Vienna, Austria
John Constantine sat in the dusty archive beneath the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, surrounded by manuscripts that predated the printing press. He was nursing three cracked ribs, a painful souvenir from his latest encounter with an entity. The ancient stone walls were thick enough to muffle the sounds of the city above, creating an atmosphere of scholarly isolation that might have been peaceful under different circumstances.
Jason Blood sat across from him at a heavy oak table, methodically translating a thirteenth-century Latin text. Occasionally, he muttered what sounded like very creative curses in languages older than Rome. His aristocratic features were sharp in the lamplight, and despite his human appearance, his posture suggested barely contained power.
"Anything?" John asked, lighting his dozenth cigarette of the day despite the librarian's horrified protests from earlier. The nicotine helped steady his hands, though it did nothing for the persistent ache in his ribs where the entity's claws had found their mark.
"Perhaps," Jason said without looking up, his fingers tracing delicate marginalia penned by monks who had witnessed the worst plague in human history. "This chronicle mentions a 'Devorator Donorum'—a Devourer of Gifts. It was created during the Black Death by a cabal of desperate mages who thought they could cheat mortality by stealing the life force of the gifted."
"Created how?" John winced as he leaned forward, the movement sending fire through his injured ribs.
"A ritual sacrifice of seven magical children. Their potential was bound into a single entity that could harvest others," Jason explained, his expression grim as he continued reading. "The text says it was destroyed in 1347, but..." He gestured to a faded illustration showing a humanoid figure with a void for a face. "The description matches what you encountered."
"So either it wasn't destroyed, or someone's made a new one," John said grimly. "Either way, we're dealing with something that's had centuries to perfect its hunting techniques."
The Confrontation
The temperature in the archive dropped ten degrees without warning. Frost formed on the ancient stone walls despite the building's heating system. Both men immediately reached for their weapons, recognizing the supernatural pressure that preceded the entity's manifestations.
"It's found us," Jason said quietly, already beginning to shift toward his demonic form. "How is that possible? This place is warded seven ways from Sunday."
John felt the familiar ice-cold pressure against his mind and swore creatively. "Because I'm an idiot. It's not tracking magic—it's tracking me. Every time I've encountered it, it's been learning my psychic signature."
The shadows between the archive stacks began to writhe and coalesce, growing deeper and more substantial than any natural darkness. The electric lights started to flicker as reality itself seemed to strain under the entity's presence.
But instead of the entity, a distinguished older man in an expensive coat materialized from the shadows.
"Dr. Fate," Jason said with relief, though he didn't lower his guard entirely. "Kent. Thank God."
Kent Nelson stepped into the circle of lamplight, the golden Helmet of Fate glinting beneath his arm. "Constantine. Blood. I came as soon as Giovanni contacted me." His ancient eyes fixed on John's injuries. "You look like hell."
"Feel worse," John admitted. "How much did Zatara tell you?"
"Enough to know that something is hunting magical children across Europe," Kent's expression grew troubled. "I've been sensing disturbances in the cosmic order for weeks. Whatever this thing is, it's disrupting the natural balance between life and death."
"It's called a Devourer of Gifts," Jason said, sliding the manuscript across the table. "Created during the Black Death through ritual murder. It feeds on magical potential, growing stronger with each victim."
Kent studied the text for several minutes, his frown deepening. "This is... troubling. If the monster reaches full power..."
"How full is full power?" John asked, though he suspected he didn't want to know the answer.
"According to this, the original was destroyed after consuming the gifts of nearly a hundred mages. At that point, it had become powerful enough to challenge the cosmic order itself." Kent looked up from the manuscript. "The combined efforts of seven archmages barely managed to contain it."
"And now there's only three of us," John said flatly. "Plus whatever backup Giovanni can scrape together."
"There are others," Kent said. "I've reached out to colleagues across Europe. The problem is..."
"They're all bloody terrified," John finished. "Yeah, I've been getting that response too. Half the mages I've contacted have gone into hiding."
Jason closed the manuscript with more force than necessary. "Cowards. If we don't stop this thing here, it'll eventually come for all of them anyway."
"Can't blame them entirely," John said, struggling to his feet. "The thing's been adapting its hunting methods with each encounter. Learning our weaknesses, finding ways around our defenses."
