Both of You Can Just Fade to Black

by spiderhare

Summary:

Zatanna was spiraling further and further into the throes of depression and Dark Magic. Will an unlikely ally help save her or push her off the brink?

**

Zatanna made her decision, she had to kill Nabu.

To do this, she was going to have to break a few of her father’s rules. The first one? Talking to John Constantine.

Chapter 1: 2:45

Summary:

Zatanna makes a friend.

Zatanna rubbed her eyes. She was so tired of lying awake at night, unsure of what to do. The days and weeks and years worth of mistakes piled up, like a ball and chain on her chest. Sleep had never been a problem before; maybe right after a traumatic event she was a little rattled, but normally Zatanna was quite good at getting her nine hours. But now she was just there, in bed, fully awake. And it was all her father’s fault.

Not really, but it was easier to blame him when she already felt so much guilt in their relationship… the best she could do was blame Doctor Fate. She had been fine up until about a year ago. Zatanna had outgrown the Team. She was practically a master of the mystic arts, and she was hot off of her visit to the Atlanteans, learning their forms of magic. Zatanna, Raquel, and a few others were ready to join the Justice League, though some wished to remain on the Team as mentors, or desired to keep out of the spotlight as covert operatives.

The straw that broke the camel’s back had been Tula and Kaldur. When she died and he left the Team in response, it had emotionally been too much to handle. Artemis and Wally left. Dick became more closed off. Everything was just… wrong. And the League needed new recruits, and that was that. Zatanna was happy in the League. She was, really, but seeing her father almost every day, seeing him trapped by that helmet… it was wearing down on her spirit, her resolve.

That resolve had crumbled a little more when Diana had offered to instruct Zatanna on Amazonian and Greco-Roman magic. It was similar to things she had learned – rituals, sigils, some sorcerers from those eras even used Logomancy like her – but he was right there. He was in the room, ignoring her. He didn’t offer a finger to help instruct his daughter on his passion, but really, why should he? Nabu was not Giovanni Zatara. Nabu does not care about anybody, least of all some nineteen-year-old girl.

It wasn’t a big deal. None of it was, in fact it was a kind gesture from Diana, one Zatanna took her up on. But something about the way Doctor Fate looked at her, the way her father’s eyes passed over his daughter like he didn’t know her, the way that Zatanna was just another coworker to him, it was all grating on Zatanna’s soul. She couldn’t remember when the insomnia started, a few weeks ago, maybe? It didn’t matter. For however long, she had been thinking. She had dreaded her work with the League, she had dreaded her work on stage. Everything had dulled, as though the colors of the world had grown desaturated. Everything felt dark, like the night was always at the edge of her vision, begging for her to go to sleep and forget about it all, begging her to close her eyes for however long she needed. To sleep until she actually felt enough willpower to wake.

Her unresolved feelings with her father had grown more and more aggressive, nipping at her soul, aching at her heart. Zatanna had been plotting a way to get her father back. She had spoken to Madam Xanadu – who had dropped the charlatan act years ago – and gotten naught in return. She had researched countless spells and seances that would somehow grant her access to her father, or his soul. But none of it worked. It was all too wrong; the Helmet of Fate represented Order itself. To fight that would mean using Chaos. But the more Zatanna thought about, the more she believed it was her only option. Otherwise, what else would she do? Kill her father? Allow his soul to finally ascend to the afterlife, free of Nabu’s clutches? But that was horrible, too, she couldn’t murder her father, least of all for her own selfish reasons.

So, Zatanna schemed and plotted. She had been running over countless scenarios; she hadn’t felt this desire to free her father since she was fifteen and he was leaving. Finally, Zatanna came to her conclusion. She knew what she had to do.

Zatanna was going to kill Nabu. Or at least destroy the Helmet of Fate.

To do this, she was going to have to break a few of her father’s rules. The first one? She needed to talk to John Constantine.

Her father had forbidden Zatanna from working with him or getting to know him; he said Constantine was dangerous, unstable, a practitioner of the Dark Arts. And that was all well and good under normal circumstances, but her father wasn’t really here anymore. Zatanna might just need a little bit of the Dark Arts. John would be a baby step; she wasn’t calling on a Lord of Chaos like Klarion, or at least, not yet.

Her decision was made, and she sprung out of bed. She had a plan. She knew what to do. Zatanna hadn’t felt this kind of motivation in ages, even joining the League had been marred with tragedy. Her whole life had been scarred by that knife of tragedy, actually, and this was the worst year she had had in a long time. Zatanna had believed her best friend to be dead, the Team was growing apart, her other close friend was evil for a minute, and then when both friends came back, she lost another one. This time, it was real; Wally was dead and gone and it had been four months ago and Artemis still wasn’t ok. None of us are, really, Zatanna thought as she pulled on some jeans and a pair of boots.  She changed her top, and pulled a coat over herself. Zatanna grabbed her keys and walked out the door.

Now, where to find a possibly evil sorcerer, she mused, striding down the damp street, as her boots crunched on the leaves and splashed in puddles. It was two forty-five in the morning, and Zatanna was freezing. She pulled her coat more tightly over herself as she tried to remember everything she knew about John Constantine. Ok, he was Canadian? No, that’s not right; British, maybe? That’s a start. So, he’s British and practices Dark Magic.

Zatanna frowned. That wasn’t much to go on. And he always wore a battered old trench coat. The memory had come out of nowhere. Suddenly, she remembered her father (pre-Nabu) talking to Batman. Her father was normally kind, gave people the benefit of the doubt. But on that occasion, he had been talking some serious shit. Zatara and Batman went way back, and the former was informing his friend on a grimy British guy who wore a battered old trench coat, a man to be avoided at all costs. Zatanna had no idea how she remembered that, but now that she thought of it, it was probably around the time that she and Artemis had gone out for Halloween together. Damn, had it really been five years? Six? Halloween was right around the corner again. Maybe she should hang out with Artemis this year, for old time’s sake. Could be comforting for both of them.

Zatanna shook her head, as though her thoughts would somehow fall into place. But now she knew where to get help. Not from Batman, he was impenetrable. But his son was another story.

 

---

 

“Recognized, Zatanna Zatara, B07.”

Zatanna stepped out of the phonebooth. Bludhaven had some nicer parts, but really, did the League have to put their zeta tube in the smelliest alleyway they could find? Wrinkling her nose, she began to walk down the street. The leaves here were still falling, unlike back home in New York.

Now, how to find Nightwing? She could cause a crime, that would be funny. No, that was stupid even in concept. And calling him was out of the question, as he didn’t carry his phone on him on patrol or missions; luckily Zatanna knew where his home base was.

He stumbled into the deceptively insecure warehouse and flinched when a light turned on.

Nightwing pulled an escrima stick off of his back.

“Show yourself,” he said, his voice a deep growl.

Zatanna spun around in her chair, eating something she had found on his worktable.

“It is I, Zatanna Zatara, Mistress of Magic!” she replied dramatically, raising her arms.

Nightwing slouched forward, throwing his stick on the table alongside some other snacks he had forgotten to put away. The lamp she had flicked on provided a slight glow, a spotlight shining over her.

“Zee, er, what a surprise.”

She got up, drawing a little closer. “I was in the neighborhood,” she lied.

Dick looked at her, pulling his mask off. “Oh?”

There was a beat, a moment of silence where Zatanna wondered. She felt all of their history in one moment. She missed him. His stupid face, his stupid jokes. The kind of comfort he gave her that nobody else could, not before and not since.

Zatanna looked up at him. No, this wasn’t what she was here for. As much as she wanted it, as much as she wanted him, this wouldn’t work. Not now.

“I need your help,” she said.

“With?”

Zatanna walked away from him, still cradling the bag of candy she had found.

“What do you know about John Constantine?”

She ate a piece of the sour candy, turning around. Dick had put the rest of his gear on the table. He was unbuckling his utility belt when he heard her, and he froze. Dick continued, moving slower now.

“I’ve heard that he’s bad news,” he replied as he pulled off his gloves. “What do you want from him, Zee?”

Dick drew closer again, worried this time. “Are you in trouble?”

“So, you do know him?”

He sighed, sitting on the worktable. “Not really. I know that he’s involved with some dark stuff, like hellish magic kinda stuff. Batman didn’t like him. I never spoke directly with Bruce about him; it was just the vibe I got.” Dick looked over at Zatanna. “You’re not—”

She laughed, a fake one, but she wasn’t sure he could tell the difference. “Since when is it your job to worry about me?” she said, a little curt. Immediately, Zatanna realized what she had said. Shit.

Dick masked his hurt right away, but Zatanna knew to spot it. She knew him too well.

“It’s the job of your friend, Zee. Your ex… teammate.”

Zatanna paused awkwardly, not sure how to respond.

“I just think, this Constantine guy, I’ve heard he’s a real horror movie type. And not the cute kind, I mean like Sam Raimi villain levels of vile.” He grabbed at her bag of candy, extracting a piece and munching on it. “Or like The Babadook. And I don’t just say that because he’s British, I swear.”

“I think I’ll be fine. I’ve dealt with worse.”

Dick took another piece of candy, this one green. “Final girl?”

“You think I could be anything else?”

He shrugged in response.

“Maybe you’re like not even a horror character. Maybe this is a musical.”

Zatanna laughed, against her own will. “Dick, there has never been a musical that I enjoyed watching and you know it.”

“How dare you,” Dick said mockingly, as though he actually enjoyed musical theatre himself. “How could you forget about Tangled?”

“That doesn’t count. Name one Broadway show. Just one, Dick.”

He paused.

“Hamlet?”

Zatanna laughed again. God, how did he do this? She wasn’t there for him, she was there for Constantine. She was there for whatever information Dick had. Stupid, distracting, handsome… she was too busy for this. She cleared her throat.

“So can you help me with Constantine?”

