Carita is already down in the chamber, a round room only 9 feet in
diameter, bearing 3 other tunnels, two of which are crawling with a cool,
thick mist.  She stands near the one that's clear, looking down the long
hall. There are no loved ones for whom she might leave her things; there
are no tears shed for this dark-eyed woman who called the League. Without
the demons, without her, without this... Two lives might not be destined
to end, along with hers. She doesn't look back to John, or to Seishi, or
to Jack, when they come down the stairs. Soon it's all or nothing. Death
in sacrifice, for a greater good, or death because of failure. Either
way... She sighs, gently, rocking on her feet. Waiting. There's always so
much waiting. Far and away from Bermuda, the world of Beacon Harbor goes
on; in a place where it seems the world must end almost daily, people are
sleeping, dreaming, living, completely unaware of the sacrifices made.
Friends. Acquaintances. And what of the rest of the world? It too moves
on; until its supposed end, in fire, ice... or the belly of the Leviathan,
none the wiser, save this small group.  Carita finally turns back around,
to meet the eyes of the other three who've come to join her, silent and
now still.

The stairs go down a long way through the darkness, until the sounds of
the hurricane are merely a faint murmur instead of a seething roar. In the
cave itself, though, the mist writhing in two of the tunnels gives off a
pale light.

Constantine stops in the middle of the chamber and sets down his
plastic-wrapped bag. "Carita, you want to explain to them about the
tunnels?"

"This one," Carita murmurs, gesturing to the far left, "leads to a chamber
underground... beneath Miami." Looking to the other, she murmurs, "And
that one, to San Juan. It's not.... they're a relatively short walk.
Portals."  Still thickly accented, her voice is not uncertain, but still
soft, almost as though shy. "In each the chambers, there's a stone slab...
long enough to lay upon," she explains, looking down at her hands.

Now that he's parted from Kate, that shroud of detachment has fallen away
entirely, and instead he wears an odd aura of eagerness - not simply the
hurry of someone wishing to finish with some unpleasant task, but the
poise of one looking forward to a long awaited reunion. He's actually
balancing a bit on the balls of his feet, as he looks to Carita for an
explanation, though he already has an idea. "As I saw," he murmurs, more
to himself than the others.

Seishi inclines her head briefly in understanding. "And we each take one.
What do we do when we get there?" she asks.

"You don't take it just yet," Constantine speaks up. "First..." He kneels
next to the bag of magical stuff. "The preparation." He takes out three
knives. "Athames," he explains. "Prepared for this spell." The blades
gleam darkly; the hilts are glassy smooth. Not-quite-identifiable runes
shift and dance on both blade and hilt. "Seishi, this one's yours.
Celliers, yours.  Carita, yours." He takes a piece of chalk out of the bag
and begins drawing a line on the ground, starting in front of one tunnel,
ending in front of another. Then he draws another line--he's connecting
the three passages with a triangle.

Taking the athame given, Carita nods, carefully holding it by the hilt,
her dark eyes sliding over the runes. What's left to say? She glances to
Jack, to Seishi, and back to John, the only one who'll be leaving here
alive. Not much longer, now.

Celliers accepts the blade, hefting it lightly to test the balance. He's
occasionally shifting his weight from heel to ball of foot, like a runner
at the block. There's no fear in his face, only that strange avidity, like
a child on Christmas morning, though his expression shutters a touch when
he glances at the others.

Seishi's fingers close around the hilt of the athame John offers her; she
inspects it for a moment, then looks up again, waiting for further
instructions.

Constantine carefully draws a smaller triangle within the large one, and
inside that an even smaller circle. Within that, he draws not a pentagram
but a star of David--two triangles overlapping each other. He sets a
candle, each within a small, plain silver candlestick, at each point, and
in the center, a silver cup. There are a few runes engraved in it, but
nothing ornate. It's simple. Functional. One might think that it doesn't
even deserve the term "chalice," but it seems to radiate significance. In
fact, everything in the room is beginning to seem charged somehow. The air
is even growing a bit warmer. John stands up, walks over to the stairway,
takes off his trenchcoat, and tosses it on the steps. Then he walks back
to the inner triangle. "Seishi, Celliers, pick which tunnel, and stand at
the point of the smaller triangle that's in that direction." He doesn't
bother telling Carita what to do; she knows to stand at the northern
point.

