DCU: Zatanna Volume 2 Issue 9, "Edirp"

“Though I've tried before to tell her,

Of the feelings I have for her

in my heeeeeeeeart,

Every time that I come near her,

I just lose my nerve as I've done

from the staaaaaart!

Every little thing she does is magic!”

 

Zatanna’s ringtone. She sits up from bed and snatches the singing flip phone off her side table, and takes note of the clock in the corner of its screen - it’s 8:30 in the morning. Below this clock, though, is a name - one left unacknowledged before she answers the call.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Zee, where the hell are you?” Zatanna’s close friend and stage manager, Mikey Dowling, whispers through gritted teeth on the other line.

 

“Mikey? What are you talking about?” asks Zatanna, a hand on her forehead.

 

“Remember when we scheduled your magic shows for the season? And when we agreed to have one on October 30th, at 8:30 AM?”

 

“That’s gotta be a typo - why on Earth would I have a show this early in the morning?”

 

“I thought it was a little weird, too, but it’s too late to go back now; there’s already an audience! Biggest in months!”

 

“Shit, seriously? Alright, alright, I’m on my way.” Zatanna hangs up the phone, and casts a spell to reequip her magician attire. She rushes out of her bedroom in a panic, but before she can manage to exit the apartment entirely, she is stopped in her tracks by John Constantine.

 

“Wait,” he says, a hand out.

 

She turns to him, as he stands by the table - the one Alan Dell’s corpse once sat beside.

 

“Where did-..?” Zatanna points to the empty chair.

 

“Oh, he’s still there - I used a cloaking spell. It’s temporary, in this one state of emergency. I’ll figure out something better. Just hasn’t come to me yet.”

 

“‘State of emergency’? What’s going on-“

 

Knock-knock-knock.

 

“Come in, Dee Cee,” John calls out.

 

The door is opened by a man with brunette curls, a sweater of slate blue polyester, and a police badge on display between his fingers.

 

“That’s Detective Dee Cee, to you,” the man says to John - in a thick Jersey accent - before looking down to Zatanna. “Dale Colton. I’m with the SFPD.”

 

“He’s my informant. Or one of, anyway,” John explains.

 

“Whoa whoa whoa, John, you’re not gonna wait for me to close the door first?” asks Dale, a small smirk contrasting with his bushy, worried brows as he carefully pushes the door shut. 'Click,' says the latch.

 

Zatanna’s pupils dilate at the door knob, and she stumbles slightly. “I hate to say this, but I really have to go-“

 

“I overheard, Zee - you have a show scheduled - but, I think you’ve aught to postpone - and I would never tell you that if it wasn’t important,” John assures.

 

“It’s about The Enchantress. There’s been a… Recent development,” says Dale.

 

Any and all of Zatanna’s movement is put to a complete halt.

 

“…There was an attack. On the UCSF Medical Centre,” Dale continues. “We don’t know how many dead. The bodies seem to have disappeared, though the building went from chock-full of patients, staff, to completely empty within a single night. Empty aside from-“

 

“The green fire.” Zatanna’s words are somehow both whispered and echoed. Words of fear. Words of trauma. She turns to John. “Are there… Any leads, on where they might be?”

 

“Not yet,” says John, before nodding to Dale.

 

“This investigation is the number one priority for my precinct and numerous others. We’ve been looking everywhere. She and her victims seem to have completely vanished off the face of the Earth.”

 

“Have you checked underground?”

 

“We have some guys checking Delevinge car tunnels.”

 

“Delevinge… There’s that name again…” John scratches his head.

 

“We’re investigating them, too, actually - thanks for that black market theory, it’s getting us somewhere. See, we’re noticing that their tunnels, their buildings, they’re all over the city - but nobody ever talks about them. Nobody knows what they sell. And it’s like, you really have to think about it to even notice they exist,” Dale explains.

 

“Hmmm. That’s awfully suspicious,” says John. “Could be something psychic at play-“

 

“What about the sky?” Zatanna interjects, following up on her underground comment. “The Enchantress is able to fly, you know.”

 

“Yes, we’re using helicopters - but currently, still, no leads. Which is why I came here; I mean, you guys have got magic or whatever, don’t you have some way of finding her?”

 

“Them,” Zatanna corrects. “Not her. The Enchantress is two people, not one.”

 

“Uh, okay - them - but my question still stands,” says Dale.

 

“It’s not that simple,” John explains.

 

Zatanna nods in agreement with John. “Spells of teleportation do exist, but they require previous physical contact with the person you’re having teleported to you, or the place you're teleporting yourself to. Magic, on the contrary to popular belief, has its limitations.”