As if summoned by his words, the shadows between the archive stacks began to writhe and coalesce, forming the familiar void-faced shape that had haunted John's nightmares for weeks. But this time, it looked different—stronger, more solid, as if it had been feeding while they prepared their defenses.
The persistent little magician, the entity's voice whispered directly into their minds, bypassing their ears entirely. And he's brought friends. How delightful. More gifts to collect.
"Bollocks to that," John snarled, launching a binding spell that should have been strong enough to hold a small demon.
The entity didn't even slow down. It flowed through John's magic like smoke through a screen door and backhanded him across the archive with casual contempt. John hit a bookshelf hard enough to shower himself with medieval manuscripts and felt something important break in his chest.
Jason completed his transformation into Etrigan with a roar of sulfurous flame. "Face me, creature of hunger and spite! Feel the wrath of Hell's own knight!"
The demon prince launched himself at the entity with claws that could shred steel, but the Devourer simply reached out and caught him by the throat. Where its fingers touched, Etrigan's demonic essence began to drain away like water through a sieve.
Such beautiful fury, the entity purred. Such delicious power. I think I'll save you for last.
Kent Nelson had the Helmet of Fate on now, his human personality subsumed by the cosmic awareness of Nabu. Golden light erupted from his form as he began weaving protections and binding spells with the precision of someone who'd been practicing magic since the dawn of civilization.
But even Dr. Fate's power seemed to barely slow the creature down.
Impressive, the entity said, releasing Etrigan to focus on this new threat. A Lord of Order. I haven't tasted one of those in centuries.
The entity struck first, a blur of blackened claws that shattered a marble pillar like it was plaster. Dr. Fate answered with a blast of golden sigils, the light burning so bright it carved afterimages into John's vision. The beams struck the Devourer full in the chest, but instead of falling, it twisted the magic into smoke and hurled it back in a crackling wave.
Etrigan was there in an instant, wading through falling stone to bury his flaming fists in the thing's ribs. The impact sent ripples through the air, tearing pages from nearby books and sending them whirling like a storm of paper knives. The Devourer barely staggered; then it lashed out, a void-charged backhand that sent the demon skidding across the floor, claws raking deep gouges into the flagstones.
Shelves split and collapsed as stray bolts of magic tore through the archive. Dust filled the air, glowing faintly as it caught in the currents of Fate's spells. Each strike from the Devourer left a smell of burnt metal and something older, fouler—like the air inside a sealed tomb.
John ducked a falling beam, his coat already soaked in blood from a dozen cuts. One lung burned with every breath, each inhalation tasting faintly of iron. He had seen Fate and Etrigan land hits that should have crippled gods, and the Devourer only seemed amused.
He crawled behind an overturned oak table, hands shaking. No more attacks—that would be suicide. Instead, he clawed the emergency beacon Zatara had given him from his coat pocket, smearing blood across the runes as he poured the last of his magic into it. The glyphs lit, faint at first, then bright enough to hurt his eyes. If the spell held, the signal would carry across half of Europe.
Help, he broadcast into the supernatural ether. Vienna. National Library. Now.
The entity noticed what he was doing and turned its void-face toward him with something approaching amusement. Calling for help, little magician? How... touching.
It began to approach John's hiding spot with the leisurely pace of a predator that knew its prey had nowhere to run.
That's when the cavalry arrived.
The air in the center of the archive tore open like fabric, reality parting to admit a column of golden light. Giovanni Zatara stepped through the portal with the dramatic flair that had made him famous on both the stage and battlefield.
Behind him came two figures that made John's eyes widen with recognition and relief.
The first was a tall woman whose very presence seemed to bend light around her. She wore a long, high-collared black coat that appeared to be cut from midnight itself, the fabric absorbing illumination rather than reflecting it. Her dark hair was cut short, her eyes sharp and assessing. When she moved, the air around her seemed to warp faintly, as if she were walking through a ripple in reality. This was Nightshade, the shadow-walker. She carried herself with quiet precision, her every movement measured, the kind of confidence born from years of surviving missions no one else could handle.