Dick’s face was unreadable, shrouded in darkness.

“Ok, fine.” He set the bag of candy down. “But if you need my help, or anybody’s, then you call me. Ok?”

Zatanna brushed him off, walking a little away. “I won’t, but sure. So, you know where he is?”

“Sorta.”

Zatanna turned to look at him.

“I don’t want to violate Bruce’s trust, but—”

She raised an eyebrow. “But?”

“He keeps a… log. A list of people that could be useful, or dangerous.” He ran his hands through his hair, walking over to his computer. “It should have something useful. Hopefully, I still have access to it….” Dick trailed off, tapping keys. Zatanna wandered away, looking at his weapons and detective stuff all along the wall. She was picking up a katana she had literally never seen Dick use when he spoke again.

“London. Of course.”

“Can you pinpoint him?”

Dick smirked at her. “Yeah, Batman placed a tracker in his flesh so he can always keep tabs on him, you really think he’s that controlling?” he said sarcastically.

He paused. “Actually, don’t answer that.”

Dick wrote down the address where Constantine lived, handing it to Zatanna.

“Thanks, Dick. I owe you one.”

He stood up. He had at least a foot over her, surely.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“When have I ever done that?”

Before letting him answer, she turned to go, typing something in the zeta tube’s controls.

“If you’re not back in twelve hours...” Dick trailed off, a tinge of anxiety seeping into his voice. “I’m going after you.”

She faced him, standing in the machine. Zatanna raised her hand in a kind of farewell as the automated voice called out “Recognized, Zatanna Zatara, B07.” She left him standing there, with feelings he wasn’t sure how to put into words, and a potent sense of dread.

Zatanna felt a little dizzy. This was a lot of portaling around for one night, er, morning. She checked her phone. Four past eight, London time. Well, demonic wizards are early risers, right? Time for a house call. Once again, she stepped out of a phone booth and into a grimy alley. This time it smelled like weed instead of piss, though. There was a faint morning light, and as Zatanna turned her gaze towards the horizon, she saw some brushings of orange swept across the sky.

Zatanna made her way across the street, passing by a group of teenagers loudly laughing. The cities were starting to blur together: damp streets, a chill in the air biting at her neck, people out despite the hour. But London had a different feel to it, the houses were shaped differently, and even in this poorer neighborhood there were still some pretty yards. As if the city wanted to spite her, she passed by a brick wall with some rather vulgar graffiti. Well, maybe that was just some cultural vibrancy.

According to Batman’s (slightly creepy) file, Constantine lived right off Blake's Road. That was convenient, because the League's zeta tube was in that same neighborhood, Peckham. Looking at a nearby street sign, Zatanna found she was a couple of blocks away.

Zatanna walked through the city, feeling slightly unsafe. There were groups of people dotting the neighborhood, some going to work, some clearly inebriated, some looking at her dangerously. There were neon lights over record shops, and yellowing windows peering into pubs, and she swore she saw a face staring out at her from a small, dusty bookshop -- but when Zatanna went back for a closer look, the shop was gone. She shuddered again, and kept walking, this time passing by a coffee shop that had clearly been built in the last few years. Someone was peeing on the front door, and Zatanna quickened her pace.

Eventually, she made it to what was allegedly the home address of one John Constantine. The house was just off the main road, squeezed between a meat shop and a bigger building, maybe a small apartment complex. There was a yellowing yard, and a no car out front. Maybe he isn’t home, Zatanna thought.

She walked across the short yard, and about halfway through her boot crunched on something. She lifted her foot and saw a tiny skull on the ground.

“What the –” Zatanna stooped for a closer look. It looked like it was from an animal of some kind, but not one that she recognized. She looked to her left, where a single tree had been planted, clearly long ago. It was skinny, decrepit, and its limbs stretched high up in the air. Its bark was smooth, and she saw tiny engravings all over it.

Sigils, she thought. Some she recognized, and others may as well have been meaningless scribbles. Zatanna reached out a single hand, entranced. Where had she seen this one before…? Her fingertip neared the pale trunk; she was a moment away from touching it when she heard a voice and jumped.

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you.” The voice was male, with a strong British accent. 

Zatanna turned around and saw a man silhouetted against the beginnings of the day, standing in the sidewalk and lighting a cigarette. He had scruffy blond hair and needed a shave. But that wasn’t what she noticed. Zatanna looked at him and saw only his battered, brown trench coat, her old memory calling out to her.

The man took a drag from his cigarette as Zatanna approached him.

“John Constantine?”

He looked wearily at her in response. “At your service, lady,” he said. Was this man drunk?

“Rebos pu,” Zatanna said dryly. Constantine’s demeanor changed; he straightened up a bit.

“Hey, what the fuck, mate? I was enjoying being drunk, thank you very much,” he said indignantly. He took a closer look at her, flicking cigarette ash on the pavement. “Logomancy….”

“My name is Zatanna Zatara,” she said, watching carefully. He showed no reaction to her family name. “I need your help.”

“Alright,” Constantine sighed. “But you’re going to have to get me drunk again.”

 

---

 

They were seated in a pub with low lighting and a masculine musk of loneliness. Constantine had insisted Zatanna take the booth, but she suspected this had little to do with chivalry.            

Zatanna had politely refused a drink, not because of her age, because of the subtle power play. Also, she did not have an ID.

“Not old enough?” Constantine said as the server walked away.                 

“Not stupid enough,” she replied.

Constantine pulled a squished pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter from his coat pocket.

“That’s not very fun. And if you’re here for the reasons I think you are, I’d recommend alcohol. Or weed, if that’s what you’re into.”

“And what are the reasons you think I’m here for, exactly?” Zatanna said sharply, leaning forward.

Constantine took a drag, embodying dispassion. “Why don’t you tell me, sweetheart?”

Zatanna almost scoffed. How to broach this conversation? She had seen the sigils in his yard; he was clearly a magic user of some kind. She glanced around her. There was a large man seated at the bar, nursing a pint, and a dark woman on the far side of the pub. A thin, pale man wearing black was behind the bar mixing something.

“I need you to help me with something… chaotic.” Once again, Constantine showed no reaction to her words. He just sat there, smoking calmly.

“I want to tap into Nabu’s power,” she lied, giving up on subtlety. It was similar enough to her true intentions. And all Zatanna needed from him was some help with a ritual; she couldn’t do it alone – there was some question of how powerful she was in contrast to a Lord of Order’s host, and rituals weren’t exactly her specialty.

Constantine coughed. The server returned with his pint. Constantine mumbled a thanks and took a sip. Finally, he looked at Zatanna, who met his gaze with a kind of expectancy.

“Well?”

“Well, I think you’re sodding stupid.” He laughed. “What could you possibly need all that power for?”

“That’s none of your concern,” Zatanna said smoothly. “And I would make it up to you.”

“Make what up to me, huh? You’ve haven’t said mum about what you want me to do!”

He had a point. And a scent; Constantine reeked of nicotine and sadness.

“I… I need your help with a ritual. Something to call on the power of Nabu. I’m not… rituals aren’t my strong suit. And I need a partner. Your reputation precedes you. Seemed smart to call in a fellow magician before I summoned something to help instead.”

Constantine sat there, drinking his drink and smoking his smoke. He smushed the butt of his cigarette down on the table, looking up at her.

“If I do this, if, I need something in return.” His tone had shifted. It took on an edge, a seriousness.

Zatanna was willing to do whatever it took, but she knew she couldn’t trust this man. Not just because her dad or Batman didn’t like him, because she could feel the danger radiating off of him. He had the magical aura she had learned to look for, and it didn’t read as something positive; it was closer to something she had seen in a Lord of Chaos, or a demon, but weaker. And it wasn’t just that aura, it was something about the way he carried himself, the way he chose his words. Zatanna could tell that he was a man who had nothing to lose. She had gotten this feeling before, from the kind of men who’d bash your skull in, break your arm because you looked at them funny. She needed him, but she couldn’t trust him.

“And what would that be?”

Constantine smirked; did he already know that Zatanna would do anything for his help?

“Well, really, it’s to help you, honestly. I’m missing a possession.” He paused, thinking, before correcting himself. “Missing may not be the right word, as I know where it is, but the soul of a demon is guarding it. You could use my help? Mate, I could use yours.”

Constantine looked her up and down, and Zatanna added another reason he made her uncomfortable to her mental list. A demon, he said? No, the soul of a demon. Zatanna wasn’t sure what the difference was, but she knew she could take it.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, mate,” Zatanna said.

“Cheers,” Constantine said, his mood instantly switching back to the something closer to levity he had previously shown. He downed the rest of his beer. “Right, then, off we go.”

 

---

 

The two magicians stood in a grassy park. The morning light was getting stronger now, and Zatanna felt the weight of her sleeplessness beginning to set in. She was tired, but not able to sleep. Insomnia’s a bitch, Zatanna thought.

“So where is this missing item?”

“I need you to find the Orb of Atlantis. I have a good ritual in mind, but we need the Orb for it. So, you’re welcome for that.”

Right. Condescension aside, Zatanna was familiar with the Orb of Atlantis. It was a ceremonial artifact, one of the few that was able to tap into all kinds of magic at once. The Atlanteans had no idea where it came from, and it had gone missing decades ago.

“So, let me get this straight,” Zatanna said. “You somehow came across one of the most important talismans in magical history –”

“Yep.”

“—and lost it somehow –”

“Correct again.”

“—and also unleashed a demon in its vicinity, making it impossible for you to retrieve?”

“Ooh, almost!” Constantine said, as though he was a professor teaching an overeager student. “It was actually the soul of a demon, and it wasn’t really my fault, strictly speaking.”

“Right, ok, so much better. Both of those things make me so eager to help you.”

Constantine shrugged. “You don’t have to be eager. Actually, you don’t even have to help. My understanding is that this is an exchange of services.”