 

“And,” John adds, “that’s not even mentioning that we don’t know every spell in existence. And I’d say I could use a psychic map, but again, needs a souvenir of previous contact; like, a hair or something.”

 

“But even if we knew who the host was, and had a hair from them, it probably wouldn’t be enough for a psychic map; the switch to Enchantress shifts tons of biology, so it probably wouldn’t be read as the same person, if I had to guess,” says Zatanna.

 

“Wow, okay, you two really just have every excuse,” Dale laughs.

 

Zatanna steps towards Dale. “You seriously came here thinking we’d have a way of magically fixing everything? We don’t. If we did, we would’ve done it already. We’re not Gods, we’re just… We’re like you. We just happen to have some tools you don’t have, and we’re doing the best we can with them… Although…”

 

“‘Although’?”

 

“I did just get one idea - a potential next move - hold on, lemme try something…” She pulls out a pack of what appears to playing cards. Opens the pack, shuffles them, holds them out before Dale. “Pick a card, any card.”

 

“Are you… Are you serious?”

 

“Just do it, Dale,” John requests.

 

“Could you at least explain the mechanics first?” Dale bargains.

 

“I’ll explain later,” says Zatanna. “After you pick a card.”

 

He pauses, lets out a sigh, then points to the one third away from her right thumb. She flips it around.

 

“What do you see?” Zatanna asks.

 

“The… Burnt down house. The one Enchantress burnt down.”

 

“Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere,” says Zatanna, before reaching for both John’s hand and nodding downward. He looks puzzled for a moment, before taking her hand, and using his other hand to tap Alan’s invisible body on the shoulder. Then, Zatanna reaches for Dale’s hand. He takes it, and then, the trio appear in the remainder of the house. Some walls, frames, floorboards, but it’s all blackened with ash, and smothered in police tape.

 

“I don’t understand, why did the card… What’s going on?”

 

“Psychic cards only work when the viewer isn’t forcing themselves to think of something - it'd muddy the magic. But what we know now, is that this is either a place from The Enchantress’s past, present, or future.”

 

“Past. Obviously past, we know they’ve already been here.”

 

“Hm. Good point. Okay, another option: where’s the nearest Delevigne building from here?”

 

“Across the street from Dunkin’ Doughnuts?”

 

The trio hold hands again, as Zatanna teleports them to Dunkin’ Doughnuts. They cross the road, and open the front doors of Delevigne. Inside is eerily mundane; drowned in shades of tans and beiges, lit with blinding fluorescents.

 

“Do you have a scheduled meeting?” asks a receptionist.

 

“Mhm,” answers Zatanna.

 

“With whom?”

 

She aims her wand in the face of the receptionist. “Eveileb I tsuj dias eht eman fo a reganam ro rehto ytirohtua nosrep ohw skrow ereh! Osla, tegrof I tsuj demia a cigam dnaw ni ruoy ecaf!”

 

“Not being very creative, now are we?” Whispers John, nudging her shoulder - after having quickly traced the letters on his palm to figure out what she’d just said.

 

“I don’t have the energy to be creative right now,” Zatanna whispers back.

 

“Eldon Peck is not seeing anyone at this time, I’m afraid,” says the receptionist.

 

Dale backs away, startled. “That name.”

 

“What? What is it?” Asks John.

 

Without another word, Dale runs off, gets into a vehicle - that is not his - and starts the engine. John and Zatanna run after him.

 

“What’s going on?” John asks again.

 

“Leave me out of this. Find the witch - witches, whatever - on your own. I’m not having any part in this.”

 

Zatanna readies her wand in preparation to stop the vehicle, but suddenly, Dale pulls his firearm from his holster and aims it through the open window.

 

“Don’t touch me with another one of your goddamn spells,” he orders. “Don’t you dare.”

 

John and Zatanna back away from the vehicle, and Dale drives off.

 

“…Hm. Well. That was unexpected,” says John.

 

Zatanna doesn’t respond verbally, but quickly, she goes back to the doors of the Delevigne building - but directly behind the doors, is nothing but a plain brick wall.

 

“Huh. Well, as strange as this all was,” says John, “I think this puts all the puzzle pieces together, yeah?”

 

“Delevingne’s a front for a magic black market-“

 

“-likely run by this ‘Eldon Peck’ fellow-”

 

“-Alan Dell must’ve been a member, or at least investor in the whole thing-”

 

“-His benefits being, perhaps, free knickknacks? The Enchantress artifact, for example-”

 

“-But, this Peck guy must like to keep tabs on his business partners, so he won’t get blowback for any damage caused by said ‘knickknacks’ - hence the DITO.”

 

“Yeah. Okay. Yes. We’re on the same page. But… This still doesn’t tell us where The Enchantress is.”

