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The nightclub pulsed with bass so deep Constantine could feel it in his bones. Inferno, the neon sign proclaimed subtle as a sledgehammer. He'd been watching the place for three nights, piecing together what Strange's intelligence network had uncovered: this wasn't just another Manhattan hotspot where trust fund kids snorted cocaine in the bathrooms. This was a front for Mephisto's operation.
Constantine stubbed out his Silk Cut and straightened his tie one of the few concessions he'd made to infiltrating upscale demon establishments. The bouncer at the velvet rope was massive, seven feet of muscle wrapped in an expensive suit, with eyes that reflected red in the streetlights. Demon. Low-level, probably, but dangerous enough.
"Private party," the bouncer growled as Constantine approached.
"Is it?" Constantine pulled a business card from his coat pocket black cardstock with silver lettering that shifted and changed depending on who looked at it. A forgery, courtesy of a contact in Chinatown who specialized in mystical documents. To the bouncer, it would read as an invitation from one of Mephisto's lieutenants.
The demon's eyes widened slightly. He stepped aside without another word.
Inside, Inferno was a study in excess. Chrome and black leather everywhere, strobing lights that made it hard to focus, beautiful people gyrating on the dance floor with movements just slightly too fluid to be entirely human. The air reeked of sulfur beneath expensive cologne and designer drugs.
Constantine made his way to the bar, scanning the crowd. Most were human rich idiots who thought they were living dangerously by partying in a demon club. They had no idea the real price of admission. But scattered among them were the genuine articles: demons in human skin, vampires working the crowd, a succubus in the corner booth feeding on a banker's life force while he thought he was just getting lucky.
"What's your poison?" The bartender was stunning Asian features, crimson lips, eyes like molten gold. Definitely not human.
"Whiskey. Neat." Constantine leaned against the bar, projecting casual confidence. "Heard this was the place to be if you're looking for... specialized services."
"Depends on what you're after." The bartender poured his drink with movements that were almost hypnotic. "We cater to all tastes here. Pleasure, power, revenge name your vice, we'll provide."
"Information." Constantine sipped the whiskey. It was good too good. Probably laced with something to lower inhibitions. He coated his throat with a subtle protective spell before swallowing. "Specifically, about soul contracts. I represent certain... interests... in London. We're looking to expand our portfolio."
The bartender's smile didn't waver, but her eyes sharpened with interest. "Soul brokering. Ambitious. That's not street-level trade. You'd need to talk to management."
"That's why I'm here." Constantine pulled out a leather portfolio another forgery, this one containing fake financial documents and contract templates that would pass casual inspection. "I've brought samples of our work. Quality merchandise. Properly damned, fully authenticated, ready for transfer."
A flicker of greed crossed the bartender's face. Demons loved paperwork almost as much as they loved suffering. "Wait here."
She disappeared through a door marked PRIVATE. Constantine used the moment to survey his surroundings more carefully. Security cameras in the corners, but they were mundane technology easy enough to fool with a minor glamour. Two more demon bouncers by the VIP entrance. And there, near the back a door with protective wards etched into the frame, invisible to normal sight but blazing like neon to his magical senses.
That's where they kept the real operation. The soul ledgers, the contract archives, everything Mephisto used to track his earthly holdings.
"Mr. Constantine."
He turned. The bartender had returned with a man in an impeccable three-piece suit, silver-haired and distinguished-looking. But his shadow moved independently, writhing with barely contained malice.
"I'm told you're interested in our services," the man said smoothly. His accent was old older than any living human's should be. "I'm Marcus Fell, senior acquisitions manager. Perhaps we should speak somewhere more... private?"
"Lead on." Constantine followed him toward the VIP section, acutely aware of the demons tracking his movement. One wrong word, one slip in his cover story, and he'd be fighting his way out. Or worse become part of Mephisto's collection himself.
The VIP lounge was quieter, insulated from the club's chaos. Plush seating, dim lighting, and the unmistakable aura of serious magical power. Fell gestured to a booth.
