constantine

❛ RELATIONSHIP BOARD

Aria Fawn & Constantine Vogel

His hand gripped hers with all the knowing familiarity of someone who had committed that same action a thousand times before. Celeste had wondered if she would know it again as she had before, but his hands were just as certain as she remembered, his eyes just as telling. What she had forgotten, was the sound of his voice, somehow Celeste had remembered it differently; time, prison, and the wraiths had done enough to shift whatever perception she had of the past. Wine may have tasted different t her now, but Constantine’s voice could still bring a smile to her face. 

And it was good to be home, was it not? They had no one following them, nothing to fear, no enemies at their doorstep. For a few moments, Celeste counted herself as content, how could she not? She had imagined him in a thousand thousand pieces, some broken thing she’d have to spend the rest of her life putting back together. He wasn’t built for prison, he wasn’t built to be apart from her, Celeste knew that. 

Together they had scaled mountains of the unknown, stormed the citadel of their own minds, brokered treaties for powers with forces that would make the Ashbourne townsfolk quiver in their unsightly little boots. Necromancy had opened up doors that others could only dream of, while Trillium likely thought themselves all safe, it was only a matter of time before they removed their wretched Marks of Salem. “Brother,” she began “I missed this. You were never far from my thoughts,” her fingers slipped from his and she moved to smooth the lapel on his jacket down in a single stroke. “Tell me,” she was smiling now, cruetly glinting in her eye as she did. “What did we miss?” Judging by the state of things, Celeste would have guessed not much.

Getting the pair of them a drink, bourbon curled easily between her fingers, he did not need to know yet that Celeste had been informed previously of their impending arrest. It was too likely that he would not understand the beauty that came with long suffering in pursuit of one’s goals. But really, there was no other way, the Vogels had been too careless, for too long, a sentencing was required if they would have any longevity. But still, the way his eyes had looked at her from his hollowed, gray face, that face had followed her each night into her dreams.

Celeste was a sight of pure beauty, a black and white photo, moving and living in a colored world. A mixture of gothic horror and forbidden romance sparkled in her eyes. Her lips ever so slightly pink with chill. She was the sort of woman one could fall in love with at a glance, and be very sorry afterward that you had. Constantine could be considered a cold man, he felt no compassion, no affection for his fellow man, and he took a sick thrill in pain because nothing else excited him like it. But his sister made him seem positively saintly. She had a deep foreboding strength about, an aura of malignancy, and of danger, like a feral cat just waiting for the strike. A complete lack of feminine delicacy. 

Their mother, who had been a self-obsessed socialite more interested in her newest dress or invitations then her children, always had more of an eye for Celeste. It was an unwritten rule that daughters are a mother’s property, whilst the son belongs to their father. But she made sure they had all the right connections, and always kept her eyes open for eligible marriage partners. They had dreams of their children marrying into another powerful family name. Constantine never saw Celeste as someone’s wife though. The very thought had been laughable since the very beginning. All the suitors that came to her only to be chased away, not by him, but by her own hand.

She spoke, telling him how she had missed him and it brought a smile in his usual stern face. “Oh, nothing terribly important. The coven has a new Regient. Patrice Olivier.” Constantine had yet to meet him and he was certain that he would not be leaving a good impression. It’s not like it was required from him anymore since he was no longer a member of the Trillum. The cowardliness and weakness that secreted from that coven made him skin crawl. And to think that he once used to want to be a part of it. Of course he had been disenchanted on day one when they expressed their position against the use of certain magic. How they were setting limits for him and his powers. This only pushed him to want to surpass them and he had. Outlived them before they decided to excommunicate him.

Celeste looked well, even in the dim lighting of the living room. His eyes followed her as she served them some bourbon and handed him a glass. Constantine could tell that she was no longer resembling a walking corpse. The last time she saw her, her eyes and cheeks were sunken in and she had lost all the color on her skin. “I can see you’re feeling a lot more like yourself again. It took me a few days to recover as well.” Physically, at least. His magic was a different story. 