Zatanna sighed. “Where is this Orb again?”

Constantine lit a smoke and offered the pack to Zatanna.

“My House.”

Zatanna looked around. The two magicians were standing in an open field, with some trees and a lake on the far edges of their vision. Down a path to their left, a woman was jogging with her dog.

“I saw your house, it is not in Peckham Rye Park.” 

Constantine held up a finger. “Look again.”

Zatanna turned back, and there it was: an old house, vastly different from the one she had seen earlier. It was Victorian, and painted a dark shade of purple. There were at least three stories, and it was in a state of disrepair. The windows were cracked, shingles slipping off, the wide porch was missing planks of wood. It sat in the previously empty park.

Constantine smirked. “This is the House of Mystery. Belongs to me, and right now there’s a demon sleeping in my master bedroom.”

Zatanna swallowed, refusing to be shocked by his magic.

“Right, then, get a move on, love.”

She took a step forward, then froze. “Is there anything I should know about your haunted house?”

He smiled. “She’ll probably kill you.”

Zatanna kept moving, creeping up the stairs of the patio. She put her hand on the door and took one last look at the world: The rich green of the grass, the sun taking its place in the sky, and the man in the beat-up trench coat.

Might as well die for a good cause, she thought.

Zatanna pulled the handle and took her first step into the House of Mystery.

Notes:

thanks for reading! next part is prolly up on Friday or Saturday <3

Chapter 2: big nothing

Summary:

Zatanna explores real estate opportunities.

Notes:

this chapters a little edgier than the last, and there's a lot more action, too! I meant to have this up last weekend, but I do have a life outside of ao3, and also a migraine, and also like no hits on this fic so whatever lol

thanks for reading <333

It was pitch black, and the only thing Zatanna could hear was her breathing.

“Thgil,” she said, and a silver orb appeared, floating by her head and casting a circle of light on her surroundings. She appeared to be standing in the hall of an old house; it looked just as Zatanna had imagined it would. It was a rather cramped room with an empty coat rack on one side and a table in the other. The hardwood floors were scuffed and cracked in some places, and they continued in a long path forwards: the rest of the hall loomed before the antechamber she stood in.

“Here goes nothing,” she muttered, taking her first step forward. It was as though Zatanna had dunked herself underwater: a cold awakening, a dulling of the senses. But she was totally dry, and the change was infinitesimal. She kept walking, her sneakers treading the threadbare carpet… had that been there before? It was a faded purple and had occasional patchworks and holes and it was purple and it kept going and it was faded and had holes and it kept going and how long had she been walking through the same hall? Zatanna paused, trying to take stock of where she was. She turned around, and the antechamber was stretched far behind her. In front of her, the hall continued looming. Weird. Zatanna kept walking, going quicker now. She broke into a jog; nothing changed, and she switched to a sprint before abruptly stopping. This is fucking stupid, she thought.

Zatanna turned to the green wallpaper.

“Dellortnoc noisolpxe!” she said. The wall burst into flames in front of her, and subsided. The wallpaper remained untouched. Ok, fine.

“Nepo a eloh!” The wall seemed to bend at the corner of her vision before snapping back. The wallpaper remained untouched, green as ever.

“Etaerc a rood!” she cried, stumped, but once again there was no change to the patterned wall.

Zatanna’s mind spun as she looked around, her spells rendered useless. There was a mirror behind her, had that always been there? Or had she jumped straight to casting spells? The mirror was dusty and had a gray sheen to it. Zatanna drew closer. The distance between them was closing, she was getting nearer and nearer to—

What was that?

Zatanna jumped back. She thought she had saw—it didn’t matter. Some girl, some spirit, some haunting. The House wanted to have its fun with her, clearly, but Zatanna was in no mood for games. She grabbed the mirror, pulling on its place on the wall. It didn’t budge.

Then she had a thought. A stupid one, really.

“Nepo,” Zatanna said to the mirror.

Nothing happened.

Damn.

She reached out a hand to touch the mirror and flinched when her finger actually sunk into it. Perhaps her spell had been effective, or perhaps the answer had been in front of her all along. Zatanna tried to withdraw, but she realized she couldn’t pull her finger out. She felt a kind of wetness on the other side, the fingertip in the mirror acquiring a dewiness.

Well, what was she to do? She couldn’t go forwards or backwards; the hall was endless.

Zatanna plunged the rest of her arm into the mirror, her head and shoulders following suit. She looked around as the rest of her body tumbled into the room. Zatanna appeared to be standing in some sort of drawing room. There were some chairs that had once been beautiful in the middle of the room, and a dainty table off to the side; dolls adorned almost every surface.  With a shiver, she realized it was a tea party, and not just a regular afternoon tea, but for a children’s play time.

A wet droplet fell on her head and she looked up. There was a fissure in the ceiling and – drip! – was that blood? Zatanna looked down at her hand. The fingertip, the first one through the mirror, had redness on it. She spun around to where she had entered the room, but nothing was there: there was no mirror anymore.

It was only Zatanna and the dolls.

She wiped her hand on her jeans. Well, at least there was better lighting in this room; gas lamps decorated the small table and the pale walls.

Zatanna stepped carefully across the room, avoiding treading on any of the porcelain dolls. God, why were there so many? Pale and cracked and eyes askew, they gazed at her like dead children. And this room was so cold… Zatanna felt as though no soul had been in here for years, like all joy had abandoned the dolls’ cold embrace. She realized that there was no door out, or even a window.

Zatanna was behind one of the chairs now, standing by a pool of blood. Strange, the dropping fissure of blood in the ceiling was yards away, yet a crusty pile of the stuff lay all the way over here, an island in a sea of dolls. Zatanna knelt down to get a closer look. The blood had an unholy smell, a smell that pulled on the edge of her memory.

But the demon couldn't be in this room. It would be guarding the Orb, the reason she was here. Zatanna’s job was simple: find the demon, get the orb – possibly exorcise or destroy demon while doing it – and get the fuck out. Simple. Easy.

All I need to do was find the monster from Hell, and I'll get my dad back.

At least it seemed to have left a trail, and judging by the strange blood it had been in this room recently, and had somehow been on the ceiling, right over there… Zatanna looked over to where the fissure of blood had been – she could have sworn it had been right there! Disappeared, just like that mirror.

Zatanna took another step forwards towards where the fissure had been when she heard a crack. She lifted her foot and saw that in her carelessness she had tread on a doll’s porcelain head. She smelled sulfur in the air, and another scent. The one she had noticed earlier.

Zatanna smelled the blood of a demon.

There was a thin layer of it coating the floor now, and it was rising at a dizzying rate. It had come from nowhere, but the redness had already covered the sole of her sneaker. Zatanna stepped backwards, crushing another doll head. The blood began to fill the room even quicker now. Think, think, think.

She ran to the walls, stepping on more dolls, as the warm blood began to creep up her calf. No doors, no windows, no mirrors. There was one painting; Zatanna grabbed it and shook it. It came off the wall normally, and she almost sobbed. Shreds of porcelain from the antique dolls floated through the blood; and even though Zatanna was careful not to step on any more dolls, the blood still rose. It was waist length now, and the largest doll was beginning to float. Zatanna grabbed it and its glassy eyes flashed red.

It reached out an arm and grabbed her throat, the tiny hand lengthening into three claws. Zatanna gasped as it shifted into something larger, more animal like. It had three limbs: two arms now choking her, and a third one lower down. It was a grayish color, and the eyes were barely changed from its doll form: glassy and blank and now a dirty red color.

Zatanna’s air became restricted and she saw the creature’s tail thrash with joy. Her breath was far from her body, her mind growing fuzzy. She couldn’t find words, forwards or backwards.

Zatanna spun her hands around the blood, which had reached her shoulders. Her hair was spilling outwards in the red, it was thick and heavy and beginning to sink. Her hand found a shard of ceramic in the blood. She gripped it, feeling it bite into her skin, and swung her arm: she cut the porcelain right into the milky eye of the monster; it released Zatanna, who kicked away as though she was in a pool. Zatanna floated by the wall, the thick redness surrounding her; she watched the creature spin around, the shard still stabbed deep into its eye.

She caught her breath, gasping, and cried “Erif!”

At her mystic command, the creature exploded in flames.

The blood was at Zatanna’s chin now, but the creature was floating above it, a yard away, and skittering about like a spider on water. It plunged into the blood. Zatanna stood on her tippy toes, keeping her face above the thick liquid. It was warm, as though the blood had spurted right out of a living thing, as though the heart was still trying to pump the blood rising through that room. 

Suddenly, she spied its tail, mere feet away. Zatanna was running out of time, what to cast? She didn’t have time, she was running out of air, how could she save herself? The tail was getting nearer and nearer, the monster got closer, quicker and quicker.

“Ezeerf!” Zatanna screamed. Bubbles ran up by its tail, a yard away, but the monster didn’t move. She panted as the blood ran up the bottom of her mouth; she spat and pushed off the ground, swallowing a deep breath.

Zatanna kicked away from the monster, towards the center of the room. This was it. She had frozen the monster underwater to drown, and now she would drown too. There was blood not just on her hands, it was all over her body, and it would be in her lungs soon, too.

Zatanna felt a strange stirring sensation in her gut. I must be out of air.

Her vision was dark.

Her feet spun.

She was spinning.

She was swirling around and around and around and around and— “oof!”

Zatanna nursed her hip. She had likely bruised it in the fall, but from where? She looked up, and saw a trickle of blood from the ceiling… a drainage of some kind? The dripping looked like the same fissure she had seen in that doll room.

The dolls. Oh my God.

Zatanna would never look at Barbie the same way.

She took stock of which room she was in now, standing up and feeling the weight of the blood on her clothes. Ugh, deal with this first.

“Naelc,” she said.

