"The black fog has no substance, but his real body doesn't exactly run away either."
Matthew yanked his axe free from Witchheart's head, casually patting the demon's skull with a rhythmic thwack.
Witchheart's head, he had to admit, was surprisingly well-shaped.
"Forgot you're blind—guess that fog doesn't mess with your aim," Hellboy said, tilting his head. He drew the revolver from his waist, leveling it at Witchheart's head.
His marksmanship wasn't exactly sharpshooter-level, but at this range, hitting a stationary target was child's play.
Witchheart wasn't exactly a familiar face to Hellboy. Growing up in the human world, he hadn't had much chance to make demon friends his age.
He'd never tasted a soul either—maybe they weren't as good as a chocolate bar?
"What do you take me for?" Witchheart bellowed, the black fog coalescing beneath his head, reforming his body bit by bit.
A sudden burst of aura erupted from him as he wrenched his head free from Matthew's axe.
To a normal person, that aura might've been terrifying, but to Matthew, it was nothing. After facing Bul-Kathos's overwhelming presence, Witchheart's posturing felt like a faint breeze.
A foul-smelling one, at that.
Hellboy's temper flared. Who did this punk, beaten down and pinned to the floor, think he was, acting tough?
He pulled the trigger.
An oversized bullet slammed into Witchheart's head, erupting in a burst of flame.
It wasn't enough to kill him outright, but it shaved off a chunk of his power.
Without a word, Witchheart's form hurtled backward from the blast, flying toward the base's entrance.
In a blink, he was gone.
The San Venganza Contract was his true goal. If those vampire soldiers hadn't pissed him off earlier, he wouldn't have lost his cool so quickly.
The human world had changed—people's minds were so tangled even demons struggled to keep up.
Witchheart wasn't the brightest, but he knew when to cut and run.
His mission was the souls within the San Venganza Contract. There was no need to slug it out here with Hellboy, especially with Matthew in the mix.
That blind guy who'd taken down the Ghost Rider without breaking a sweat? Yeah, Witchheart wasn't sticking around to test him.
Even Hell Lords knew when to back off—being a demon's son didn't make retreating any less shameful.
Witchheart could sense the powerful angel outside had left. All that remained were ordinary humans, no match for him when it came to seizing the contract.
"Thought he was just an idiot," Matthew muttered, unable to hold back a jab. Today's events were starting to grate on his nerves.
"Demons are usually idiots," Hellboy said, holstering his revolver and heading toward Johnny.
Witchheart was a fool, and any demon showing up in the human world these days wasn't exactly a genius.
Hellboy had always known about the Ghost Rider—Carter Slade's legends from his younger days were hard to miss.
Now, he planned to take Johnny Blaze back to base and see if they could get the knight to act a bit more... normal.
His team could use some extra firepower, and a sane Ghost Rider would more than fit the bill.
They weren't S.H.I.E.L.D., dealing with human threats. Their targets were always the gods, ghosts, and monsters of the world.
A flaming skeleton? That was just another Tuesday.
Hellboy had initially planned to send Witchheart straight back to Hell, but if the guy wanted to die a different way, he wasn't about to stop him.
Neither he nor Matthew cared much about Witchheart's escape. At worst, it'd be another chase.
As long as the San Venganza Contract stayed out of Witchheart's hands, he'd keep sniffing around.
Besides, the S.H.I.E.L.D. folks outside hadn't exactly been twiddling their thumbs.
While Hawkeye was mulling over how to deal with a demon, Constantine was already outside, tinkering with something.
Gabriel might not have spread his wings when he left, but that didn't stop Constantine from snagging a little something from the angel's plumage.
Humans lose hair; angels drop feathers. No big deal.
Sure, a featherless angel couldn't return to Heaven, but Gabriel, already missing a wingtip, wouldn't care about losing a bit more.
"What're you drawing?" Melinda asked, bypassing Coulson's gentle probing for her usual blunt approach.
Constantine had summoned an angel—S.H.I.E.L.D.'s agents weren't doubting his "occult expert" credentials anymore.
The evidence was undeniable. Skepticism was fine, but outright disbelief at this point? That'd just be stupid.
Constantine held a scruffy-looking feather, sketching patterns on the ground while muttering under his breath.
Coulson tugged Melinda's arm lightly.
They didn't know much about the occult, but they'd heard enough to know you don't interrupt a spell.
It was like how even non-Martial artists had some vague notion about the concept of a "golden core."
They had a sliver of understanding about this mystical stuff.
"I'm drawing a circle to contact a demon," Constantine said, answering Melinda directly.
He'd never been one for superstitions or taboos.
Worst case, he'd catch a demon's attention. He'd dealt with more demons than Coulson had met superhumans.
Coulson shifted awkwardly—his caution seemed a bit unnecessary now.
"What's it do, exactly?" Steve asked from where he sat, eyeing the group.
"Hmm… it uses Heaven's power to open a link between the human world and Hell, then borrows a bit of Hell's strength," Constantine explained.
He knew Hell was sealed off, but some idiot demons always defied their lords' will.
If the reward was good enough, they'd lend a sliver of power without hesitation.
Luckily, an angel's feather was a decent bargaining chip.
"Why not just have that angel deal with the demon?" Melinda pressed.
"You mean Gabriel? Just like you don't fully trust me, I don't exactly trust angels," Constantine replied, planting the feather in the center of the circle.
He started chanting again, his words a low, guttural murmur.
A blood-red glow erupted from the magic circle.
"Alright, folks, got any gear you want enchanted?" Constantine asked, pulling off his knuckle-dusters—etched with a cross and Bible verse—and placing them on the circle.
He didn't care how the demon on the other side would strip the holy blessing to infuse his weapon with infernal power.
A priest-blessed knuckle-duster was no match for one touched by a demon's hand.
"Here," Hawkeye said, handing over his last five throwing knives.
Coulson reached into his jacket and pulled out a grenade.
"I've never actually tried enchanting one of these. I'm a law-abiding citizen, after all," Constantine said, his eyes glinting with excitement.
(Chapter End)
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