@suscitat-mortuos

What options remained for a witch, stripped of their magic, that had spent the better part of the last decade behind bars? The answer came as Celeste stumbled away from the fence, barely a week after her brother’s release, though she had no idea where Constantine even was. What day it was, the year she knew, the month, time was something she kept track of while inside. Herself she had lost, or, rather it was taken from her. The wraiths of Ashbourne’s funeral home had peeled off layer upon layer, skinning the humanity off of an already bare-boned beast. 

They’d given her back the clothes she’d been processed in, it was the prisoner’s garb of the Trillium Coven, her own clothes from that night were - who knew where - but home was on the horizon, however far off. For those who knew Celeste Vogel before, and for those who saw her now, she would have been unrecognizable to her old self. Her clothes had always been of the finest make, she’d had her favorite designer bring her everything and more that she could ask for, she’d be disappointed, and they would suffer the consequences, or they’d make her clothes that were inspired by the fear she instilled in them. 

She was a witch who walked tall, a God among insects who saw no equal, and that candor translated to the way she walked, the way she talked, and of course, in the way she treated others. Her enemies outnumbered her allies, but that was nothing knew, she controlled both with the subtle flexes of her magic, the same thing inspired both parties: fear. 

They would fear her again.

She stumbled forward from the gate, her feet bare and bleeding, the filthy sack that covered her skin and ended at her knees was tattered and warn. Where it had been an off-white since the beginning, it was tattered and ripped, filthy with blood, dirt, and whatever else. Her hair was the matted mess of her cell, of her mind, a wild storm of locks and raven hair, she was a wild thing that quirked at every cheep from the trees, every sigh from the sky. 

Celeste stumbled forward, she dragged her bloody feet through fields she only barely recognized. She knew this place, all these places, at one point, but it was distant as a storybook. Celeste knew hatred, and when a child passed her on the street asking why did she look like that? Celeste hissed and moved to strike, stopped only when the boy’s father stepped between them. 

Good behavior.

She tried to summon the magic to smite them both where they stood, but there was nothing, there was no press from the air current in the trees  - no hum from the earthen crevice of the man’s soul. Celeste had no magic, she wondered if people thought that meant her powerless. She kept walking, uncertain of where she was going but trusting the familiarity of the journey. 

The door to her families’ home creaked open, the wards recognized Vogel blood, what was she expecting? Celeste could not say, whatever words she’d heeded to this point, they had ebbed away by the dark of her cell, by the wraiths and all they had taken from her. Perhaps they were why Trillium did not see her as a threat without her magic, the wraiths had done their part to take from her the will to live. But she was an unbreakable and undying type of thing, she would remove her mark, she would have her power, and this town would know beauty and torment in ways that not even the tree had dreamed. 

The home is not empty, someone dwells within, its Constantine, but she is a stranger now in her own skin. She passes him, a nonspeaking ghost, and Celeste retreats into her wing of the families’ home, not leaving her bedroom for days. She showers, and it is the first time she is able to wash herself without an audience, she dresses, and it is the first time that she feels clothing on her skin that does not chafe. Celeste reads over spellbooks she had hidden away, but there is nothing that comes with them, no crack of magic, no residual force. She retreats to her bed, and sleeps for three days straight. 

When Celeste awakes, her mind is more settled, more focused. Clarity returns and when she looks in the mirror she sees the Vogel that was waiting beneath the chains. She’ll see Constantine now, and she finds him in the study, working over some book she is sure to have seen him with before. Her beautiful, baby brother, the only man ever created who could rule next to her - maybe not King, but something important to her just the same. In this world, there was only two things she cared for, her magic, and her brother. One had been taken from her, and the other would never be so far from her again. 

She touches his cheek, “my Constant.”

Becoming a necromancer was true power, the thing he had been straining toward his entire youth, and the knowledge of it left something deep and scarring inside of him. The magic had been overwhelming and Constantine knew as soon as he felt it that he would serve it with more loyalty than he ever knew he possessed. But even though he was completely devoted to dark magic, it did not compare to the devotion he had for Celeste.

Constantine was a naturally selfish being, and the affection he felt for Celeste was different than what he was confronted with. She was his sister, his twin, they were like two halves of one being, flip sides of a single coin. They shared the same thoughts, the same wants and dreams, and caring for her came as naturally as caring for himself. Not like she ever needed him to. About his parents he felt nothing, and anything he had felt for his coven members had always been under the constant reminders that loyalty had been tainted by self-interest. When he discovered the true power of Necromancy, he felt as though a hole of undirected desperation had suddenly be filled. He had been searching for something without knowing what, and his whole life was as though he had been stumbling through a fog towards that single moment. A purpose rose up before him like a beacon, he need only reach out his hand to grasp it. And so he did. They both did.