And so she does, walking there and holding the athame in both hands, point
toward the floor, for now, her eyes moving from John, to Seishi, to Jack
and back again. Magic slowly thrills her, the call of it like some siren;
this will be her last and greatest gift. A part of Bermuda, for ever.
Whatever life was before... it's over now. She closes her eyes, drawing a
slow, deep breath--the only thing that's important now, is this spell.
It's all or nothing. She opens her eyes again, watching John, intent.

Obediently, Jack paces to his chosen point, tread light and soundless. The
detached look has returned, though now it's only a thin veil for something
brighter - a scarcely-concealed growing exultation. It's a perverse, if
longed-for gift: a meaningful death, even if it doesn't come in battle.
Freedom, and homecoming, finally. He, too, watches Constantine intently,
after a last glance at Seishi.

Seishi lets Jack choose his place, and when he's taken his position, shet
steps to the last remaining point of the triangle. No expectancy. No
nerves.  No visible regret. No emotion. Whatever's going on inside her,
Seishi is showing nothing at all. She catches Jack's look and inclines her
head to him briefly, but that's all.

Constantine glances at each of them in turn. "Right, then, let's start."
He takes a small glass bottle filled with a clear liquid out of the bag.
"This is seawater, in case you were wondering." His tone is perfectly
matter of fact. "When I say to, use the athame to make a shallow cut in
the middle of your forehead." No change in tone. "Touch the cut, then dip
the finger you used in the cup." He gestures at the silver chalice. "Then,
using your blood, draw...something...on the ground at your point of the
triangle.  You'll know what it is when the time comes." He pauses, then
adds in a softer, more thoughtful voice, "Magic always comes down to
blood, sooner or later." With a shake of his head, as if to clear it of
that thought, he says, "Right, then, I'll start." He takes his lighter out
of a pocket, kneels by the little circle, and begins lighting the candles.
The lighter should seem incongruous, really, but somehow it doesn't.
Everything seems to fit. When he's finished lighting the candles (the
light from them is somehow brighter than it should be), he uncaps the
little bottle and pours the water into the cup. As he does so, he chants
softly. The language is difficult to make out, and individual words
impossible, but it's most likely Latin.

The instructions are clear enough; Carita holds to the athame, and waits
for John's signal to begin. It's funny; one might think their mind would
be full of hundreds of thousands of thoughts unbidden... but all that's
there is this, all that's ready is this. It's time for the magic, and
that's all that comes. She watches John, dark eyes focused.

There's a ghost of a grin at Constantine's last comment, as Jack murmurs,
"Everything does, sooner or later," He himself seems utterly without
doubt, peaceful in his singlemindedness.

Constantine dips two fingers into the water and stands up. He goes to
Carita first. "Carita Valeria." He presses the two fingers to the center
of her forehead, leaving a wet streak of seawater. Then he speaks, this
time in English. This spell goes past the point of frills and fancy
languages. "I consecrate you for the sea; I bind you to to the Triangle.
You are North."  He goes back to the cup, dips his fingers in it again,
and goes to Jack.  "Jack Celliers." No 'Percival' here--only the name that
defines him. He leaves the streak of seawater on Jack's forehead as well.
"I consecrate you for the sea; I bind you to the Triangle. You are West."
Again, back to the cup, and finally to Seishi. "Tamashiino Seishi." Again
the dab of water. "I consecrate you for the sea; I bind you to the
Triangle. You are South." He steps back to the center. Something sharpens
in the air. The candles seem brighter. A faint blue-green glow comes from
the knives. John glances at them and nods. "Now."

And the others do know what to draw in their own blood. They each have a
sigil, some set of symbols that somehow describe them in a way that can't
quite be explained. That's what needs to be drawn. A peculiar clarity
imbues the room now. The outside world is so very far away; all that
matters is in here.

