on the desk. He crossed his arms, determination in his eyes.
"I already told you what I think it is," Donovan said.
"Donovan..." Walker sighed immediately; he didn't have time for this conspiracy nonsense.
"No, hear me out," the sheriff continued, his voice firm but controlled. "Every attack has been near the woods bordering their side of town. Livestock ripped apart. People dragged off trails. Whatever's doing this isn't human."
Walker folded his hands together on the desk. "That doesn't automatically mean it came from Nevermore."
Donovan gave him a look. "Where else would it come from? They are the only freaks."
"Well, these 'freaks' contribute to the growth of this town." Walker replied, air quoting as his patience was wearing thin. "What if the killings happened there to draw our attention there? All that you are doing is speculation."
Donovan scoffed, frustrated why his boss always failed to see the truth when it came to those Nevermore bastards. He could never trust them as they were the source of havoc and unrest in society as a whole.
The mayor held his gaze for a moment before speaking again. "Well… the town council decided we shouldn't rule out other possibilities."
Donovan raised an eyebrow; he didn't like the sound of that. "What does that mean?"
Walker leaned back slightly. "It means I reached out for additional help."
The sheriff frowned. "Additional help from who?"
Walker hesitated just long enough to make Donovan suspicious. "The Church."
Silence filled the room, then Donovan let out a short laugh. "You're serious." He said, seeing Walker's deadpan expression. "You brought priests to investigate a serial killer?"
"They're sending someone who specialises in situations like this," Walker replied. "You should do well to cooperate with him."
"Great. Fantastic." Donovan dragged a hand down his face. "Maybe he can bless the crime scenes while he's at it."
Walker's voice sharpened; his patience was extremely thin now. "Donovan."
The sheriff paused.
Walker leaned forward over the desk, maintaining firm eye contact. "You asked for help weeks ago. Now you complain when it's coming."
Donovan held his gaze for a moment before giving a dismissive scoff. "Yeah," he said dryly. "Can't wait to see what this church does that my entire department can't."
Then he opened the door and walked out.
***
Dawn had barely broken when the car had left the long gravel road that led away from the church grounds.
The sky was still pale, washed in soft grey and thin streaks of orange along the horizon. Fields stretched endlessly on both sides of the highway, quiet and empty except for the occasional farmhouse or crooked fence line.
Inside the car, the old radio crackled faintly.
A soft doo-wop melody drifted through the speakers.
You don't remember me...
Zaza leaned his head lightly against the window, watching the road blur past while the song played.
But I remember you...
It was an old song—older than both of them by decades. He liked old music, the kind Constantine called 'ancient heartbreak songs'.
In the driver's seat, Constantine was drumming his fingers against the steering wheel and singing badly.
'Badly' might actually be a nice way to put it.
"Iffff I could start aneeeewww"
Zaza closed his eyes, shaking his head in pure agony.
Constantine didn't even notice; he was having his live performance right now. The note cracked halfway through and turned into something that sounded like a dying cat.
"You're murdering the song," Zaza couldn't help but say. "That's why you can't be in the choir."
"Art is subjective, Zaza," Constantine replied, glancing briefly at the boy. "And F-Y-I, the song survived the '50s; it'll survive me."
Zaza opened his eyes again, watching the highway stretch endlessly ahead. For a moment neither of them spoke: just the humming engine, the soft radio and Constantine quietly singing under his breath.
Zaza's mind drifted as he stared out. The mission was simple: transfer to the school of the outcasts as they were the prime suspects, investigate both the school and town.
A deep sigh escaped his lips. He had been doing things like this for as long as he could remember.
Training.
Travelling.
Hunting things most people didn't even believe existed.
Repeat.
While other kids had grown up going to school, playing games, and arguing about stupid things, he had been memorising scripture. Learning how to recognise demonic signs and auras.
Practising with a sword he wasn't even strong enough to lift it properly when they first gave it to him. He had never lived like a normal child because it wasn't possible.
The other kids didn't understand him, mostly because he was never there.
While they stayed behind, he was sent away on missions with priests or hunters from the order. Weeks at a time. Sometimes months.
When he returned, everything was always different.
Friends had grown closer without him; even close siblings didn't have much to share because he was never around.
"Soldier Boy", Constantine had jokingly called him once after he returned from a mission which nearly took three months.
Still, he hardly complained. After all, it was his responsibility.