He remembers the last time he saw her.  He had been beaten and tortured and they sent her to him so they could say their goodbyes. Won’t see one another for a long time. As he struggled to his feet, his pale, grey face dotted with sweat, the blue circles beneath his eyes forming into a death mask, as waxy and expressionless as her own were calm and cool. There was a hunched defiance to him, his legs slightly bent, body so twisted that it seemed impossible for it to move the way it should. And she was relaxed, as if she was being sent off to a vacation spot somewhere. Celeste had always been the strongest of the two. Being out in the world without her made him feel incomplete. Like half of his body was missing and replaced with smoke.

A week went by but the days were still blending together. Constantine was not sure how long it would be before he could see her again and he was already coming up with a plan to set her free. Hard to do without his magics to back him up. Then one day, he felt it. A light chill running up his spine. Like a cold finger running across his skin. He could always feel when she was close. A connection they’ve shared since the were children. Constantine didn’t move from his spot in the library but felt her come in. Her feet dragging over the wooden floors and up the stairs. A shadow and nothing more. But she was home. Shadow or not, she was home. 

Constantine knew she needed some time to get herself back into a place were she felt like Celeste again and so he left her alone. Didn’t crowd her even when he wanted nothing more but to see her. She would come to him when she was ready. And the day came. He was in the library again, going through old notebooks. Writings of spells and the dark objects they have once created. All that power and he could not access it. The room became a few degrees colder when she walked in, making all the hairs in his skin stand up. He loved that about her. The ability she had to make everyone notice her bitter presence.

My Constant. Oh, how he had missed the sound of her voice and the way she touched his face. She always did when she approved of something he had done for her, because of her, to her. Wasn’t it all about her? His own hand reached for hers, bringing it to his lips to kiss her bony fingers. “Welcome home, sister.”

quietmagics‌:

The fact of the matter was this: When Selene put her mind to it, she was quite good at portraying herself as an insolent child. Calling him an old man, pushing fashion choices and technology on him that he had no desire or need for… well. It was an annoyance. She had her good qualities, of course, that was made clear by the fact that he kept her around at all. She was young, not yet settled in to her full abilities, but she would. In time. And in time suffering through the rest of this would be worth it. 

Some of her seemingly useless tirades had actually worked out for the better, at least. The phone, for example- he’d resisted for a long time, until she’d taken matters in to her own hand. He’d refused to use it out of pure spite, at first, but begrudgingly he’d come to see it as a useful tool. The texting bit, at least, though he would have just as soon not allowed people any more means of contacting him than strictly necessary.  There were still times when he questioned whether or not it was worth it- but this wasn’t one of them. 

The Vogel twins were a pair that Marius found quite interesting, indeed. All too often the Seer was apt to look down on his fellow witches, irate while they squandered their abilities. If you were born with a gift, the least you could do was appreciate it. He would always view his own magic and the path he’d taken as being on a level above all the rest, but he’d always had an interest in necromancy, in any of the darker arts. An appreciation for it. 

He hadn’t realized they were being released, so recieving a request to meet came as a pleasant surprise. A drink, lovely. He’d go, of course he would. Selene had been with him when he’d recieved the text. He’d considered going alone- had very nearly done so- but what an opportunity this presented. A test. She seemed to cling to the light, most of the time. Kept herself held up to her golden ideals, but Marius didn’t think she was cemented there. He believed she could be guided past that barrier that kept so many of their kind from reaching their true potential, so he’d invited her along. A drink with an old friend, he’d told her. A rather flowery way of putting it, but it had done the trick. She’d followed him along to the Vogel’s old home.

A decade did make a world of difference but Constantine seemed well, all things considered. He supposed etiquette would have dictated sending the man a warning that he wouldn’t be arriving alone, but Marius had possessed little interest both in such a notion and with granting him the opportunity to raise an argument. ‘Hello, Constantine,’ He signed. ‘Good to see you as well. This is Selene. She is a Seer too.’ A pause, and he offered a short smile. ‘Don’t worry. She is bound by oath to keep my secrets.’ Magically, of course. He didn’t expect such a distinction would have to be made aloud in his present company. 

