Finally have got the next chapter up. Sorry it's been so long, but I am really lazy when it comes to updates. I think this is my favourite part so far, though be warned, I know nothing about poker. It just seemed likes something Constantine would do…

"The commonest mistake in history is underestimating your opponent; it happens at the poker table all the time." –General David Shoup

"I need you to get me everything you can on this licence plate."

Beeman didn't move, the back of his head bent low over his desk.

Constantine scowled, stepping forward and giving Beeman's shoulder a swift, sharp shake.

The English man yelped, jumping a foot in his chair as he came face to face with Constantine.

"Bloody hell!" he cried. "What are you trying to do, give me a bloody heart attack?"

"Didn't hear me come in?" Constantine asked.

Beeman frowned.

"What?" he yelled.

Constantine sighed, reaching out for the source of the problem, plucking an impossibly tiny headphone from Beeman's ear.

"What are you doing?"

Beeman shrugged, taking the headphone back.

"Relaxing," he replied.

Constantine narrowed his eyes, listening to the buzz of music spilling from the earphone.

"Is that the Spice Girls?"

Beeman turned a little pink, muttering shiftily as he hastened to turn off the minute mp3 player lying on his desk.

"What do you want, John?" he asked, his back to Constantine.

"I need a trace on a licence plate." Constantine held out the paper on which he'd written the hastily caught number.

Beeman turned, eyeing the paper.

"What makes you think I can do that?"

Constantine shifted impatiently. "I know you have connections."

"Things aren't as simple as they used to be. It isn't about favours anymore." He squinted at the numbers. "It's not possible."

Beeman turned, as if to dismiss the idea, but Constantine shot out his hand, grasping Beeman's arm, forcing him to listen.

"It's important." Oh, how he loathed to say it. "Please."

Beeman looked at him, considering.

"It'll cost you."

Constantine narrowed his eyes.

"Where?"

"Venezuela."

"No fucking way."

"I've already found one."

"Then why can't you just get it?"

Beeman shifted his eyes slightly.

"It requires certain…skill?"

"What kind of skill?"

"…poker?"

Constantine's hand, still gripping Beeman's arm, tightened to painful.

"No. Fucking. Way."

"Well, I suppose you can't want the licence plate that badly then…"

He let out a little squeak as Constantine's hand tightened again.

"You're good at poker!"

"I don't play anymore."

"It saved our lives once."

"And I haven't played since then."

"Well maybe it's time you relearn."

Beeman's face was flushed, tiny beads of sweat decorating his hairline.

Constantine sighed.

"Where?"

"Fairmont's. Down on fifty fourth. Two hundred dollar buy in."

"Shit," he muttered. He glared at the other man. "You better hope I'm as good as you remember. I need that information by tonight."

Beeman nodded, looking slightly relieved.

"Uh, John?"

"Yes?" he said icily.

"Could you, um, let go of me now?"

Constantine glanced down to his hand, still painfully tight on Beeman's wrist.

He let go and turned to leave.

"Tonight," he called over his shoulder.

"I think you broke my wrist," Beeman called back.

Serve the little asshole right.

Constantine made his way to fifty fourth, only stopping briefly at his apartment to change his shirt and grab a sizeable wad of cash.

He had a feeling he'd be needing it.

The poker game was taking place in the back of an elegant bar filled with smoke and high class drunks, and Constantine pushed back the plush velvet curtain to reveal a circular table with four men sitting round it, lamps turned low, air thick with cigarettes.

Despite himself, he felt a frisson of excitement run through his stomach.

He had always loved poker.

Four sets of eyes turned to him as he entered, but he met only one, those of a man in an elegant pin striped suit, dark moustache brushing an expensive cigar, an air of authority about him.

The power.

"You in charge here?"

The man looked him up and down, then nodded slowly. He gestured to the table.

"Interested?"

Constantine nodded in return. He detected a slight accent. French.

The man raised an eyebrow.

"Two hundred buy in," he said. "We play dirty."

Constantine allowed himself an easy smile. He always loved it dirty.

The man offered him a chair.

"Get this man a drink," he ordered the bar tender, hovering nearby. He held out his hand.

"Jacques Fairmont."

Ah. As in 'Fairmont's'.

Constantine shook his hand. "John Constantine. And a Jack Daniel's."

Fairmont raised his slender eyebrow again.

"Gentlemen, welcome Mr Constantine to the table. A new game."

Several players groaned, one shooting Constantine a particularly poisonous look as he tossed his cards into the centre.

"Your buy in?"

Constantine fished $200 from his pocket and placed it on the table in front of him. The other players did the same.

Fairmont nodded slightly, then shuffled the cards expertly, before dealing them out to each player.

Constantine picked his up, careful to keep his face devoid of any reaction.

The game was on.