Nothing happened.

“Oh, hell no, not this again,” Zatanna groaned. Why was her magic on the fritz? It had to be this House, this room. But she’d be damned if this place was going to take her power from her. She strode through the rows of shelves, passing by books and books and books and more books. The room reeked of old. Old paper, old wood, mothballs and mold. Zatanna barely had time to process the creature she had just seen; was that the soul of the demon that Constantine had mentioned? And his last words to her, he had told Zatanna that “she” would kill her, Zatanna. Was the demon – or, soul of a demon, apparently – a female? Since when did that matter? Demons couldn’t procreate, as far as Zatanna knew; she had believed them to be inhuman, and therefore beyond gender in some way.

Her hand thrummed with pain, and Zatanna took a closer look. She had thought that the ceramic used to stab the monster had merely nicked her, but she saw an open gash on the palm of her hand. It bit into her, sending sharp spirals of hurt through her fingers.

“Egadnab,” Zatanna said, before realizing that her magic still hadn’t worked in this room. Shit.

She had made it to the end of the room – which seemed to be a library of some kind. There was an empty fireplace and a squishy armchair. The armchair and its nearby table seemed in good standing, a stark contrast to the rest of the disrepaired House. Zatanna walked over to the open book sitting on the side table.

The page was blank.

Zatanna picked up the dusty red book, began flipping through it.

Blank, nothing, all of it, empty.

She ran over to the shelves as her clothes began to dry and crust. Zatanna grabbed a random book, a dark blue cover. She tore through the blank pages. Again and again, Zatanna seized at books and found nothing within.

What the hell? What was this room for?

She walked away from the mess of books she had caused. Someone had been here recently. The armchair was new, and the book had clearly been leafed through. But why had someone chosen to look through an empty book? There had to be some kind of way to access the writing. Zatanna shook her head, she didn’t have time for this. Her job was simple: find the demon and the Orb and get out. Zatanna wasn’t there to solve the House’s mysteries.

Leave it to Constantine. It’s his House.

But really, what was she supposed to do? There was no way out, as far as Zatanna could tell, so she continued her investigation of the room. She had found nothing in the shelves or books, and began searching the plushy red armchair. Nothing in the cushions or underneath. The table seemed normal; it even still had a price tag stickered on the underside. In fact, everything was too normal: this was a magic house, yet this library was filled with ordinary books, and furniture from Ikea.

The fireplace was marble and secure: it was a dark gray, with carvings over the mantle, and had not a single crack. Zatanna drew closer and stooped down.

There wasn’t a single log of wood in the hearth. She couldn’t smell any smoke, but there was something else.

Sulfur.

The demon had been there, right in the hearth.

It was faint, but once Zatanna noticed it, she couldn’t unnotice it. Zatanna put her hands on either side of the fireplace, pushing, but it didn’t budge. Magic was pointless, her spells wouldn’t work.

This whole room was so odd: books that you couldn’t access, spells that wouldn’t work… it was almost as though Magic itself was forbidden in this room. But what if… what if those books were collections of magic, just not to be seen by an ordinary person, kept even from other magicians?

Zatanna mind ran furiously. The demon had to have been here, had to have used the hearth. Maybe as a portal, or for heat. Could the demon have been reading these books? Zatanna had imagined the demon as a monster, like the one she had fought in the upper room; she had only ever dealt with nonverbal but extremely violent demons. But she knew of the tricksters, the ones who outsmarted you and dragged you to hell, the demons of Biblical proportions. Those were the ones her father had warned her about. He had told her, don’t mess with them, you can’t outsmart a demon. He had warned her that demons were more powerful than humans, and that you can’t beat them, you just can’t. But you could exorcise them, if you were strong enough, magical enough. Stupid enough.

I need my suit, Zatanna thought. Her superhero costume concealed magical tools, occult odds and ends. The things she’d need to fight a demon. In the House, the only way Zatanna could access her suit would be through magic, and that was a challenge in and of itself.

She shivered, pulling her coat tighter around herself. This room was so cold, colder than the others. At first Zatanna had thought it was her imagination, the wetness of the blood making her freeze. But that blood had caked, and Zatanna only felt worse. Perhaps there was a reason for a hearth in this room… and maybe it had something to do with all those empty pages.

Zatanna patted the pockets of her jeans. Come on, come on….

Zatanna found it, the squished blue pack of cigarettes Constantine had given to her. Funny, she hadn’t remembered accepting it. She opened it and found four unfiltered cigarettes and – as she had hoped – the silver lighter.

Zatanna picked up the book she had thrown aside earlier. She grabbed it by the red cover and opened to the first page. She readied the lighter, flicking the top open. Zatanna lit it and held it over the front page.

Once again, just like all the other magic she had tried in this god forsaken place, nothing fucking happened. Was she just doomed to live here forever? In her frustration, Zatanna’s grip on the lighter slipped, and the flame touched the page. Zatanna impulsively dropped the book – the fire was quickly spreading – and it landed right in the bare fireplace.

Suddenly, the hearth roared to life merrily, and the red book hovered gently inside it. The room had a nice glow to it now, but it still felt oddly cold. Zatanna quickly picked up the lighter from the ground, closing it, and crept over to the marble fireplace. The book was untouched by the flames. It stood there as though it was waiting for her use. The fire called out to her, whispering. It beckoned to her. Those voices, they were getting louder. She stretched a hand out towards the flames. She was an inch away, maybe less, when she froze.

The fire didn’t feel hot. It wasn’t even warm; it had an iciness to it. Zatanna drew her hand away. She took a step back and realized that another book she had thrown aside earlier was changed.

The sprawled-out pages had letters on them.

Zatanna rushed over and picked it up. The writing was in Latin, and it was messy, too messy for her to read. She had read many tomes of mysticism in her time, but this resembled none of them. Zatanna looked at the cover and saw the words DIARY OF PIPER SANTIAGO neatly printed in English.

She dropped it and ran to the shelf, pulling books out.

DEMONOLOGY IN CELESTIAL PLANES.

Tearing to the first page, she read: “—if the fourth elemental charge has not yet reached its –”

Dropped it, found the next.

POTIONEERING: ESSENTIALS ON SHAPE-SHIFTING.

“—quarter cup of wolf blood, harvested midsummer should yield the results only if sought by—”

VARIOUSE MONSTERS, VOL. 1: DRAGONS AND OTHER FIRE BASED CREATURES.

“— of both Goode and Evile, despite what has contrarily been tolde by Variouses’ phrasing; as such –”

Zatanna snapped it shut, breathing heavily. This was the largest magically library she had ever seen, not even Atlantis had this much varied mystical knowledge. There was so much she could do, she could be so powerful, she could help so many more people – maybe even free her father from Fate. Maybe she wouldn’t even need the Orb.

That was when Zatanna realized, she had needed the fire to see the words, and maybe that was bound to her other problem with this room.

“Naelc!”

The blood remained on her. Ok, weird.

“Egnahc ym sehtolc otni ym emutsoc,” she cried.

Zatanna’s whole outfit was instantly replaced with her magician’s costume.

“Well, that’s a little better, at least,” she said, feeling the dried blood still on her face. Her white glove itched against her wounded hand, and Zatanna pulled both off. “Still, I wonder why the blood won’t go.”

“Egadnab,” Zatanna said, summoning gauze around her hand. “There we go.” She put both gloves in her pocket, which was – due to magic – far deeper than it seemed.

Now, how to leave this room?

“Dnif eht liart fo eht s’nomed luos!” she said.

There was a slight ringing in her ears, and she blinked. When Zatanna opened her eyes a moment later, she saw a slight purple stripe on the wood floor. Just a little one, just enough to indicate that the demon had been in this room for a long time recently, as evidenced by her locating spell.

She followed the trail, looking to where the fire held another haze of purple. So the fireplace was a portal, after all.

Zatanna picked up the pack of cigarettes, putting it in the same pocket as the lighter and her gloves. She stole a glance at the sprawling library. It really would be a waste...

No, she shouldn’t. It would be wrong: stealing from Constantine, plus the books could be housing spirits, or something similar. Zatanna had learned long ago not to accept just any magical book. It would be stupid to take one.

She cleared her throat. “Laever ruoy terces!”

There was a slight glow, and the fireplace spoke to her. Well, not literally: the spell Zatanna used made objects telepathically show their true use. She liked to illustrate it in a way that felt conversational, though. It made fighting evil spirits more interesting.

“I’m used as a key to this room, and the rest of the House. Because you lit me up you can now access the various magical objects in this room, along with magic itself.” The fireplace had a cute British accent.

Well, obviously, Zatanna thought.

The fireplace continued: “I’m also used as a physical key: meaning, I can transport you to any room of the House, as well as some regions of Hell, the latter being due to enchantments cast upon my hearth many years ago. Thank you!”

Oh.

Zatanna felt hesitant to touch the fire now; what if she took the wrong portal and ended up in a random circle of Hell instead of wherever the House’s demon was? Dante made escaping the Underworld seem easy, but Zatanna was in no rush to retrace his footsteps.

She paced around, thinking.

“I think I have it,” Zatanna said to herself. “Latrop.”

The fireplace opened its hearth widely, lengthening out as though it was a door. The fire grew taller too, and it now stood seven feet tall.

Zatanna swallowed.

She drew closer to the portal. She had no knowledge of what would come next, but she had to try. For her father.

This is all for you, dad, Zatanna thought.

She gritted her teeth and walked forward, pausing just before the cold fire. Impulsively, Zatanna ran over to the shelves and grabbed a book at random, not sure how long she had before the portal closed. She hurried back over, standing in front of the lengthened hearth.

Not for the first time that day, Zatanna stepped into a strange door without knowing what would come next.