@selenebellona​

They’d made this pact, you see. Sliced their hands open and shook on it and everything. ‘I keep your secrets, you keep mine’ - with the measly consequence of death on the line. What were they to each other? Well, Marius was was a fellow Seer and that meant so much more than any arbitrary labels.

A drink with an old friend.

Now what was she supposed to say to that? Marius certainly knew how to toy with her curiosity in all the right ways. Of course Selene tagged along. An old friend, huh?

“Didn’t think you had any friends.” She’d said as she’d scribbled one last note in her grimoire and tucked it away into her messenger bag. “Color me surprised.”

She’d stood up then, not giving him really any choice in the matter, and said: 

“Well? Let’s go.”

The mansion was a decrepit old thing. She’d stopped in her tracks as he led the way up the imposing path to the porch. She knew he felt it too, knew the other witch felt the dark things that crawled here. And yet Marius strode forward, unyielding, towards the door. Selene only took a moment’s pause - to take in the estate, to gage what her magic was telling her. If the windows of the mansion where its eyes, the soul of this place was a graveyard. Selene took a beat and then quickened her pace to catch up, spurred on by her exasperation. The young witch was a fucking seer, did he think she wouldn’t sense what they were walking into?

Damn her curiosity!

Normally, Selene would be angry at Marius for keeping her in the dark about things - the places they were going and the reasons for such visits - as though she was too immature to handle the whole truth. She wasn’t. They shared so much, visions and omens and abilities… and that same tick-tick-ticking clock. She should be angry at him - furious. It was she, more than anyone else, who could handle the truth of such things. It was she who understood him in ways that no one else could. And now here he was, treating her like some misbehaving apprentice.  

Her mind flashed to California, to her mentors and tutors, to the men who had called her progress, ingenuity, and invention nothing more than ego. She recalled their pinched faces - their minds shriveled like raisins - and how she had vowed to herself to never let anyone control her. She’d be brilliant.

She was about to snap at him all this, right there on the front porch, her magic still dangerously alive, like a lit stick of dynamite (surely he felt it, her crackling power still on fire). And if the door hadn’t swung open, maybe she would have.

But there, on the other-side of the threshold stood perhaps the last person Selene expected, and the sight of the stranger drew a sudden, sharp, near hysterical laugh from her. She barely noticed her introduction.

“This? This is your friend?” She crowed incredulously. Yikes.

Oh yes. Selene was furious at Marius for giving her no heads up on this one and she’d make sure to exact her revenge in precise ways - she was going to burn all of those horrid sweaters for simply springing this one on her.

Constantine Vogel. She knew the face, she knew the name. Infamous. Another short peal of laughter rippled through her but it didn’t reach the young witch’s eyes. Those stayed cold. If anything, they narrowed. She knew danger when she saw it. 

She knew a good puzzle when she felt it. 

Something about Marius’ “friend” felt castrated, wrong and unnatural. Like there was something blocking the flow of him. That’d be the mark wouldn’t it? She was curious to see it, dissect the magic that held his magic back. And she felt a little sorry for him too didn’t she? Selene’s heart had a tendency to bleed and it would find a reason to bleed for just about anything and anyone; she’d rather be dead than without her magic. 

All this said, a part of her also very much believed that Constantine Vogel fucking deserved damnation.

“Charmed to meet you, Mr. Vogel. You’re looking rather well considering what you’ve been through. I, personally, would rather be six feet under than without my magic.” She nodded at Marius. “And he’s right, I drop dead if I say anything he doesn’t want me to. Same with him.” 

But now that she was here something else was cutting through her anger - there was that curiosity, back in full force. 

“I hope I’m not encroaching.” She didn’t really mean that. “Us Seers come in pairs - I’m sure you know what that’s all about.” 

After all wasn’t there another Vogel around here somewhere?