There are tears, salt water stinging her eyes, but Carita finds that she's
no longer frightened... The athame is drawn over Carita's forehead; red
runs, and she reaches to touch the blood. Her fingertips stained crimson,
she reaches forward to dip her fingers in the cup that lies within the
middle of the star, the salt of her blood now within the salt of the sea.
She then turns to her point, and kneels, tracing upon the ground with the
blood and salt water upon her fingers. It comes out of her, flowing from
her mind to her hand, as it has always been. A symbol of water, waves
unending, an infinite loop. A symbol of earth, of North. Salt and
stability, horns of the bull reminiscent of a crescent moon. The triangle
itself, a part of her for so much of her life. A circle, binding and
without break. She's consumed in this work, her head bowed, eyes
half-closed, a smile spreading over her features.

Seishi sets the point of the athame carefully against her forehead, blade
up, just between her brows... and, with a sudden sharp motion, flicks it
upwards, cutting into her skin deep enough to draw blood. Her smooth
expression unchanged, she shifts the ritual knife to her left hand so that
she can touch the first finger of her right to the fresh wound, and reach
out to dip the tip of that finger into the cup. Then, like Carita, she
kneels to her work, sketching out in her own blood the clean angles and
curving lines of familiar kanji--one word, a simple character, something
she knows well. Mamoru.

The cut is made quickly, without flinching. Jack makes no attempt to
staunch the threading of blood, lightly touching his fingers to the rim of
the chalice. Crouching down to draw, he carefully scribes something in the
flowing script of Arabic, murmuring the words under his breath. Once done
to his satisfaction, he frowns a moment, wincing as it pulls the wound. A
soft breath, another touch, and he sketches in quickly a shield, blazoning
it with one of the lions of England, face turned and paw upraised, his own
wolf rampant bearing a sword as it gleams on the old ring, and finally the
tiny multiple crosses of the Crusaders. After letting it dry from bright
scarlet to rusty brown, he straightens, blinking away the blood that
threatens to run into his eyes to look expectantly back to Constantine.

The magic makes the world--or this little portion of it, at least--realer
than real. At the edge of hearing, there is a faint, unearthly music,
somehow made up of the rhythm of the sea. The blue-green glow fills the
room now. "Go through your tunnel now," Constantine says. His voice is
oddly distant--he's not one of the three.

One last look. Carita smiles faintly, toward Jack and Seishi, and even
John.  Thank you. There are no words for my gratitude, my admiration. This
is right; this... this is how its meant to be. Her feet carry her away,
and down the tunnel; she walks with sure steps, carrying the athame at her
side, still feeling the blood at her forehead.

Celliers smiles, suddenly - the triumphant grin of a traveller who's
crested the last hill, and sees home waiting. He looks to the two
remaining, as if inviting them to share the joke, before turning to pace
down his own tunnel.

Seishi meets that last look blankly, turning away without really seeming
to acknowledge the others. She sets off down the third tunnel, steps
measured and even. And midway through, tasting her own blood, she falters,
and looks back. But it's too late. Even if she could let herself turn
back, she's bound up by the magic now, and she has noplace else to go but
forward. So, with sudden tears stinging her eyes and slipping down her
face to mix with her blood, she goes on.

Constantine watches them go. Then he kneels down, dips his fingers in the
bloodied saltwater, and touches them to his forehead. It's a temporary
connection, but it'll do. "Now sit down on the stone," he murmurs. And
from where he is, it *is* a murmur, but to the other three, his voice is
perfectly clear, even though two of them are hundreds of miles away.
Technically. He swallows hard, letting his composure falter a moment.
After all, there's nobody here to see him now. His voice, though, remains
professionally calm. "With the athame, slit your wrists open--one cut
lengthwise, one across. Then lie down." He swallows hard, fighting down a
sudden craving for a cigarette. "You'll barely feel it," he adds suddenly,
his tone taking on just the faintest hint of humanity. "The magic will
take over."

Sure steps carry Carita into the chamber, and she moves to sit upon the
slab. There are no words here; these are the last moments of her life, and
she surrounds herself with the thought of how close she'll be, how much a
part of this she'll remain. My life, for this. First the right wrist, and
then the left, the T's are cut with swift precision; crimson wells up,
spilling from her flesh, a fountain of warm. It stings--but there are
worse things--and Carita looks from one wrist to the other, hypnotized by
the sight of it, running slick and red. Soon, the world will go grey, but
for now... now she's content with the smell of the sea, with the closeness
of her home, here, surrounding her. This is right; here I am. Already, her
breathing slows; it won't be long.