 

“…I hate to do this,” Zatanna prefaces, wincing, “but do you think I can get back to helping later? It’s just, y’know, with Dale gone, I feel a little less urgency to skip this magic show? Mikey said it’s the biggest audience in months, and…”

 

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Why not. I’ll put a dent in it on my own, no worries.”

 

“Kay, thank you…” Zatanna pulls out her phone, punches in Mikey’s number, brings it to her ear.

 

“Took too long,” says Mikey.

 

“What do you mean, ‘took too long’?” Zatanna pulls the phone away, looks again at the clock in the corner. “It’s been a whole half hour?!”

 

“Mhm. Not to worry, though, cause your ol’ pal Mikey had a backup plan: called in your cousin.”

 

“Zach? Zach is performing right now?”

 

“Mhm. Caught the audience off guard for sure, but most folks are satisfied; he normally charges higher than you do, so this looks like a bargain.”

 

“Huh. Well. Okay, then… Do you still need me there?”

 

“Not really. You can go deal with whatever’s got you so preoccupied, superhero.”

 

“Alright, then - see you tomorrow.”

 

“You don’t have a show tomorrow.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Mikey hangs up.

 

“Well. That’s that, then,” Zatanna sighs.

 

“Breakfast?” asks John.

 

“Huh? Shouldn’t we focus on the case?”

 

“Last night’s been a lot. This morning’s been a lot. Least I could do is buy you a meal.”

 

Zatanna tries to think of a reason to say no, but can’t. “If you insist.”

 

“Cool. Right this way, Madam,” says John in a comedic accent, beginning to turn a corner on the somewhat busy sidewalk, his trench coat flowing.

 

Despite feeling a bit out of body, Zatanna follows - quickly casting a spell to change her attire into something casual, but presentable; a coral coloured lace top and blue jeans.

 

They reach a small restaurant, the sign above the door reading “The Quiet Ambassador”.

 

Inside is decorated in earthy hues; comforting oranges and browns. There are wood carven cacti all around, and tables sporadically occupied by anyone from a young hipster gentleman taking photographs of his omelette, to an elderly woman awaiting her congee to cool. Zatanna cannot help but wonder why the establishment is called The Quiet Ambassador.

 

“Just the two of you?” asks a server, clad in a highlighter yellow uniform that matches nothing about the joint. Despite the contradictions and oddities, there’s something in the air that does bring Zatanna to a state of higher comfort - though, mere at best.

 

“Yep,” John answers the server.

 

“Sit anywhere you like, I’ll be with you shortly.”

 

The Magician and the Detective take a seat by a window, with a perfect view of where they were moments ago. Zatanna looks out that window, ponders where Dale could’ve driven off to. She tries not to worry about it.

 

“Heard you were talking to that Mikey friend of yours. Haven’t seen him in quite a while, how’s he?” John asks.

 

“She - Mikey’s pronoun is she.”

 

“Oh! Right on, right on.”

 

“She’s doing good, though. Can’t believe once upon a time I was bossing her around - how the tables have turned. She’s gotten real confident over the years.”

 

“Ah, well, good for her… Hate to intrude, but do you know how it was for her, getting the meds? I know that stuff’s a bitch to get a hold of in England - any easier here?”

 

“Oh, she didn’t have a need for estrogen; I was the first person she came out to, so, I did my magic on her.”

 

“Huh, I see! She knows that’ll wear off eventually, right?”

 

“It won’t.”

 

“…You gave her a spell-sustaining amulet? Zee, you’ve only got so many of those! You can’t just be handing them out!”

 

“Mikey’s a friend, I think it’d be messed up not to.”

 

“Sure, but what puts her above any other trans person? What gives her the privilege?”

 

“I’d argue helping out one person is better than helping out none - and is that not what a hero’s philosophy should be?”

 

“Alrighty,” says the server, now standing above the duo. “Drinks to start?”

 

“Yeah,” says John, looking to Zatanna. “I’m getting a black coffee, what do you want?”

 

“Um. London fog, please,” Zatanna requests, looking up to the server.

 

“Coming right up.” The server walks off again, putting her pencil behind her ear.

 

Zatanna pauses, staring off at nothing in particular while twiddling a hair strand and bouncing one leg up and down. “What Dale said earlier has got me thinking,” she spits out, immediately regretting it a little. “‘Don’t touch me with another one of your spells. Don’t you dare’.”

 

“What about it?”

 

“Do you ever worry what we do is a violation?”

 

“No more than cops using guns on murderers.”

 

Zatanna’s body tenses.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” John apologizes, “I shoulda known not to use that example right now.”