Constantine always found it strange how other witches looked just like him, except can also be so different. Like a reflection in a mirror which was slightly warped. Everything looked alright until you peered closer, and you discovered that certain things were elongated, out of focus, wrong. Eventually you can look at another witch and see something of worth, but the first time - the first time all he saw was human. Strangely incomplete, but with a mouth, hair and hands the same as him, crying salty tears and begging him not to be hurt in the same language. He’d hurt people before, killed even. Killed witches, which was considered unforgivable. Murder. The word never bothered him, sometimes, in his youth he had dreamed about it. And when it came to the exact moment, when he saw those eyes suddenly go blank, empty, lifeless, it was an incredible feeling. Powerful feeling. His father had been an important member of the Trillum Coven. If you recognized the name Vogel before Constantine and Celeste rose to infamy, it was because of him. When he was a child, he supposed he used to be proud of him. He thought those things mattered.

Now Constantine knew politics were just something old men did to convince themselves they actually had control over their own pitiful lives. And Victor Vogel spent his own life trying to change the views the coven had against dark magic. It was no more than a few drops in an ocean. But no matter how much he made speeches it never made any difference. That wasn’t how changes were made, not important ones. And deep down Victor knew that. His children taking on Necromancy though, that wasn’t his idea. His blood ran cold at the thought. His interest in that form of magic had been more scholarly than Constantine’s. For Victor, the words were simply that. Just words. He was excellent at dialogue, but Constantine thought he never had the balls to do anything more. A neutral man, never committing himself without an escape route planned. If anyone had ever told him nothing was gained without risk, he’d obviously forgotten. He thought he could do it without the death, but people like that - the bleeding hearts - you’ll never change their minds. They’re so buried in their self-righteousness that they could never see the light. But of course, Victor never agreed, because admitting that would be admitting that he has lived his entire life for nothing. Don’t get him wrong though, he never hated his father. He never felt anything about either of his parents. Oh you should have seen them at the trial. Victor and Annette Vogel sending their children to the guillotine. May they rot in hell. 

Marius gave his explanation for bringing another witch along with him but the most interesting thing about this was said witch’s reaction. Typically, he got gasps or a shriek of horror. Not laughter. Even if it sounded maniacal. It was a good thing that he was magically bound or he would have ripped her tongue from her mouth with squint. She looked young, so he would give her some leeway. She commented on his situation, and he gave her a smile in return. Cold. He always looked cold when he smiled. “Right, I forget that death means something to you people.” Cheating death was probably the most vital thing one had to learn as a necromancer. The hardest thing to learn. Every else was child’s play. “Please, come in.” He stepped away from the doors in order to give way for the two of them to enter his property. The large foyer was still covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. Books and paintings decorated the walls. But it was the smell that was the most unnerving thing about it. The smell of decay. “It’s been a long time, my friend.” He turned from Marius to Selene, giving her a once over before his eyes met Marius again. “So, a blood oath? Unfortunately the fact that she is forced to keep your secrets does not mean she is willing to keep mine. Selene, was it? How do I know I can trust you?” @quietmagics​ @selenebellona​

ASHBOURNE DOSSIER

NAME: CONSTANTINE VOGEL

SPECIES: WITCH

TYPE: NECROMANCER

COVEN: NONE | EXCOMMUNICATED FROM TRILLIUM CIRCLE

AGE: 34 YEARS OLD

TIME IN ASHBOURNE: SINCE BIRTH

“I don’t know what goes on in a child’s early life that ends up producing people like Celeste and Constantine Vogel. One would hope that it would be some dreadful horror story, death, abuse, or rampant mental illness at the very least. But in reality, such things are rare, and some are just born bad. I know it is an unpleasant thing to say, but Constantine and his sister are bad apples, rotten to the core, and no amount of education, positive influence or opportunities will change that. I hated using the word ‘evil’ especially when talking about children, but if there was a single redeeming quality in either of those two I was never able to see it. They were the sort of infants who would pull the wings off butterflies simply to watch them die. They were always fascinated with dark magic and interested in nothing else. Irredeemable. Often with children like this, you blame the parents. But with the Vogel twins it runs deeper than that. They were born nasty, life just got in the way.”