Even Jack falters a moment, as he comes on the chamber with its slab. It's
always a shock to be confronted with the reality of something seen in one
of the visions, and never more so than now. But he steels himself, throat
tightening suddenly, and pads to the stone. Rather than sitting, though,
he kneels in the center, formally, and sets the knife in front of him.
Taking a deep breath, he bows once and recites softly, "La illaha illa
Allah, Muhammad ur rasul lul lah," That said, he picks up the athame and
makes the cuts one after the other, hands steady despite the pain. Now
nothing but the waiting, and the sight of life flowing away like water. He
watches calmly enough, though his features are already paling, before
raising his eyes to let them unfocus on the middle distance.

Seishi drags the side of her hand roughly over her eyes, smearing the
blood from the cut in her brow--it's only seeping now, already healing,
the body not yet understanding what the spirit has set out to do. It
shouldn't be this hard, she'd prepared herself for it days ago, but
Constantine's instructions nearly break her. She sits down on the side of
the slab, shoulders hunching forward, and fights a losing battle with a
fresh run of bitter tears.

Finally, breath shuddering in her throat, Seishi pulls herself
ungracefully back along the stone, scooting backwards until she's in
roughly the center of the slab, and shifts the athame in her left hand to
draw the blade across the inside of her right arm--lengthwise, then
crosswise; magic or not, the pain wouldn't matter. Quickly she takes the
athame from her left hand to her right, to make matching cuts on the other
arm before that hand loses the strength to do it well--and finds herself
baffled by the bracelet on that wrist. The ritual knife clatters down onto
the stone beside her, and for a moment she struggles desperately with the
clasp, getting it free somehow and fumbling it into her pocket, leaving a
trail of red smears from shoulder to hip. She finds the athame again by
touch, vision too blurred to be worth anything--sets it against her
forearm and draws it along from elbow to wrist, then reverses it, nearly
losing her grip on the blood-slicked hilt.  One last cut--with sudden
energy she slashes the blade viciously across her wrist, nearly cutting
down to the bone.

The athame clatters away again, and this time she doesn't care where it
fell. Gasping for breath around a knot in her throat, Seishi curls up on
her side on the slab, blood splashed all around like so much spilled
paint, and cries.

The world fades...but no, it's not fading. It's brightening. It goes not
to grey, but to pale blue, the heart of the sea opening up and taking the
spirits out of dying bodies. The three souls rise, leaving pain behind,
leaving fear behind, leaving sorrow behind, leaving hope behind, leaving
love behind. All that belongs to another world.

The blue-green glow intensifies within the little room at the center of
it.  Constantine looks at the inner circle for a moment. Then he picks up
the chalice and overturns it, dousing the candles in blood and seawater.
They go out, but the glow only gets brighter. John steps back and puts the
materials back in his bag, all except for a piece of chalk, which he uses
to draw a circle around the outer triangle. As he closes the circle, the
glow brightens suddenly to near-blinding, then dissipates. The spell is
over.  Sealed.

Far above, the demons are thrown back into their lair, once again confined
to the waters of the Bermuda Triangle. In the darkness of the little cave,
Constantine stands there for a moment, shoulders slumped. If anyone could
see his face, it would be remarkably like that of a junkie who's crashed
from his high and now must face reality. Finally, he picks up his bag,
puts on his trenchcoat, and starts back up the steps.

The three souls bound to the Triangle float in an endless sea. Not the
rough, everchanging, dangerous sea of what is by common consent called
reality, but a shining stretch of blue reaching out to eternity. The waves
are warm and gentle but ceaseless, and their rise and fall create an
indescribable music. After a while (perhaps eons, perhaps only a few
seconds), the memories come: a tide of sounds and images from the good
times. They, too, come in a rhythm, rising and falling with the changeless
sea.

Outside the Crystal Caves, the storm has stopped for just a little while.
It is the eye of the hurricane. Soon the sky will rage again, but for now,
the world is calm.