Eyes lowered, Constantine chanced a glance around the table, taking in each of the other player's expression with practiced indifference

They were good, these guys, there was no doubt about that, but Constantine was confident that they weren't quite good enough. He had felt the thrill returning with the first game; the instincts slowly stretching, shaking off the dust and uncurling within him as he remembered the rush, the feel, the concentration that came with the game. By the second he was thrumming with the high, with the sweat and focus and the down right dirtiness that came with poker, moving in his veins as if it had never left, as if it hadn't been years since he had played. He found himself looking, instinctively, for the natural tell tale signs, the way the big guy to his right clenched a fist at a bad hand, but rubbed his fingers together at a good. Poor guy probably didn't realise that he was being read like a book. The way the guy opposite him had a twitchy eye. It was minute, almost imperceptible, but Constantine could see it, twitching away at his cards, faster if he was nervous, slower if he was on top.

Really, it was too easy.

The only one he couldn't get a good read from was Fairmont.

Fairmont was a master, alright. His poker face was perfect, flawless. He had won every

game so far, smirking in satisfaction when Constantine folded, assuming that he wasn't quite up to it, raising an eyebrow every time Constantine ploughed back in, as if questioning his sanity.

But Constantine was no fool.

Each time he folded, he let Jacques Fairmont underestimate him a little more. Fairmont was confident, too confident, which Constantine would make sure was his downfall. He could have wiped the table with Fairmont three times already, but he wanted Fairmont to be sure he couldn't lose, to be sure that Constantine couldn't beat him, before delivering his final blow.

He perused his cards; easily the highest in the game. But Fairmont was still underestimating him.

He sighed.

"I'll fold."

There it was. That fleeting spark of satisfaction in Fairmont's blue eyes, that tell tale smirk that told him Jacques Fairmont thought he was invincible.

Not for long.

"And that, gentlemen, is a full house, I believe."

Fairmont laid his cards out in the table. Straight in diamonds.

Constantine thought of his royal flush, now buried in the pile, and fought a smirk.

"Are you prepared to play another game, Mr Constantine?" Fairmont laughed. "Or perhaps you have lost enough money today, yes?"

Constantine levelled him with a mild stare.

"I'm in."

Once again, that infuriating smirk.

"Very well. Ray, your turn to deal."

Constantine held Fairmont's eyes as he received his cards, only breaking away to pull out another $200.

Crap, this was costing him.

They went round the circle, each presenting their buy in, then taking a card.

Fairmont, to the left of Ray, smiled a shark's smile.

"I will raise you four hundred dollars."

Inwardly Constantine cringed, but he dutifully coughed up the money. If he didn't win this all back, Beeman was going to be paying him back in fifty dollar instalments for a long, long time.

He selected another card, careful to keep his face blank as he slid it into his hand. He could feel Fairmont's eyes on him.

Don't give anything away.

They had only been round four times when the bar was raised to a thousand, and Ray folded, closely followed by Big Guy (whose fist was clenched so tight Constantine thought it might be locked like that). A few more rounds, several more raises and

Twitchy Eye followed, leaving only Constantine and Fairmont.

"Hmm, Mr Constantine. I must admit, you are showing more bravado than I expected." Fairmont dipped his head slightly. "I commend you." He smiled. "But it will not save you, I think."

Constantine contemplated his cards. He was getting bored anyway.

"How about we raise the stakes a little?"

Fairmont raised his eyebrow.

"I happen to know you are in possession of a certain…artefact of value which I am interested in owning."

Fairmont tilted his head questioningly.

"Artefact?"

Constantine allowed an easy smile to cross his face.

"Venezuela."

Fairmont's eyes narrowed.

"And now we get to the true reason of your presence here. I don't suppose I need to tell you exactly what the worth of that particular…artefact is."

Constantine shrugged.

"Well, I wouldn't have just asked for it."

"Ah but you did, Mr Constantine. That is precisely what you have done. You presume to march into my bar and dupe me out of one of my rare collection. You are either very desperate or very stupid."

He studied Constantine for a moment, and Constantine unconsciously held his breath.

He had to get this. He had to get to Chas.

"Very well." Fairmont clapped his hands together. "If you win," his expression indicated that this was unlikely "I will give you Venezuela. But the question is, if you lose, what will you give me?"

His eyes gave a very definite sweep of Constantine's body.

Fucking hell. Was nobody straight these days?

"You can have anything you want," he replied, voice steady, meeting the challenge though in reality he wanted to run as fast he could in the other direction.

Fairmont smiled a satisfied smile. The cat that got the cream.

Constantine had better be as good as he thought he was.

"A deal then. I raise you $2500."

Great.

He pushed the obligatory money into the centre.

"$2500."

Fairmont's smile widened.

Constantine didn't react. Let him think he's on top until the very last moment. He was looking forward to seeing that self-assured expression drop like a stone the moment he revealed his cards.