It was freezing cold, like ice biting into her arms and face and she was thrown around, not really, but it felt like flying through the artic storms, not knowing what was happening, and what was happening? Zatanna steadied herself and tried to widen her stance, as though that would strengthen her. She knew instinctively that she had a split-second decision to make: she was being pulled in every direction at once, as though every molecule that made her was metal and being magnetized away. Zatanna couldn’t see anything outside of the blaze, but she was able to feel two things, separate from the rest. On one side, she felt a pain like she had never known, like it was the absence of all good. Like a knife of evil slicing her open. Not that one. On the other side, she felt – felt, not saw – the purple she knew came from her locating spell. Zatanna willed the portal towards it, using all of her force to come out far away from that evil. Her entire self was being crushed, forced together and tied up and stabbed with pokers and on fire and coughed up.

Zatanna stumbled out of another fireplace. She turned around as it quickly shrunk and disappeared.

Oh, God.

Bile, rising in her throat and threatening to explode everywhere. Zatanna straightened.

“Never again,” she coughed. “Never.”

The voice was deep and male.

“I’d recommend asking for directions next time. Fireplace is always happy to help.”

For a moment, Zatanna thought the tall man was Dick Grayson. His dark hair was slicked back, his charming blue eyes bore into her; He was wearing a black suit, and a blue button up that wasn’t fully buttoned up. Out of the corner of her eye they were the same, but when she focused on him she could see the differences. Darker hair. Something behind the eyes. A jawline that was perhaps too chiseled.

The man was standing a little ways across the room, holding a book. He was a yard or two away from a large bed, and right by a chair and table with tea set on it. The room smelled nice, like vanilla and chamomile tea.

It was slightly warm -- not quite stuffy -- but enough that Zatanna noticed the heat on the back of her neck.

“Yeah, ok,” Zatanna glanced behind her again. The stone wall had been replaced with a soothing, feminine wallpaper. She could swear she had seen something similar on her favorite home renovation show. Zatanna slid the small book she had stolen into her pocket. “And who are you?”

The man shut his book with a snap. “I’m the prisoner who lives here.”

Well, there’s the demon. 

“Right.” Zatanna began thinking. If she could just keep him talking --

“Who are you, though? It takes a lot to beat the demon that lives down there. Goodness knows I haven’t been able to.” The man laughed easily. It was charming, honestly, but Zatanna couldn’t get over the sense of danger she had. Where was she? A bedroom of the House? And that thing she had killed earlier… was that the soul of a demon John had mentioned?

Zatanna decided to play dumb. “What demon? Oh my God, are you ok?”

The man flinched at her words. He set whatever book he had been reading down on the table and rubbed his temples.

“Yes, the demon downstairs.” He laughed carelessly again. “It tends to attack visitors, kind of a pain in the ass. But, uh, so, you handled it?” The man smiled, and part of Zatanna wanted to blush. She could swear that was Dick’s smile. Except emotionally available, and standing in front of her in a nice suit.

“I think I scared it off. But you… you’re trapped here?”

The man’s eyes grew sad, his deep voice a wistful rasp. “Yes. I was tricked into living here by a very evil man. I have been... grounded, you could say.” He cleared his throat abruptly, a softness returning to his voice. “But my savior has arrived! I guess everything does happen for a reason." He began pouring from the kettle.

Trapped here? The House had lived up to its name; filled to the brim with fucking Mysteries, hot men and ugly creatures. Who’s to say it couldn’t have one good thing?

Zatanna stepped a little closer as the air got thicker. He extended a teacup made of fine china. She took it as the man sat on the bed, extending his hand. Zatanna joined him.

“What brings you to this rotting building, Zatanna?”

Zatanna stared at her tea, breathing in the intoxicating mix of chamomile and expensive cologne.

“I’m here to rescue my father. I need something that’s stored here.”

The bed shifted as he looked at her face. “I’m sure I can help with that.” His voice was confidant, sympathetic.

Could he? Her father was gone, practically dead, and her emotions were stronger than ever. They all came flooding through her in an instant, with an intensity she had never felt. It was grief, and it was love. Zatanna had so much love for the man who had left her life.

He put his hand on her face, and Zatanna’s gaze was drawn to his eyes, like a moth to a flame, a bug flying to close to the fire. He was so close. Zatanna breathed him in, his scent mingling with hers, his lips staring at hers. They were right by each other.

“You’re beautiful,” Dick said. He drew even closer, and Zatanna was frozen with longing. His face was right in front of hers. This was familiar... too familiar. Zatanna jumped, scaring Dick, no, not Dick. She slid off the bed; the teacup fell to the ground and shattered, but the liquid was gone.

Zatanna backed away.

“Yeah, nice try," she said, breathing heavily. "You were pretty close, too. Seducing me? God, I should’ve known you’d try that!”

The man recoiled a bit.

“Oh, did that hurt your feelings? I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry for hurting the feelings of a Goddamn fucking demon from Hell!” Zatanna yelled. Did he flinch again? What the hell?

“No, Zatanna,” the man began smoothly, as he stood from the bed.

“No, Lucifer, you dipshit! I never told you my name,” Zatanna said, beginning to pant as she readied her magic.

He paused.

“Huh. Shit.” The demon was speaking more to himself than Zatanna. “Well, I was right about the daddy issues, maybe….”

He snapped his fingers and Zatanna spun, it felt like her body was being thrown around the room. She opened her eyes, steadying herself, as she realized she was in a comfortable sitting room. It was like a therapist’s office had had a baby with her childhood bedroom: comfortable couches, shades of soft pink, plants.

Her father stood before her, but Zatanna didn’t fall for it this time.

“Fuck you,” she spat. “Elcric fo tlas!”

Blessed salt was summoned around her, forming a protective circle. For a moment, the room shifted: total darkness flashed in front of her eyes, a horned creature made of flames standing in front of her. The cozy room was back immediately, the illusion of her father in front of her.

“Zatanna, I’ve missed you,” the demon said in her father’s voice. He stretched his arms out, his eyes filling with tears.

“Get away from me!” she yelled.

The demon ignored her.

“Please, honey, I haven’t seen your face in so many years –”

“Shut up!” Zatanna cried, covering her ears.

The demon ignored her, drawing closer still. What was she supposed to do in response? The protective circle would hold against a demon, but then what? She had to get out of here. That bastard John Constantine knew that this would happen.

What had she said earlier to affect the demon? He had flinched as though she had slapped him. Was that his acting, or something more?

“I can’t wait to love you again!” the demon’s voice was getting modulated as he drew closer, the skin of her father was slipping off him.

Zatanna’s mind traced over their conversation. He was a creature of inherent evil. Demons and angels, chaos and order, evil and good. She knew what had offended him, what he had been unable to say.

“God! Oh my God!”

The demon’s skin reverberated, sagging even more. His voice dropped several octaves, gaining an griminess.

“ZATANNAAAAA!”

Invoking God seemed to piss the demon off. Could adding her magic to it help?

“Susej!”

Her father’s skin was stretched far across the room, as though it was getting physically difficult for the demon to keep walking in it. It was disgusting, the sulfuric scent was getting stronger, and Zatanna caught a glimpse of the hellishness inside it.

The room began to spin. Shit. He was messing with where they were again. But that meant –

Zatanna stood in a new room, her salt gone.

“Elcr—” Zatanna’s spell was cut short as a claw gripped her throat. She gasped for air, words lost in her chokes.

The demon’s horned head leered at her. It had no eyes, only a wide grin stretched across the head below its cattle-like horns. Its arms were long and skinny, and it had a tail not unlike the one the other monster had had downstairs.

The demon made a grumbling sound – perhaps in this form it couldn’t use its words, either. Zatanna’s brain began short-circuiting as she lost more and more air. The talons were digging into her neck; its skin was like sandpaper. The smell of sulfur was overwhelming, and Zatanna almost gagged despite her vulnerable position.

She flailed, smacking at the demon’s slimy arm. Its grin got wider, thousands of cracked, yellow teeth opening. Opening. The mouth was opening. Zatanna squirmed as she was forced closer to the ever-widening mouth, as rows and rows and rows of the drooling teeth were spread in front of her. She kicked out, making contact with the lips: her boot was thick enough to crack through some of the teeth, and the evil creature bit back immediately as it dropped her. Zatanna screamed as she felt her heel crunch under its jagged yellowness. She kicked again, her shoe sliding off; Zatanna was unfeeling as she crawled away rapidly, her throat still closed up.

They were back in the bedroom somehow. Her salt was gone, and she was right next to the small table that had once held chamomile tea. The room had once been filled with the alluring smell of vanilla, now it reeked of blood and sulfur.

Zatanna felt the slimy claw wrap around her shin and she sobbed, the skin on her hand ripping as she grabbed onto the small table.

The demon held her upside down, staring at the bleeding woman, and Zatanna swung the table upward; it shattered on the monster, and Zatanna felt herself get flung across the room, as though it was toying with her.

Yeah? Well, she’d give him something to play with.

“YLO—”

The demon flicked a claw and a sheet from the bed flew at her, wrapping itself around her head. Zatanna only saw blackness, the silk suffocating her. She ripped at it, clawing her cheek in the process and feeling her sharp nail. Zatanna kept tearing, as the sheet smoothened into a gag, wrapping itself around her mouth. It was too deep; Zatanna gagged on instinct as she struggled to catch her breath. Bleeding, her hair askew, her foot feeling like it was on fire, bandage on her bloodied hand slipping. Zatanna rubbed her sleeve across her face, wiping the drool and tears that had automatically formed, the crusted blood. She narrowed her eyes.

The demon crouched, as though ready to go at her again. She didn’t have time; instinct was key. The monster and the human stared at each other, sizing each other up, trying to read minds.

 Fuck it.

