Chapter 1

Things never go smoothly in the life experience of John Constantine. And if they do seem to be going smoothly, it's usually some kind of trap or, at best, the eye before a particularly nasty storm. It had been three months since he'd walked away from the Legends and departed 1925 Texas to return to 2021 London. He wasn't ready to face Chas or see if Zed was still speaking to him. As far as they were concerned he'd disappeared some time in 2017 and hadn't contacted them since. The last time he'd done that, Chas had arranged a funeral service for him and hadn't been exactly amused when the presumed-deceased had turned up at the wake looking for a pint and a catch up.

Anyway, he'd needed some time alone to gather his thoughts. Firstly, to process breaking things off with Zari Tarazi. Well, OK, 'process' wasn't really a thing that John was particularly strong at. He'd dealt with it the way he dealt with everything; booze, badly timed sarcasm and by getting roped into some really nasty occult nonsense. And, truth be told, as much as he knew he'd done the right thing, it still stung to think about her. Luckily, he'd barely had time to wallow in his misery as things seemed to be moving pretty bloody fast. As per usual.

The acquaintance in Hell he'd bargained his newly recovered soul to in exchange for his life and severance from The Fountain of Imperium, had turned out to be a particularly impatient individual. After arriving in London and finding a place to crash, John had already spotted the usual signs of Hell nipping at his heels to reclaim his soul. Crows perched constantly outside his small rented room. In fact, the landlady, Mrs Smith; a sour-faced old white woman who always looked ready to whip her slipper off and brandish it as a weapon, had complained to him about it.

"I'm not a bird whisperer, Mrs Smith" he'd said after the third time she'd banged on his door to complain about the bird shit and the noise, "I didn't invite the little bleeders here, did I?" But he had, really, hadn't he? Just by being here.

There was also a big, black shadow dog following him around just outside of his peripheral vision. A Hellhound. It was getting closer and, once it caught up, it would mean lights out for John Constantine. Again. Maybe even permanently this time.

Most of his old London contacts were either dead or avoiding him. He'd been in the US so long and then… elsewhere (and elseWHEN with the Legends), that the ones that might talk to him probably assumed he was dead. And, give it another few days, they might be right. The Tate club, a once exclusive Magicians-only club where the 'who's who' of the London occult scene could rub shoulders and talk bollocks, was long gone (mostly as a result of his own doing, he grimaced); the members either dead or scattered. He was completely solo. And, to be honest, that's how he liked it. Usually. But that big fucking dog was getting closer with every passing day and he had to admit to himself that he was starting to feel a little uneasy.

It was a Sunday morning and it was cold. John reached blindly out to the wobbly bedside table for his cigarettes, trying to avoid getting up for a little longer. He'd been in trouble so often for smoking in his room that Mrs Smith had eventually just taken the no smoking sign away and stuck an extra tenner onto his weekly room rate. "For the repainting costs" she'd explained. John had raised an eyebrow at that, considering the cracked and peeling walls and ceiling in his tiny single room, but he'd decided it was probably the best offer he was likely to get. The entire UK, like everywhere else, was pretty much a bloody no smoking zone these days.

He lit up, still keeping his eyes closed and only opened them after taking a very long, very deep drag. Proper cigarettes. How he'd missed them. Gideon hadn't been able to fabricate them very well on the Waverider and magic can only do so much. His best bet had been sneaking out to procure some from whatever time and place they'd been visiting on their travels, resulting in some very interesting experiences. But then, of course, after the little cancer situation he'd quit smoking. But what was the point in that now that he was alone, miserable and damned again? So, the first thing he'd done upon arriving in ol' Blighty had been to find a corner shop and procure enough cigarettes to get him through the week. Or, as it had happened, the first night.

He slowly sat up, rubbing his bloodshot eyes and padded over to the grubby little window. He was naked, but he was fairly sure no one could see into this tiny box room from the neighbouring windows, and it overlooked a grimy little back alley that only the most suicidal of drug dealers would venture into. And, if someone could see him? Well, they'd soon learn not to look, eh? Or… maybe they'd look more. He shrugged to himself, stubbing out the cigarette and taking a swig of whisky from the mostly empty bottle on the windowsill. Let them look. A crow tapped the glass from the outside and John narrowed his eyes at it. "Piss off." He snarled, "I still have time", more to himself than the crow.