Constantine’s earliest memory was of his father, which in itself is strange because he could count the number of private interviews with his father on one hand, and he certainly couldn’t remember Victor pushing for intimacy between the two of them. Not that he was complaining, Constantine never wanted anything to do with him either. But this memory was of a man on man interview, Celeste was gone, probably out playing the miniature doll with their mother and Constantine and his father were alone in the library. He remembers the sunlight filtering through a gap in the heavy velvet curtain, the spines of leather bound books lit up like holy tomes on the high wooden shelves. He was five, maybe six years old, and his ability to read was limited at best, so the Latin flashed by like the mystic words of another world, and Constantine could do nothing more then simply admire the gold leaf lettering, so rich and extravagant, and answer in half syllables, as his father asked him questions. 

Was he looking after his sister? Yes. If by ‘looking after’ he meant putting worms from the garden in her bed and/or pulling her hair till she cried like a girl. Did he listen to his nanny, do what he was told? Yes. Or at least, he did after she’d asked him the fifth or sixth time and boxed his ears to get his attention. He’s getting tall, he’ll be a grown man soon. Yes. Not soon enough though. When he gets older, he’ll be a member of the coven, is he looking forward to that? Yes. Because he’ll get to learn magic. Constantine was looking forward to that. Oh magic, has he tried any spells, have they worked for him? Yes, he’s tried. Mostly they were muddled repetitions of things they had heard their mother and father say. The kind that made the house servants cry their ugly fat tears over in pain. When he was really angry, he’d even try them out on his nanny. But they didn’t work. His father laughed at that, and asked him if his hands were clean. Obligingly Constantine held them out for inspection, and his father eyed the dirty nails for a moment before proclaiming them ‘good enough’ and handing one of the books down from the top shelf. It was so heavy that he could barely open the front cover. There were drawings, strange rituals he asked his father about only to have him laugh and say it was superstitious bullshit. Never mind that, turn the page. Dark magic weren’t pentagrams and inverted crosses, that’s human stupidity. The only cockerel you’ll ever need to see is cooked and on your plate. It’s power. Constantine felt a little secret thrill at the word, and turned the page as reverently as if it would collapse into dust with rough handling.

Later that night, when he’d eaten his dinner and had a bath (despite his attempts to avoid the latter) he’d walked into his sister’s room and tried to describe the things he’d seen. He told her gruesome horror stories, edited by his own limited memory and a young boy’s penchant for blood and guts. Do you know there’s a spell that can make someone’s eyeballs pop out of their head, then fall on the ground and explode. And make someone’s head spin right around till their neck breaks. Constantine reviewed the afternoon thoughtfully. I bet Father has killed people like that. I bet if someone makes him angry, he makes their eyeballs pop out and then makes them eat them. He would be later disappointed in his fervent imaginings about Victor’s life, but for now he was able to twist things the way he wished. He thought the coven was a place full of dark magic, with pentagrams on the floor and dead chickens hanging from the ceiling. That the world was filled with cringing sycophants jumping at their own shadows in fear some powerful witch taking a dislike to their face and deciding to rearrange it a little. 

Dark magic. It had a hallowed ring to it, at least, around the Vogel home. And Constantine had grown up with an indirect knowledge of what it was capable of. The flick and swish used to rearrange the cutlery was good enough for rookies, but that wasn’t real magic. Not like the type of magic he had seen in his father’s book. That was what magic was really capable of, that’s what it really meant. And though his young mind couldn’t quite find the words to voice it, he felt a thrill of anticipation for the future. His future. This was broader than politics, he had seen that deep place in the human psyche which told what people were really capable of. No morals, no feelings. Just power and control. He looked down at his pale, pudgy hand, and suddenly clenched it into a tight fist, nails digging into his palm and knuckles turning white. “Let’s go down there tomorrow.” It’s usually Celeste who made the plans, she was good at that. But Constantine was all about impulse, and when he wanted something, he was never afraid to simply reach out and take it.

His magic came to him a week after Celeste. Constantine was nearly frantic by that time, sick with the fear that maybe he would never get it - be some disgusting little human thing that his parents would send away and pretend he never existed. It was stupid really, now that he thinks back on it, because Celeste also walked and talked first. He was just the late bloomer. That used to bother him a bit, but not anymore. He didn’t mind letting Celeste take the lead, it’s what she did. She’d already performed a spell, and he was simply left behind, stewing in his own misfortune. He used to walk up and down the hallways, muttering every single spell he knew just praying that one would work. It had to work. It was a mixed blood problem. Just one of many problems about laying down with beasts. Mostly they were curses, since they were the only things he thought worth memorizing, which was probably most of his problem. Constantine was always trying to perform spells beyond his ability, because learning theories and simple rituals was just boring compared to real magic. But despite all his attempts at forcing his magic to come, it came quite by accident, like it usually does.