The second figure radiated power that made the very air vibrate with potential. He stood nearly seven feet tall, his robes appearing to be woven from starlight and deep ocean currents. Talismans from a dozen lost civilizations adorned his chest—Mesopotamian ward-discs, Byzantine curse-breaker rings, and what looked like a feather from a Thunderbird tucked into his collar. His aura burned not with raw fire, but with the slow, heavy intensity of power honed over centuries. This, Zatara had once told him, was Arion of Atlantis—sorcerer-king turned wandering scholar, a man who had survived the sinking of empires and studied at the feet of archmages both in this world and beyond the Veil.
"Constantine!" Zatara called out, immediately beginning to weave protective barriers around the archive. "Where is it?"
"Right bloody here!" John shouted back as the entity turned to face this new threat with what might have been genuine surprise.
More gifts, it said, but for the first time since John had been tracking it, the creature's voice carried a note of uncertainty. So many... interesting.
Nightshade stepped forward, and reality rippled around her like heated glass. "You've been hunting children across Europe," she said, her voice carrying harmonics that suggested she was speaking from multiple dimensional positions simultaneously. "That ends now."
She moved with fluid grace that defied physics, stepping sideways into shadow and emerging from darkness that hadn't existed moments before. Her hands trailed tendrils of pure void that wrapped around the Devourer like binding chains forged from the spaces between stars.
The entity struck at her with claws that could rend souls, but Nightshade was already gone—existing in the gaps between dimensions where physical attacks couldn't reach. Her counterattack came from three directions simultaneously as she used dimensional fractures to multiply her presence.
"Agreed," Arion added, his words carrying the authority of someone who had commanded the loyalty of Atlantis in its golden age. "Your existence is an affront to the natural order."
He spoke words in Atlantean that made the stone beneath their feet remember when it had been part of the ocean floor, when it had been shaped by pressures that could crush mountains. Water began seeping through cracks in the archive's ancient floor—not ordinary water, but the deep ocean memory of Atlantis itself, carrying power that had slumbered beneath the waves since the continent's fall.
The liquid formed complex runic patterns around the Devourer's position, each symbol blazing with bioluminescent light that spoke of magic refined over ten thousand years of study.
"Aegis Thalassic!" Arion intoned, and suddenly the water-runes began to constrict like a living net.
Zatara added his own magic to the assault—not simple stage illusions, but reality-warping phantasms that made the Devourer question what was real and what was deception. Multiple versions of the archive began overlapping, each showing different possible outcomes of the battle.
The battle that followed was unlike anything John had ever seen. Five of Europe's most powerful magical practitioners working in perfect coordination, their combined might finally forcing the Devourer to take them seriously.
Nightshade danced with reality itself, stepping through dimensions to strike from impossible angles. Arion's oceanic magic created barriers the entity couldn't simply flow through. Zatara's illusions prevented it from targeting any single opponent effectively. Dr. Fate struck with cosmic authority while Etrigan tore at it with demonic fury.
For a moment—just a moment—it looked like they might actually win.
But it still wasn't enough.
The entity was simply too strong, too adaptable. It had fed on too many victims, absorbed too much potential. Even as they drove it back, John could see it learning their techniques, adapting its defenses, preparing counters for their next assault.
"It's not working!" Nightshade shouted over the magical chaos, her form flickering between dimensions as she barely avoided the entity's grasping claws. "The thing's too powerful!"
"Then we change tactics," Zatara called back, his illusions beginning to fray under the creature's assault. "Full retreat. Live to fight another day."
"No!" John struggled to his feet, ignoring the agony in his chest. "If we let it escape now, it'll disappear again. Could be weeks before we find it, and by then..."
"By then it will be in America," Dr. Fate finished grimly, golden light streaming from his helmet as he fought to maintain his binding spells. "Hunting the Potter boy."
The entity's void-face turned toward John with sudden, terrible interest. Potter? Oh, how delicious. The child with the broken soul, the one who carries both light and shadow. Yes, I can feel him even from here—such delectable potential, such exquisite complexity.
John felt his blood turn to ice. The thing knew about Harry. Specifically.
I was planning to save him for last, the Devourer continued conversationally, even as it fended off attacks from five directions. But perhaps it's time to accelerate my timeline. Thank you for the information, little magician.