Zatanna dove at the scraps of table, and the demon pounced immediately. It had been waiting for this. It grabbed her around the waist, constricting like a python. Squeezing tighter, Zatanna cried out as she felt something crack. She tightened her grip around the strips of wood from the table she had seized: one was roughly seven inches, the other half that. Zatanna smashed them together perpendicularly, forming a cross. The demon’s grip haltered, more from shock than anything else, and Zatanna stabbed the jagged wood into its head. The demon made the first sound it had made in this form: screaming out, it dropped her to the ground again.

Zatanna crawled away, moving towards the bed, a foot from the monster. The monster ran over to the wall, shrieking and writhing. Zatanna swept her eyes around the area, looking for the mess she had made earlier.

The gag began to tighten uncomfortably; it squeezed tighter as Zatanna’s search grew desperate. She finally spied it: a shred of porcelain hiding under the bed from her teacup.

She grabbed it and moved her sleeve up. The demon crashed into the wall. Shit, move quicker. Zatanna had no time to brace herself, she swiped, slitting into her wrist. The blood puddled, and she dipped her finger into it. Her jaw was hurting, the gag was too tight; it was going to break something. Zatanna bloodied her finger again, going back to her magic.

She looked up. The demon had thrown the wood off and looked pissed. It was screaming, bloodcurdling, goosebumps on Zatanna’s neck. The sheet in her mouth tightened even more as it ran at her. But it was too late.

Zatanna snapped her fingers, her handiwork done.

Her blood spelled out three backwards words on the floor:

yLOh RETAw DoOLf

The demon could take her throat, but it would never take her voice; it would never remove her powerful words. Her magic was activated, and the room was bathed in water immediately. It rose quickly, and the moment the Holy Water touched the demon the monster froze, unable to move. It raised its head as though to scream, but it burst into flames, unable to move. The water kept rising, and Zatanna saw that the flames continued even underwater, though they did not spread to anything besides the creature’s limbs.

Zatanna ripped off her gag, throwing it aside. She cupped her hand over the cut on her wrist, afraid she had cut too deep. Her jaw still hurt from the sheet, but she had something to say.

“Alright, you disgusting fucking demon,” she said, coughing. “Let’s put you back in Hell now.”

Zatanna readied her stance. This spell was exceptionally difficult to pull off under the best circumstances, and she prayed that the room being filled with Holy Water at least made up for her injuries and exhaustion.

Zatanna closed her eyes and began casting her spell; she started levitating. She opened her now glowing eyes as she continued chanting, finishing her spell: “Ni enimon sitatinirT eatcnaS, orepmi ibit: ixe!”

The room was filled with a bright light as the demon screamed, runes and lines surrounding it, the Holy Water whirlpooling as a sucking sound rang through the room. A portal opened up beneath the demon, pulling him away, dragging the screaming monster back to Hell.

Zatanna collapsed onto the floor. The water ran over her body, and she lingered there, half asleep. The water level went down little by little, and Zatanna floated on her back, taking her rest.

When Zatanna came to she had no idea what time it was. Her head hurt, and her foot hurt, and her right hand and left wrist hurt, in fact, her whole body hurt. She had lost a lot of blood.

Zatanna immediately cleaned and bandaged her arm, knowing it was too late to stop a mark from forming. Next, she got to work on her foot: she had lost a shoe, and her heel was… fucked up, to say the least. She examined the tooth marks and holes. Shit. It was a faint shade of green; Zatanna needed real magical medical aid she wasn’t ready for. Instead, she sanitized and bandaged her foot, settling for now. She refreshed the bandage on her hand, cleaning the wound for the first time. Finally, she cast a spell to restore some of the blood she had lost.

Zatanna stood up, still beat-up and lightheaded, but a little better now.

Now what? The demon was vanquished. The gravity of her situation sunk in: had she just cast an exorcism spell? Exorcisms were only really done by priests, to cast evil spirits out of innocent objects and beings. But she had had to cast a spell to take the demon back to Hell; she had followed up on her side of John’s deal.

He better hold up his side.

Now all Zatanna had to do was find the Orb.

“Ekat em ot eht brO fo sitnaltA,” she said.

Zatanna felt a stirring in her gut; she knew the way. Zatanna walked over to a wall. She stretched a hand out, and the House responded. The wall opened up and revealed a small room. Somehow, she could instantly tell this little room was far older than the rest of the House. The room was less than a yard across and built of stone, freezing cold and reeking of centuries past.

Fleetingly, Zatanna wondered who had built this House, and just how old it was. Brushing that thought aside, she saw a small wooden chest. She popped the latch, pulled it open.

A green sphere lay shrouded in velvet. It was smaller than Zatanna expected; it fit in the palm of her hand. Despite its size, Zatanna felt the power it held. It was quiet, but it was nonetheless more than able to help her with her task.

Zatanna was going to get her father back.

Notes:

FINAL CHAPTER OUT BY THE END OF THE WEEK! not to be mr beast core but like subscriiiiiiiiiibe if u wanna see that :3

thanks for reading !!

Chapter 3: speed trials

Summary:

Zatanna performs a finale.

Notes:

this might be my favorite chapter of the whole fic tbh. sorry for the late update!

The sky was painted orange, the last of the day beginning to glow as the sun turned tail on the earth.

Zatanna stumbled out of the door, flinging it open and wincing against the sunlight. It was too bright outside, what time was it? And her foot, her ribs… her fresh wounds still burnt.

Him.

John fucking Constantine.

That bastard did not give one single shit about her; he used her for her magic. If Zatanna had died in there he wouldn’t have cared.

Zatanna stumbled down the steps, falling a little as she aggressively limped towards the chain-smoking man in the trench coat.

He looked surprised. “Gio—”

Smack!

“What the fuck, Constantine! Nothing to say? Nothing to help me in there? You said there was one demon, not all of Satan's extended family!”

Zatanna caught her breath. Constantine stood there, still in shock at the red mark imprinted on his cheek. He touched it gingerly and rubbed his eyes. She cut quite a violent figure: dried blood all over her body and torn magician’s costume, bandages on almost every limb, dark hair askew and the look of a serial killer in her eyes.

“I did tell you she would try to kill you, didn’t I?”

What? 

“’She’… you were talking about the House?”

Constantine shrugged.

“What?” Zatanna said, regaining steam. “That’s not any better! You—you piece of scum! Fucking….”

“Sorry, love, but let’s try to stay on task now, shall we?” Constantine said, like it was simple. A minor miscommunication. “Now, were you able to get it?”

Zatanna cocked an eyebrow and crossed her arms.

“What kind of question is that?”

Constantine coughed. Zatanna ignored his hint, dryly chalking it up to his years of cigarettes.

“And?”

“And?”

“The Orb, Zatanna,” Constantine said. “Where is it?”

“On my person.” Zatanna’s leg shook from her injuries. “You’re not getting it until I’m able to give myself proper medical attention. I trust you about as far as I can throw you.”

Constantine sighed. He was a trickster, a devious little fucker. Surely, he was biding his time. Part of Zatanna hoped he would try to steal it from her, just so she could show his pasty ass up in a magical duel.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “Shall we?”

 

---

 

Zatanna sat on his grimy green couch. She had been resistant to entering his house (given what happened the last time that she tried that) but he had gone first, and her foot really did hurt. Her muscles were tensed as she sat there awkwardly, years of nicotine hovering in the air. However, Zatanna felt only a very weak magical pulse from the building: it had protections, sure, but it was nowhere near the level of the Tower of Fate, or the House, or even the man himself.

Constantine joined her on the couch.

“Beer, or…,” he mumbled.

“I’m good,” Zatanna said stiffly.

“Right, too young.”

“No, too smart, remember?”

Constantine patted the med kit he had brought over. He opened it, revealing normal things, such as gauze and Hello Kitty band-aids, as well as supernatural: potions, herbs, crystals.

“If you need anything…” he trailed off. He was so awkward when trying to be kind.

“I’m good, thanks.”

Zatanna cast a few spells, replacing her wrist bandage with a more magical, cleaner one, and applying smaller ones to her other various wounds. She fixed up her hand – the wound wasn’t as deep as she had feared, thank God – and slapped a bandage on, just in case. She inspected her heel where the demon had bitten her and cast protective enchantments on it. There was no residual Black Magic, so she wasn’t in any immediate danger: it had become a normal wound. Well, mostly normal – how many people got mauled by devils? Zatanna still had a chunk of her foot missing, so she reached into her bottomless pocket and retrieved a potion.

Zatanna choked it down; it tasted of salt and clay, and the consistency alone made her gag. It would do its job though, her bone, flesh, and skin would grow back within hours, helping to restore whatever happened to her ribs as well. She still had some time before the pain kicked in, so Zatanna summoned a fresh bandage and drank another potion, this one to help restore her energy.

She stood up.

“Egnahc otni a wen emutsoc,” Zatanna said, making her battered suit a fresh one, complete with new shoes. Most of the blood was gone, but she still felt like she needed a long shower.

Constantine looked her up and down as she strode past him into his cramped kitchen.

“Look at that. Beautiful.”

“Do you have any water?”

The weak evening sun cast long yellow shadows across the sticky countertops.

“Nothing I feel safe drinking,” Constantine replied. “Did you need a bite?”

Zatanna chewed her lip. “Fine. We’ll make it quick, though, I want to get started immediately.”

Constantine’s idea of quick was what he called “takeaway from his favorite chicken shop.” It got the job done, and the shadows were beginning to stretch even further, the sun escaping from the two magicians.

Zatanna washed her hands of the chicken grease.

“This ritual… you said it takes place at night?”

“Correct,” Constantine said, licking his finger. “We’ll head back to the park – not the House, don’t worry – and throw up some sigils, light some candles, do some chanting. Calling on the Orb’s power. Standard stuff. Invoking the Lords of Chaos and Order, cause how else will we destroy one?” He shrugged.

