A laugh tried to escape my throat and broke into something that might have been a sob. "Agreed."
Behind us, Diego dragged Jasper from the wreckage. All of us were breathing when we shouldn't be.
Then I heard it. Engines rumbling through the trees.
Headlights cut through the darkness, multiple beams converging on us. My heart dropped into my stomach as figures emerged from the darkness and moved in formation. Armed men surrounded us. They'd been waiting. They shot us down, and now they were here to finish it.
My hand found Lorenzo's and squeezed. If this was the end, they'd have to pry him from my arms or kill us together. Even then, I’d find him in Hell and claim him there too.
I wasn't letting go. Not now. Not ever.
We were fucked.
I'd survived living in a cage and plane crashes and Judas coins just to end up bleeding out in a field.
My shoulder was screaming and my vision swam in and out like I was underwater. I pushed upright anyway because lying in the grass bleeding while armed soldiers surrounded us seemed like a poor strategy, and Dionysus had beaten better survival instincts into me than that.
Two of Constantine's men hauled me to my feet while others did the same to Rafael. They weren't gentle about it either.
The burning plane wreckage cast an orange light across the field, painting everything in shades of hell. Dawn was just breaking on the horizon, gold and pink meeting the smoke and fire. It would have been beautiful if I ignored the part where I was about to die.
Constantine stood fifty yards away, adjusting his gloves. Behind him, more men were unpacking something from one of the vehicles.
They were setting up a goddamn table.
White linen appeared, snapping in the dawn breeze as two men spread it across the folding surface. Then chairs appeared, followedby what looked like a full tea service, complete with delicate porcelain cups that caught the firelight.
Rafael made a sound beside me, and it took me too long to realize it was a laugh. Blood streaked his face in patterns that looked like tear tracks.
Constantine seated himself, adjusted his position slightly, then gestured to someone I couldn't see. A man appeared with a teapot and poured a careful stream of amber into Constantine’s teacup.
Constantine lifted the cup to his lips and took a long, slow sip. He set the cup down with a soft clink that carried across the field. Then, he carefully selected a pastry before waving us forward. "Come, come. Don't be shy."
The men holding us half-dragged, half-walked us across the field. My legs kept trying to give out, but the hands on my arms were relentless. Rafael stumbled beside me, and I ached to reach for him, but all I could do was match his pace.
Constantine took another sip. "Please, sit." He gestured to the two chairs across from him.
The men pressed us down into the chairs. The white linen was spotless, making the blood on my hands look obscene.
"I apologize for the informality of the setting." Constantine's voice was cultured, his Austrian accent turning the words into something almost musical. "One hopes the accommodations are acceptable, despite the... rustic circumstances."
He poured tea into the two cups in front of us, the stream of liquid perfectly controlled. "Melange," he said. "A Viennese tradition. Do you know it, Father Oliveira? Coffee and steamed milk, though I prefer to take mine as tea in the morning." He smiled. "But given your posting in Rome, perhaps you're more familiar with espresso. The Italians do have their preferences, don't they?"
Rafael said nothing. His hands were shaking on the table, leaving small smears of blood on the white linen.
Constantine's eyes tracked the movement. "Ah. How unfortunate." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the stain closest to him, though it did nothing except spread the blood into a wider pattern. "No matter. Linen washes." He refolded the handkerchief and set it aside. "Please, have some tea. I find it helps calm the nerves."
Neither of us moved.
"No? Well, I can hardly blame you. It's difficult to maintain proper etiquette when one is... shall we say, under duress." He selected a pastry and took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. "These are Sachertorte, traditional Viennese chocolate cake. My grandmother's recipe, actually. You really should try one, Lorenzo. I know you appreciate your sweets."
My jaw was clenched so tight my teeth ached.
Constantine smiled. "Ah, the silent treatment. How stoic. Dionysus trained you well." He took another sip of his tea. " You're both wondering why, yes? Why the ceremony? Why the tea? Why I don't simply put a bullet in your heads and be done with it."
He lifted his cup, inhaled the steam, eyes never leaving my face.
"The answer is quite simple, really. It's a question of civilization." He set the cup down gently. "You see, any thug with a gun can kill. Any beast with teeth can tear flesh. But what separates us from animals, gentlemen, is the appreciation of ritual. The acknowledgment that even necessary violence deserves... context."