"Your portfolio, please."
Constantine handed it over, watching carefully as the demon leafed through the forged documents. Each page was a masterwork of deception Strange had helped him create contracts that would pass even expert scrutiny, at least initially. The trick was to get what he needed before the demon looked too closely.
"Interesting," Fell murmured. "London operations, you said? We've been looking to expand our European presence. The Brexit situation has created such delicious desperation."
"Opportunity knocks," Constantine agreed. "But I need to understand your infrastructure here before recommending partnership. Security protocols, storage systems, transfer mechanisms. My principals are... meticulous."
"Of course." Fell's smile was all teeth. "We maintain the highest standards. All souls are catalogued in our archive the most secure in this reality. Warded against theft, divine intervention, and temporal manipulation. Even the Sorcerer Supreme couldn't breach it."
Constantine doubted that, but he nodded appreciatively. "Impressive. I don't suppose I could see it? Professional courtesy."
"I'm afraid "
The club's lights suddenly cut out. Emergency lighting kicked in, bathing everything in red. An alarm began to wail not the mundane kind, but a mystical shriek that set Constantine's teeth on edge.
"What the hell?" Fell was on his feet, shadows coiling around him defensively.
Through the windows, Constantine saw flames genuine hellfire, not the decorative kind erupting from the lower levels. Screams echoed through the club as panicked partygoers stampeded toward the exits.
"Breach!" A bouncer burst into the VIP lounge. "We've got Heroes for Hire tearing through the sublevels!"
Constantine's heart sank. Heroes for Hire. Luke Cage and Iron Fist. What the bloody hell were they doing here?
Fell snarled, his human disguise slipping to reveal something scaly and horned beneath. "Deal with them! I'll secure the archive!"
He vanished in a burst of sulfurous smoke. Constantine was left standing in the chaos, trying to decide whether to follow the demon or investigate what Cage and Iron Fist were doing.
The decision was made for him when the floor exploded upward. A massive fist glowing with golden chi energy punched through, followed by a man in a yellow mask and green costume. Iron Fist.
"Evening," Constantine drawled. "Bit loud, aren't you?"
Iron Fist landed in a fighting stance, his fist still blazing with power. "You're not security. Civilian?"
"Consultant." Constantine pulled out his lighter. "And you're mucking up a delicate operation. Mind telling me what you're doing storming a demon nightclub?"
"Missing persons case." A second figure hauled himself up through the hole Luke Cage, all muscle and attitude, his dark skin gleaming with sweat. "Six kids from the neighborhood disappeared. Trail led here."
Constantine's mind raced. Missing kids. Soul trafficking. This was bigger than intelligence gathering.
"Right," he said, making a snap decision. "Change of plans. The demon in charge Fell just headed to the archive. Sub-basement, I'd wager. That's where they'd keep prisoners."
Cage's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"
"Because I'm John Constantine, and I make it my business to know these things." He started toward the emergency stairs. "Coming? Or would you rather stand around asking stupid questions while those kids suffer?"
Iron Fist and Cage exchanged glances. Then Cage shrugged. "Heroes for Hire works with all types. Lead on, English."
They descended into the club's underbelly, leaving the chaos above. The stairs went down farther than any building should go three levels, four, five. The walls became raw stone, ancient and covered with sigils that made Constantine's skin crawl.
"This place shouldn't exist," Iron Fist murmured. "The chi flows here are... wrong."
"Welcome to demon architecture," Constantine said. "Space works differently when Hell's involved. We could be miles beneath Manhattan or in another dimension entirely."
The stairs ended at a massive steel door. Beyond it, Constantine could hear screaming young voices, terrified and in pain.
Cage didn't hesitate. He reared back and punched the door with everything he had. The steel buckled, hinges shrieking in protest. A second hit tore it completely off its frame.