The entity began to dissolve, preparing to escape.
"No," John whispered, then louder: "NO!"
He threw everything he had left into one final binding spell, not trying to hurt the creature but simply to hold it in place for a few more seconds. The effort sent fire through his broken body and he tasted blood, but the spell held.
"Now!" he shouted to the others. "Hit it with everything!"
The combined assault from five of Europe's most powerful practitioners struck the Devourer like the fist of an angry god. For a moment, the entity's form wavered, its void-face showing what might have been surprise or pain.
But it wasn't enough to destroy it. The creature stabilized, shrugged off their attacks, and began to fade away.
Until next time, magicians. I have a very special child to visit.
Then it was gone, leaving only the smell of ozone and the echo of malevolent laughter.
John collapsed, his emergency spell having drained the last of his strength. As consciousness faded, his final thought was a desperate prayer to any power that might be listening:
Keep Harry safe. Whatever it costs, keep him safe.
Later - Emergency Safe House
John woke up in what appeared to be a converted monastery, his chest wrapped in bandages that hummed with healing magic. Through a window, he could see snow falling on ancient stone walls.
"Ah, you're awake," came Zatara's voice from beside the bed. "How do you feel?"
"Like I've been run over by a particularly vindictive lorry," John croaked. "How long was I out?"
"Six hours. Long enough for us to set up proper protections and do some emergency healing." Zatara's expression was grim. "John, we need to talk. About what that thing said."
"It knows about Harry," John said flatly. "Specifically. Which means..."
"Which means Harry Potter is no longer just a potential target," came Dr. Fate's voice from the doorway. "He is the target. The entity's primary objective."
John struggled to sit up, ignoring the protest from his injured ribs. "Then we need to warn—"
"Already done," Zatara said. "I've contacted my apartment, increased the protections around Harry, and put the entire magical community on alert."
"The good news," said Nightshade, stepping into view, "is that the creature was weakened by our assault. It will need time to recover before it can attempt to cross the Channel."
"How much time?" John asked.
"Days. Maybe a week at most." Dr. Fate's expression was troubled. "And when it does make its move, it will be specifically hunting your ward."
John fell back against the pillows, exhaustion and pain warring with desperate determination. "Then we need to kill it. Before it gets anywhere near him."
"We tried," Jason said from his position by the window, back in human form but still looking shaken. "Five of us, working together, and we barely scratched it."
"Then we try harder," John said grimly. "Because the alternative is letting that thing get its claws into the most magically powerful child in Britain."
"There is another option," Dr. Fate said quietly. "We could bring the boy here. Remove him from the creature's hunting ground entirely."
John was already shaking his head. "No. Kid's finally found some stability, some happiness. I won't tear him away from that unless there's absolutely no other choice."
"John," Zatara said gently, "if this creature reaches America..."
"Then we make bloody sure it doesn't," John interrupted, struggling to his feet despite the pain. "How long before I'm mobile?"
"You should rest for at least—" Nightshade began.
"How long?" John repeated.
Zatara sighed. "With magical healing? Twenty-four hours for basic mobility. Forty-eight for anything approaching combat readiness."
"Right then," John said, already reaching for his coat. "That gives us two days to figure out how to kill something that just shrugged off the combined power of five archmages."
"You're insane," Jason observed.
"Yeah," John agreed, lighting a cigarette with hands that barely shook. "But I'm also right. That thing made this personal when it threatened my kid. Now it's not just about stopping a magical predator."
He looked around at the assembled practitioners—people who had risked their lives to help him, who could have stayed safely hidden but chose to fight instead.
"Now it's about protecting family. And I'll burn half of Europe to the ground before I let anything happen to Harry Potter."
The snow continued to fall outside the monastery walls, covering the world in deceptive peace while ancient hunger stirred in the darkness, preparing for one final hunt.
The game was almost over.
One way or another.
[Author Note: In this fanfiction, the entity known as the Lord of Order is primarily under the control of Kent. This means that Kent, rather than Nabu, is the dominant consciousness, and as such, the Lord of Order does not possess the full extent of its inherent power. The full, unrestricted power of the Lord of Order would only manifest if Kent were to completely relinquish his control and allow Nabu to take full dominion.]