Zatanna had come clean. Despite her anger, she needed his help. Before she had lied about her true attempts, claiming she just wanted some of Nabu’s power. When he started to genuinely help with picking a ritual, she switched up. Magical safety reasons were her primary motivations for this; Zatanna felt very little guilt over her lie considering his actions.

But that was in the past. He hadn’t apologized, but what was the point in fighting about it? Zatanna needed him, whether she liked it or not, so she might as well be civil with the guy.

“Right.”

Zatanna was beginning to feel uneasy. This was her decision. She wanted to destroy the Helmet of Fate, it was the only way to free her father. Or at least that was what she believed. And it wouldn’t be killing Nabu, the Lord of Order who lived in the Helmet; he could find another outlet. Another slave. Another person to treat like a possession.

Host… what a disgusting word. Zatanna tried to steady herself. If she knew this was the right thing then why did that sick feeling in her chest remain? Why was it putting roots down, festering? It had to be John Constantine. The man sitting across from her, eating his fried chicken and drinking his disgusting combination of Sprite and vodka. He had used her to get the Orb of Atlantis, why wouldn’t he have even deeper ulterior motive? Despite their truce Zatanna still felt a deep mistrust of him. This was their deal: use the Orb to banish Nabu – a two-person ritual using John’s artifact retrieved by Zatanna – and Constantine gets to walk away with his stolen property. In the grand scheme of things, this was nothing new – who could have predicted the Brit would end up with an artifact stolen from another culture?

But what did it say about Zatanna? Removing her father from Doctor Fate… did her father even want that? Surely, he did. Surely, he wanted more time with his daughter. His daughter who had stupidly gotten him stolen away from her by a primordial being of the universe. God, this was all so messed up.

But what else could Zatanna do? She saw only the path forward. She would make an ally of the scummy magician, for now. He was using her, and she would use him, like all good business deals. Zatanna would cast the spell with his assistance and… and get her father back. Yes, this was who it was all for. She was going to get him back home.

Zatanna was ready to save her father’s life.

If only for herself.

 

---

 

Zatanna stood in the grass. The sky was dark and the air freezing; she was glad her costume was enchanted against the harsh autumn weather. A cry of thunder rang from across the park. Next to her was John Constantine, the man of the hour. He had lugged a duffel bag with him and was tossing it onto the dry grass.

Zatanna checked the time. Eleven forty-five pm. The witching hour drew near.

She helped Constantine with his supplies. Rope. Candles. Painted rocks. It was all so strange. This was beginning to feel less like normal sorcery, and more in the vein of Dark Magic. Constantine was unspooling the rope when she spoke.

“John? How exactly was this ritual going to work again?”

He kept working, beginning to splay the length of rope out in a pattern on the ground. “I already told you, love. Didn’t you learn about rituals in school? We have to do it in this spot, but the chalk or paint or blood won’t work on the grass, and this rope is enchanted, anyways.”

“Right, right,” Zatanna paused. “But…”

“Listen, sweetheart,” John said, straightening up. “There’s going to be some edgy shit. If you don’t like that you can go. Leave the Orb, fuck if I care. I don’t want to do this, but you’re the one who wanted to destroy the Helmet of Fate.”

His breath stank of cigarettes and chicken. But he wasn’t wrong. Zatanna had elected to do this, and it was too late to back out now.

She nodded.

“Now let’s hurry, huh? I don’t want some bloody wanker coming along and asking what all this is, alright?”

The two magicians got to work; Zatanna helped him set the rope up in a circular formation. The grass was short, and crisp from the autumn weather. They scattered candles and rocks around the ring of rope they created, making two more small circles diagonal from each other, each ringed with salt.

Zatanna was placing the final rock (creating a sharp line down the center of the circular pattern the rope made) when she saw Constantine straighten up. He beckoned her. She dimly noticed that, for once, he wasn’t smoking. He was fidgeting a little, but calmed his nerves when Zatanna drew closer, like he had put a mask on. His hands were deep in his coat pockets.

Constantine pointed at the very center of the rope.

“Orb goes there,” he mumbled.

Zatanna walked over to where he had pointed, retrieving the Orb from her pocket and rolling it in her palm. Constantine had ripped up the grass, leaving a patch of dirt. In that tiny clearing he had drawn a symbol. It had five points, like a star, but it was pointing upside down. There was a small splattering of something on it, like raindrops – but that couldn’t be.

She faced Constantine.

“Is there a reason you’re putting blood on a pentagram?” Zatanna said, keeping her voice steady.

Constantine shrugged, chewing on a cigarette he couldn’t light.

“The usual, I imagine.”

“No thanks, I’m not messing with that hellish shit after what you just put me thr—”

Constantine lunged, kicking the Orb from her hand and onto the ground. He scrambled to grab it, pushing Zatanna off of him.

“What the h—”

Constantine tutted, holding up the Orb.

“Sorry, love. It’s what we have to do.” He placed it on the pentagram.

The air shifted.

It grew colder.

Zatanna grabbed at the Orb, but it stung her hand, refusing to move.

“Constantine, I swear to God.”

“I warned you,” he replied calmly, stepping away and taking his place amongst one of the piles of rocks. “And I’d recommend taking your place. You don’t want to leave that protective circle during the ritual.”

Zatanna breathed heavily. Fuck. There was another peal of thunder, closer this time.

She walked slowly to her place. God, she was so stupid. Placing eighteen rocks in a circle – three groups of six – for Constantine, and eighteen candles – three groups of six – in a circle for her, both surrounded by exorcised salt… she was so fucking stupid. It was so obviously a demonic ritual.

But wasn’t it worth it? Didn’t she want her father back? Yes, of course, but was calling on a devil worth it? And all this assuming Constantine wouldn’t trick her somehow.

Fuck.

“I did tell you about this in advance, darling, I just used… selective language,” Constantine said, louder than the wind that came from nowhere.

“Shut up, Constantine,” Zatanna said tersely.

“Are you ready?”

The ritual consisted of two magicians, each speaking their part of the long spell. One incantation calling on the power, directing it, the other grounding the ceremony in the material realm. The latter was presumably protecting both souls while the former laid her everything on the line. The latter should theoretically be trustworthy. Zatanna didn’t have that. She would be relying on Constantine for her protection.

She took a deep breath.

“Let’s do it,” Zatanna said.

Both magicians sunk into cross legged positions in their respective protective circles. Zatanna splayed her hands out after pulling her blindfold on, making sure that Constantine was doing the same.

Fuck it.

She was going to see her father before the sun rose. Face to face.

Zatanna started chanting. She began by speaking Atlantean, drawing from the power of the Orb of Atlantis. Then she shifted into English, using her signature Logomancy techniques, speaking the words backwards. A few yards away, she heard Constantine chanting as well, speaking Latin in rhythmic intervals. Zatanna had been wondering if he had magical abilities at all, and hearing him chant should have reassured her.

But it didn’t.

Zatanna didn’t really notice him at all. Her senses were being dulled, her eyesight blinded, her ears overwhelmed by the sound of the wind. All she could feel was the pit of magic stirring throughout her belly, rising and falling against the grain of her breath. It was different than what she was used to. Uncomfortable. It was freezing cold and burning heat all at once, it was feeding on her emotions, it was pain itself.

The semi-trance fell over Zatanna, and she barely felt her body begin to rise, as the ritual attacked her gravity. 

Zatanna’s voice grew louder, raspier as she continued her chanting, the spell gaining strength. Her body lengthened out, she was standing in the air now, and her blindfold was ripped off by the coarse wind. The spell was reaching a plateau, and the initial segment was wrapping up.

Eventually, they would see Nabu. They might see the Helmet, or a manifestation through his Ankhs.

But when Zatanna’s blindfold was torn off, she didn’t see any of that. The rope was glowing, that was not wholly unusual, though. Constantine was crouched low to the ground, clearly finishing up his chanting; this was also not unusual. What she hadn’t expected to see was the long streak of flame extending itself, parallel to the line of rocks that were just diagonal to her. It unfolded, creating a jagged half-circle separating Zatanna and Constantine.

Zatanna remained hovering slightly, her spellcasting done, in shock at what was taking place in front of her. Adrenaline pumped through her. Was this it? Fate? The cold feeling the magic gave her was familiar, but… but that was not from Nabu. Where had she felt this before?

The half circle of translucent flame shrank, drawing itself closer to where Constantine stood, on the other end of the rope circle, opposite to the line of rocks in the grass.

It arched.

It moved about, eventually settling directly over the Orb and forming a more circular shape. Directly over the pentagram.

That was when Zatanna realized, a fraction of a second early, but already too late to do anything.

Zatanna remembered where she had felt this kind of magic. She had felt it in the House. She had felt it when using the fireplace, when she had avoided that grimy heat. She had felt it when banishing the demon.

Zatanna recognized the magic.

It was straight from Hell.

Constantine had tricked her again, that bastard.

She had opened a portal to Hell.

A hand reached up through the portal, trying to claw its way out. It was pale, scratched. The nails were long and grimy, the forearm skinny.

“Nick!” Constantine yelled.

Another arm. The stranger pulled himself up out of the portal to Hell. He was facing Zatanna with a confused look. Like he recognized her.

Constantine called out to him again and he turned. His face broke out into a grin.

“You finally did it! You son of a bitch!” the man crowed joyfully. His voice was scratchy, like he hadn’t drunk water in years.

“Nick, hurry up, dammit,” Constantine shouted back.

The man breathed fresh air again, like a starving man given food.

“Thank you,” he said to Constantine, smiling sadly and pulling himself out of the portal. “Thank you f—AGHHHHH!”

The man’s words were cut off with a shriek as a single talon exploded through his chest, stabbing him. His wild eyes found Zatanna’s. His jaw went slack. He sputtered, blood dribbling out of his chapped mouth, his insides spurting out of his torso.