The room was basic and, in the three months since leaving the Legends behind, he hadn't exactly amassed many belongings. He wasn't even sure if the lock-up in America Chas kept still had any of his gear in it after all this time. Hell, he didn't even know if the Millhouse was still standing. He stooped down and pulled on a pair of trousers that had been lying crumpled on the floor, grabbed the cleaner of the two white shirts strewn over the broken chair by the bed and raked shaking fingers through his hair while looking at himself in the small plastic wall mirror Mrs Smith's very angry and very large son had hung up on the wall at an angle. His hollow-eyed reflection stared back at him. "You need to pull yourself together, John, Old Son." he told himself, taking in his haggard appearance. He took another swig of whisky, and set off out of the room while pulling on his coat. He didn't bother locking the room door behind him.

"Rent is due tomorrow, Mr. Constantine" Mrs Smith said in her nasally voice as he passed her in the hallway on his way out of the building.

"Don't you worry, love" he assured her with a wink, "Am I ever late?"

She huffed and added a remark about the smell of cigarettes while he bumped the door open with his back so he could maintain eye contact with her as he left. She hated that.

Feeling somewhat cheered after pissing off the landlady, John walked purposefully towards a little greasy café he had become a regular at about two streets down. He polished off another cigarette en route. As he stamped it out outside the café door, he noted the Hellhound's tail disappear behind a building across the street. The odour of sulphur lingered, but he knew only he could smell it. The stench was becoming stronger every time. John supressed a shudder and entered the café, giving the waitress, Stacey, the now customary charming smirk as she blushed and handed him a menu.

"You know I always order the same thing, Stacey, love." He said, handing her back the menu. She took it back, but he noted she purposefully brushed her fingers over his hand as she did.

"Pot of breakfast tea and a bacon roll" she giggled, "I know. Not that you ever eat it."

"Got it in one" he said, smiling, then sat down in the window booth, where he could watch the shadowy hound pacing, just out of eye line in an alleyway. "Bastard dog" he thought darkly.

He was still hunched over the table, staring at nothing so he could see the dog in his peripheral vision when the waitress returned with his order.

"You ok, love?" she asked, as John seemed to snap out of a trance and blinked at her.

"Yeah," he said, distantly, "Yeah. Fine…. Miles away." He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, but what he suspected, going by how quickly she left the table, was definitely something else. "Bloody hell" he sighed, finding he had lost his appetite, "Get it together, John." He told himself again.

The dog followed him as he wound his way through the streets. It waited for him when he exited the Subway. Everywhere he went the aroma of sulphur pervaded. It was nauseating. But he had managed to get what he needed from the few contacts in town he could scare up. And, small carrier bag in hand, he made his way back to his rented room as the sun set.

There were more crows perched outside on the TV aerials and the power cords. They all stared in at him as he switched on the room's naked lightbulb and pushed the bed against the shabby wall to clear some floor space. "What the hell are you all lookin' at, eh?" he snapped at the birds, but they didn't stop their unblinking glare. Shaking his head he got to work drawing out a chalk circle on the old bare wooden floorboards with the 'art supplies' he'd procured that day and sat cross legged in the centre, taking a small jar of stinking putty he'd gotten with the other stuff before anointing himself with a thumb-full of it and chanting the phrase he'd dug up from one of his contacts. A phrase that would let him, supposedly, speak some sense into his acquaintance in Hell about a little extension on his debt.

The smell of the putty was permeated suddenly with the stench of sulphur mixed with the smell of wet dog which made him stop chanting and open his eyes to come nose to muzzle with the furious, panting Hellhound. John made an involuntary yelp and jumped up, backing away from the drooling, stinking creature and breaking the circle. It stepped forward, mirroring him and snarled into a demonic smile.

"Bollocks" John breathed, backing towards the door, "I'll kill that useless bastard for this. Stitched me right up." The dog gave out a deep, low growl and John flung open the door and pelted down the stairs and out of the building. He narrowly avoided knocking over Mrs Smith, who was walking up the path with her trolley bag full of Tetley Tea and custard creams.

"Mind where you're going, Mr Constantine!" she yelled, "You lunatic!"

John didn't have time for an exchange of witty repartee, however, and just carried on running. The dog dodged the angry old woman and made a beeline straight for him. His lungs bursting after three months of making up for a year off the cigarettes, John reached a dead end in an alley with a locked metal door staring at him. He turned to see the hound stalking menacingly down after him, taking its time, knowing he was trapped. Thinking fast, he conjured a bit of a lightshow in one hand, sending it at the beast as a distraction, while producing an old, rusty key from his coat pocket and yanking the locked door open in to the pocket Hell dimension replica of his Mansion.

He fell through the doorway and slammed the door shut behind him, panting as he leaned against it. The hound had been racing towards him as he did so, but if it ran into the door in London he wouldn't know. He slid down onto the floor and put his head in his hands for a minute hoping it would stop ringing.

"John?" came a familiar voice and he looked up to see Zari standing over him wearing an oversized t-shirt and the messiest hair he'd ever seen on her.