 

“…I’ve tapped into people’s minds. Made people go to sleep. Turned living beings into other living beings, completely shifted their matter. Even the little things, like turning a baseball bat into a bouquet of flowers. Maybe that bat meant something to that guy, what do I know? What gives me the right?”

 

“Zee. You’re religious, ain’t ya?”

 

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

 

“And here you are,” says the returning server, placing both drinks on the table. “Have you decided what you’ll be eating?”

 

The two both begin skimming the menu.

 

“I’ll have… The coconut breakfast curry,” says John.

 

“And I’ll have the French toast, add strawberries. Thank you so much.”

 

The server smiles as she walks off again, taking the menus with her.

 

“I’ve met lots a blokes,” says John, moving his attention back to Zatanna, “who were so consumed by what’s right, and what’s wrong. If you spend your whole life asking questions, then nothing gets done. Religion’s a negative influence on that - and I mean, anybody who’s seen what you and I’ve seen should know it’s a waste of time.”

 

“If you never question what you believe is right or wrong, true or false, then you risk going your whole life doing nothing but bad things.” Zatanna points her wand at her London fog, discreetly whispers a spell to spike the drink with gin. She stirs it with the wand, slurps the foam off it, then casts a spell to clean it.

 

“And then what? You get punished by some big shot in red, who’s kept track of every bad thing you’ve ever done? Newsflash, I’ve met the guy - and he simply does not care enough about you or anyone else to keep those tabs. All a load of bull-shite and fairytale.” He takes a sip of his coffee.

 

“…You are very close-minded.”

 

“Yeah?” asks John, a defeated smirk on his face and a cigarette behind his ear for later. “I’d love to be wise - love to - but that’s not how life’s shaped me.”

 

“What I mean is just, holy shit, John, we were together for years, and you couldn’t remember that I’m Jewish?”

 

John hides his face behind a tired hand as he begins chuckling to himself. “Bloody hell.” His hand falls as he adds, “even so, doesn’t that still impact your philosophy? Means you believe in God, yeah? What’s that mean for you?”

 

“Not much, in terms of my want to be a good person - I’d just call that human decency.”

 

“And what, you’re saying I don’t have any of that?”

 

“I wouldn’t say that.”

 

“What would you say?”

 

“That you’re not very good at debating.”

 

“I didn’t sign up for a debate, all we agreed to was breakfast.”

 

“In lieu of recent events, I’d debate that a debate was in order.”

 

“Is it done?”

 

“Debatably,” she hiccups.

 

John leans forward, whispers the question “how much gin did you put in that fog?”

 

“Not enough.” Her eyes look even more tired than he does.

 

“Here’s your coconut breakfast curry,” says the server, returning yet again, “and your French toast - with strawberries. Enjoy!”

 

“Cheers,” says John, looking upon the meals. “While my memory may be iffy, my bias against religion may be a little Christ-centric, and my debating prowess may be rough around the edges, one thing you’ve aught to hand me is my judge of character.”

 

“Sure,” Zatanna snorts, taking the first bite of her French toast. “You are a detective, after all.”

 

“And a bloody good one, I’d add. But you see what’s funny about right now, yeah? So much on your mind, and you’re forced to pick a first meal of the day, what do you go with? Most cutesy, whimsical dish on the damn menu. Everywhere you go, your persona follows.”

 

“And in contrast, John Constantine couldn’t bare to add even a touch of cream or sugar to his coffee. Wouldn’t wanna risk brightening your day, now would ya? Would put a stop to that brooding.”

 

They laugh.

 

“If you thought it’d do so much good for me, why didn’t you add a sugar or two with that magic stirrer of yours?”

 

“It crossed my mind - but, it’d be a violation.” That last word brings Zatanna back to the debate - the debate that wasn’t much of a debate, it’s debatable - and her mind wanders on a path from that. She feels the back of her neck.

 

Scarless.

 

Her eyes go big, she backs her chair away from the table as she begins thinking out loud. “You told me to heal myself last night and I chose not to, and I know you didn’t say any spells of your own after that - you’re not nearly as good at subtlety as I am.”

 

“Can you quit it with the criticism?” John laughs, but his face quickly goes serious upon realizing what Zatanna is realizing.

 

“At about 1:30 in the morning, despite my nightmare, I could still hear the door creaking open. You came into my bedroom. And you used a spell on me.”

 

“Zee, wait, I-“

 

“You came into my bedroom. While I was asleep. And you used a spell on me.”

 

“…”

 

Zatanna throws a 50 dollar bill onto the table and storms out of The Quiet Ambassador.

 

And then casts a spell to put the French toast into a takeout box, and then casts another spell to put that in her hand.

 

 

Done