Zatanna stared, as though she was bewitched. She couldn’t look away.

“CLOSE THE PORTAL!” John screamed.

The man’s gaunt body was thrown back into Hell, and another talon placed itself, spider-like, on the portal. Another, and another. The demon reared its ugly head, drawing its single horn through the center of the portal.

Zatanna began chanting.

“ODNU, ODNU, ODNU. ESOLC, ESOLC, ESOLC—”

“IN NOMINE—"

Their voices cut over each other, screaming as their throats went raw, as the portal began to inch closed. Too slowly. They weren’t going to make it. The demon pulled itself even further out. Fuck, how tall was this thing? It was too big, it was going to kill them all, and drag them all to Hell, why hadn’t she listened to her father?

The spell was taking too long; the ritual was too complicated.

Zatanna thought of something. She couldn’t close the portal alone. But maybe she could ruin the ritual. The storm was still brewing in the distance.

“SDOULC EMOC RESOLC!” Zatanna yelled, beginning a new incantation. This was just like in the House. Same kind of monster, same removal techniques. Except for this time the demon was bigger, uglier, more dangerous. But this time she was on home turf. That son of a bitch was not going to take anybody else to Hell tonight.

The storm grew closer, lightning and thunder flashing in response to Zatanna’s spells.

“Sselb eht niar, gninthgil ekirts eht brO!”

Lightning lashed out at her command, missing the demon and instead hitting at the Orb of Atlantis, snaking under the portal. The demon swung its head in her direction, and began stabbing its legs towards her, half of it still in Hell. This demon was even bigger than she had thought. It pushed against the air in front of her, testing her protective circle. Zatanna was starting to feel weak; blood began trickling out of her palms.

This was just like in the House. Except now, she had the elements under her control.

“KAERB, MROTS FO GNISSELB, SSORC FO GNINGTHGIL EKIRTS NWOD SIHT NOMED!”

Zatanna continued chanting, as the rain exploded around her, stretching her arms out, the wind throwing her hair and clothes around.

The ropes were beginning to float in the air now, as a torrential downpour began. Zatanna’s hands burst into blood as she continued screaming her spell. The demon screeched in response to the water, acting as though it was being pelted with acid.

That man better be doing his side of the ritual.

She called down a peal of lightning, and it formed a cross as it stabbed into the demon’s head: a final scream, a flash of light, and she was blind.

There was a crashing throughout the air, and light in every orifice as Zatanna wondered about her spell, about the demon. It made a squelching sound, as it withdrew in pain, blood and steam gushing from every part of its body she could see. The portal continued to shrink as the demon left, and the rain continued. Zatanna collapsed to the ground as the portal shrank to the size of a basketball. She thought she saw another flash of light as it grew smaller, as it shrank into nothingness. There was a final snapping sound, barely audible against the wind, and Zatanna fell to the ground.

The portal to Hell had gone, and taken the demon with it.

Without any grace whatsoever, she sank from her hands and knees onto the grass. Her clothes were steaming, and she felt so warm. So hot, so tired. So much pain.

Dimly, she realized that Constantine was rushing towards her. She noticed the smoke coming from the Orb. She noticed the smell of the rain. It reminded her of the church her dad used to take her to.

Most of all she felt her body stop existing. Her eyes shut, and she fell into a deeper sleep then she’d ever had.

 

---

 

Zatanna sat upright, panting and sweaty. Where was she? The air was stuffy, and it reeked of cigarettes.

A man in black ran over to her.

“Dick? What are you—”

He hugged her tightly, knocking the words out of her.

“I told you not to do anything stupid,” he said, a new emotion in his throat.

Zatanna hugged him back.

 

---

 

Dick hadn’t lied about checking in on her in twelve hours. He had grown worried about her and decided to stake out Constantine’s home a little early. When he knocked, Constantine lied, but it was too suspicious. Nightwing broke in, and Constantine told him everything. Well, not everything, but enough of the truth that Dick decided to stay with the two of them, watching over Zatanna.

She came to sometime around ten the next morning, long since Dick had began to worry in earnest. Now Zatanna stood in the doorway of Constantine’s home; Dick waited by his car for her, matching her civilian clothes.

Constantine lit a cigarette as he faced the other magician.

“Well, seems we both made out great,” he said.

Zatanna slapped him; the cigarette landed on the floor and Constantine stamped it out.

“That’s for tricking me into doing a demonic ritual,” Zatanna spat. “Do you have anything to say for yourself before I tell Aquaman about your little secret?”

Constantine had the nerve to laugh as he leaned against the wall.

“You aren’t going to tell anybody about the Orb that I may or may not have in my possession. You’re as complicit as I am, what with your scheme to kill a member of the Justice League.”

Heat rose to Zatanna’s cheeks. “It wasn’t going to kill Nabu or my father.”

Constantine ignored that, a beat shifting.

“You never told me your father was Giovanni Zatara.”

“Yeah,” Zatanna said. “He always told me not to trust you.”

Constantine shrugged, eyeing her. “Smart man. We… he. He’s right. Guess we both needed him last night.”

Zatanna paused, unsure. Well, why not? Zatanna would always be curious if she didn’t ask.

“How did you know my father? And who was that man, the one in Hell?” Zatanna asked in a rush.

Constantine couldn’t meet her gaze. Cool, confidant, scheming Constantine looked anywhere but her eyes. He was silent for so long, Zatanna didn’t think he was going to answer.

“Your father and I, and that man, we were… something of a trio. His name was Nick. Nick Necros. We were your father’s proteges. Nick was a little older, always darker than me.” Constantine held up a hand at Zatanna, who had been about to point out the irony in his statement. “I know, I know. Nick was gifted, a true Homo Magi, like your father and yourself. I was just… some random git from Liverpool. Nick and I, we were friends. Or the closest thing either of us had ever had to a friend. Giovanni taught us so much. He was younger then, and wanted to help us push the limits of magic. And he had a score to settle. Like us.

“Nick and I… we wanted more from magic. Nick was constantly pushing himself, going closer to the edge, flirting with Dark Magic. Putting his grimy soul at the limit.” Constantine’s eyes grew hazy, like he was reliving that time, like he was somewhere far from the present. He looked older than his years. “Eventually, Nick and I convinced Giovanni. He didn’t want to do it. But we set up a ritual. We were going to capture a demon. We, uh… all of us had skeletons in our closets. People we wanted back. We held the ritual in the House of Secrets. There was a stronger magical potential there; I summoned it to the very park we just were. Nick had recovered the Orb, it was like everything was finally working out. We held the séance and… and… well. Nick went off script, I guess, however you want to call it.” Constantine’s voice swelled with an emotion that sounded like anger. “Nick went off of the fucking script, putting us all at danger. He… that fucking idiot. He got too close to the edge. I tried to save him. But in the end… in the end I think I was the one who pushed him off.”

Constantine broke off, displaying raw emotion for the first time. “Nick got dragged into Hell. In the scuffle, a demon got out. It stole the Orb from us. Giovanni stopped mentoring me when I tried to get him back. Nick, I mean. I failed. Clearly,” he coughed a laugh out. “Giovanni said he didn’t blame me, but I saw the way he looked at me. That bastard. I saw it.”

“You spent all these years trying to get him back?” Zatanna asked tentatively, a deeper understanding of the man dawning on her.

“No, fuck, you think I’m that good of a guy? I’m an alcoholic, or something. My soul is going straight down there soon enough. I’ve spoken to enough devils in my day. But… when I saw you… I knew you were his daughter. I knew you wanted my help. I exploited that. I seized my chance.”

Constantine looked away.

“John, I –”

“Stop. Stop it, Zatanna,” Constantine said, drawing away. “Just— don’t waste your years, like I have. You can’t get your father back. You can’t kill Nabu, or destroy the Helmet of Fate. You’re just a person. You’re just a fucking human, like the rest of us. Now get out of my bloody home.”

Zatanna stepped out, and turned to face him as the door slammed. She stood there, shocked by his revelations.

What now? What now, now that she had almost become the cautionary tale? She was not going to be like Nick Necros, she was not going to be an Icarus. Zatanna had been flirting with the edge for months, stretching her wings out under the sun.

Her father was gone. She would not be able to destroy Fate, or Nabu, or any of them. Constantine was right.

Zatanna was going to have to try being above the board. She was going to talk to Nabu, or find some other way to free her father, because she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t just stop in her quest to get her father back, not until it finally succeeded.

Zatanna turned around, facing Dick as he leaned against the car. The red leaves littered the roof of it, and the sidewalk in front of him. He waved at her, and Zatanna smiled despite herself.

It was a new day: the sun was shining through the crisp air, and she had slept for the first time in months. Maybe it was time to reach back out.

Zatanna joined Dick, laughing a little as they got into his car. Maybe the rest of her year wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe the rest of her life wouldn’t be terrible, either. At any rate, she had reached a new understanding of it. Zatanna would still try to give her father a new chance on earth, none of those demons she fought could stop that. But maybe Zatanna could try harder to live while she was at it.

She stared out the window, watching the leaves fall, and the house disappear. Zatanna didn’t know what was coming next, what her next plan would be. But smiling next to Dick Grayson in his warm car, finally going in the right direction… maybe there were some things to live for after all.

Notes:

the fic title comes from the Elliott Smith song "2:45," and all chapter titles are song titles from that album. (its called "Either/Or" and one of my all time favorites!) This was originally gonna be part of an anthology of my fav dcu heroes having insomnia, but I only had one other idea and this one started getting legs so I just put my creative juices into it instead. maybe ill post a Jason Todd whump too idk

I wanna give a quick shout out to the fic “a radiant darkness upon us” by empressearwig and the film “drag me to hell” by Sam Raimi! Both inspired me a lot, though they’re very different from my story haha

I had a lot of fun working on this. Thanks for reading and happy belated Halloween!