The chamber beyond was a nightmare. Dozens of children teenagers mostly, but some younger hung suspended in glowing cages of mystical energy. Their life force was being drained through tubes of crystallized suffering that fed into a central repository. And overseeing it all was Marcus Fell, now fully demonic, his true form all scales and horns and burning eyes.
"Persistent," Fell hissed. "But foolish. You've walked into my sanctum. Here, I am god."
He gestured, and the stone floor erupted with tentacles of shadow. They lashed toward the three intruders, fast as vipers.
Iron Fist's fist blazed brighter, chi flowing through his entire body. He moved like liquid lightning, striking each tentacle as it came, his mystical energy burning through demonic essence. "Constantine! Free the children!"
"On it!" Constantine was already moving, hands weaving protective wards while he analyzed the cages' construction. Complex work each cage was keyed to its prisoner's soul, making them nearly impossible to break from outside.
Nearly.
Constantine pulled out a piece of chalk and began sketching a counter-sigil on the floor. "Cage! Keep that demon busy!"
"With pleasure." Cage charged Fell head-on, his unbreakable skin shrugging off blasts of hellfire. His fist connected with the demon's jaw with a sound like a car crash.
Fell staggered but didn't fall. "Impressive durability. But pain has many forms." He gestured again, and suddenly Cage was screaming, clutching his head.
"Psychic attack," Iron Fist warned. "His mind "
"I see it." Constantine finished the counter-sigil and activated it with a word of power. The mystical cages flickered, their energy disrupted. "Kids! When the cages drop, run for the stairs! Don't stop, don't look back!"
The cages shattered. Children fell to the floor, disoriented and terrified. But survival instinct kicked in. They ran, stumbling over each other in their panic to escape.
Fell roared in fury. "My merchandise! You'll pay for "
Iron Fist's fist, blazing with the full power of Shou-Lao the Undying, caught him in the chest. The chi energy anathema to demonic essence burned through Fell's corporeal form. The demon shrieked, his physical body unraveling.
"This isn't over," Fell spat as he discorporated. "Mephisto will hear of this. All of you marked for collection!"
Then he was gone, banished back to whatever Hell dimension had spawned him.
Cage shook off the psychic attack, breathing hard. "Everyone okay?"
"Peachy," Constantine muttered. He looked at the empty cages, the soul-draining equipment, the ledgers stacked on a nearby desk. Evidence of Mephisto's operation but nothing he could use to bring down the whole network.
"We need to go," Iron Fist said urgently. "This place will collapse without Fell's power maintaining it."
As if to prove his point, cracks appeared in the walls. The mystical architecture was failing.
They ran.
The climb back up was a race against collapsing reality. Stones fell from the ceiling. The stairs buckled and twisted. But they made it bursting out into the club just as the entire sublevel imploded with a sound like thunder.
Outside, emergency vehicles had arrived. Police, ambulances, news crews. The missing children were being reunited with frantic parents. Someone had already spun a cover story gas leak, structural failure, the usual mundane explanations for supernatural incidents.
Constantine lit a Silk Cut with shaking hands, watching the chaos. He'd failed to get into the archive, failed to gather the intelligence he needed. But six kids were alive. That had to count for something.
"So," Cage said, walking up beside him. "John Constantine. Heard of you. Word is you're trouble."
"I get that a lot."
"But you helped tonight." Cage studied him. "Those kids you could've run. Could've saved yourself. But you stayed."
"Moment of weakness." Constantine took a drag. "Don't spread it around. Bad for my reputation."
Iron Fist joined them, his mask pulled back to reveal Asian features and piercing eyes. "The demon spoke of Mephisto. That's not a name to invoke lightly."
"No," Constantine agreed. "It's not. Which is why I need to know what brought you here? You said missing persons, but there's more to it, isn't there?"
Cage and Iron Fist exchanged glances. Then Cage nodded, as if reaching a decision.
"Talk while we walk. We've got a lot to discuss, and the cops don't need us answering questions."
They walked.
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