He had gotten in trouble for something he said, he had heard his father swear once and he tended to repeat it whenever he got frustrated. Which would be alright, if he’d been smart enough not to say it loudly within earshot of adults. Anyway, Constantine had been sent out into the hallway, and his jaw was clenched so hard his teeth were beginning to ache. He was about to turn around to slam the door behind him, but instead he just sort of radiated anger, like a wave, and the door shut hard and quick enough to make the wall shake. And then the other open door in the hallway slammed, and he heard a crack as doors downstairs shut so hard their hinges splintered. And then suddenly after that flurry of activity, there was total silence. Constantine stood there panting like he had just run a mile, his fists shaking at his sides. The nanny burst out and boxed him around the side of the head so hard his ears rang, and dragged him back in the room by his elbow. He heard once that emotion is supposed to hinder magic, but he’d never found this to be true. Maybe for tedious things, like potions or hexes, not real magic. The spells with so much power that you get an electrical thrill when using them. Anger, excitement, adrenaline, he can’t shut it out, but it’s never harmed him. Magic is in his blood, after all. Not like those filthy witches, who have to bury their noses in books for hours just to cast the simplest spell.

He had been called quick tempered and impulsive, maybe he was. He doesn’t have any patience, not with other people, not with his magical ability. And when he was bored, which happened often, he needed to find other ways to occupy himself. He continued to sneak into his father’s study whenever possible, pouring through the books he had brought back from far away places. A lot of them weren’t in English, and he probably wouldn’t have read them anyway, but he enjoyed the diagrams, and spells were easy to pick out once you knew what to look for. Of course he couldn’t help but read them out, waving around his hand and he was never very surprised when nothing happened. Still he would go over them as often as he could, clinging to the hope that one day there would be that spark of intuition, and he would no longer need to use his hands to make things hurt.

Their nanny handed in her resignation and they had to make due with the butler. He was so ancient he was practically doubled over, and had suffered enough abuse from the both of them to make him cringe in anticipation whenever they walked by. It was quite amusing. He had always been an excellent subject for experimentation. Constantine thinks that by the time they were finally baptized, he would of preferred to be stuffed and mounted then spend another year with them. Being around other witches was lackluster. None of them could of told you which was the right way to summon a spirit even if you drew them a diagram. Magic meant about as much to them as it would to a dog. They couldn’t even begin to comprehend it. An idiot child can be taught to mouth the words, but they couldn’t ever understand the meaning. And trying to teach it would be like making a circus out of something hallowed.

Their collection of dark spells grew with time, as did their familiarity with the curses, though for the most part they resisted the temptation to try them on anything human (which did not include the family’s servants, obviously.) They had grown up with the dark arts since birth, it was their heritage, they were curious and enthralled by their newfound powers, the same as children who like to levitate the dinner plates rather than simply lift them. Magically, becoming a Ceremonialist was a dry spell. It had been an easy task that left him with a sour taste in his mouth. Not enough. Is never enough. It was in his early 20′s when he first heard about Necromancy. It hadn’t been a common topic of discussion in his home. There was something secretive about it, and though the hush was awed, his parents always acted as if the walls had sprouted ears whenever the topic was raised. It made him even more interested and was not long before he had become obsessed with the idea of of it. Playing God. Raising the dead. And then it happened. It was like a sign sent straight from God or - the devil himself. If he’d ever had a spiritual bone in his body he might’ve believed that. In the end, it was his ambition, hi pride, which damned him. He had felt so secure in his secrecy, certain the mask he wore had the whole world fooled. But some people saw him for what he was, and were eager to get rid of him. The Watchers and the Council alike. He was young and overconfident, it was a definite flaw, but it also was that which pressed him forward in greater and greater feats of service. By that time he was drenched in blood lust like a wild animal, and only twenty-five years old.