"Last chance, Mr Constantine."

"I never back out of a bet."

"As you wish."

Fairmont revealed his cards. It wasn't a bad hand, actually. It should have been the winning hand. Should have been, but wasn't.

Constantine laid his own cards on the table.

It was quite comical really, the disbelief on Fairmont's face, followed soon by barely concealed rage.

"I believe that makes Venezuela mine. And all this."

He reached for the stack of money sitting on the table, patting it into a tidy pile and slipping it into his pocket.

He looked expectantly at Fairmont.

For a second he thought the French man might explode with his anger, but after a moment's struggle he brought himself visibly under control.

"Of course. A deal, after all, is a deal."

He moved around the small room, graceful, composed as he reached into a box on a high shelf. For a moment his hand hovered inside, as if reluctant to go through with it, then he extracted a small package wrapped in brown paper.

"Venezuela."

Constantine took the light package, slipping it carefully into his inner jacket pocket.

"And that, gentlemen," his tone held a slight mocking note "is my cue to leave."

He turned towards the curtain, but the careful voice of Fairmont stopped him.

"One moment, Mr Constantine."

He hesitated, suddenly keenly aware that Ray and Big Guy were between him and the exit.

"I do not think it is quite fair that we allow you to parade in here, cheat us out of our money and a worthy artefact and then walk out empty handed. It seems only right that we should…repay you in some way."

Definitely not good.

"There's no need."

Constantine made for the curtain, but Big Guy's arm shot out, hand wrapping around his throat, Ray pulling his arms behind him.

Shit.

Fairmont came around Ray, standing between Big Guy and Constantine, who was having a hard time breathing. A carefully manicured finger reached out, running gently across Constantine's cheek.

"Such confidence, such arrogance. It is beautiful, non?"

He breathed in deeply.

"I can smell it on you. You believe you can conquer the world. Your power. It makes me dizzy with lust. With want."

His hand moved around Constantine's face, caressing his chin.

"You are so very beautiful."

He leaned forward, thin lips pressing against Constantine's mouth, which was still struggling to draw breath. Disgust welled within him as he felt Fairmont's tongue, thin like his lips, probing, trying to force entry.

A sudden anger, raw, red flew through him. He would not allow Fairmont to touch him like that.

With a growl, Constantine jerked forward, pressing onto Big Guy's hand, opening his mouth to accept Fairmont's tongue then biting down on it. Hard.

Fairmont let out a howl, pulling sharply backwards and flinging his hands upon his injured tongue, elbowing Big Guy in the face. Big Guy's grip loosened, and Constantine threw his head backwards, knocking hard against Ray's forehead. It was Ray's turn to howl, releasing Constantine's hands, and Constantine punched Fairmont in his bleeding mouth with all his might. Fairmont went down, pinning Big Guy beneath him, and Constantine turned, just in time to see and duck a punch from Twitchy Eye, who had come rushing to the rescue. He latched onto Twitchy Eye's waist and propelled him across the room, crashing him into the poker table, which folded under their weight, cards scattering everywhere. Twitchy Eye jerked his knee upwards, towards Constantine's groin, but Constantine sensed the move, rolling to the right and lashing out with his foot, catching Twitchy in the stomach, causing his head to snap back against the floor.

Twitchy was down, but Big Guy was lumbering to his feet, Ray recovering from the knock to his head. Constantine pulled himself to his feet, tripped over a table leg and caught his balance, then was forced to step back as the two thugs advanced.

His back hurt and there was raw, throbbing pain in his head; he must have hit when he fell. He wasn't sure that he could win this fight.

Big Guy roared, diving towards him, and Constantine pushed his doubt aside, reverting to basic animal instinct: survival of the fittest.

He met him head on, ducking the fast punches and delivering one of his own, upwards, to the underneath of the jaw. Big Guy's head went back with a sickening crack, and his eyes blinked dazedly for a moment before he slid bonelessly to the floor.

Constantine didn't have time to contemplate his victory; Ray was upon him, wrapping his arm around Constantine's throat and punching him hard in the stomach. Constantine choked, winded, as he slumped against Ray, unable to draw breath. He felt Ray's arm tighten, and, through the spots dancing in front of his eyes, felt a stab of annoyance. What was it with people trying to strangle him today?

Reaching into one of his coat pockets, his fingers scrabbled over various shapes before coming to rest on a thin, sharp dagger Beeman had given him. Coated in steel from the armour of a Crusader, it was meant to give a demon a rather nasty shock.

Constantine figured it would work on regular humans just as well.

He extracted the knife, drawing his arm back and plunging it into the one wrapped around his throat. Ray cried out, pulling his arm back and Constantine flipped the knife, raising it above Ray's head and bringing the handle down on the top of his skull.

Ray's eyes rolled back in their sockets, and he too went down.

Constantine stepped back, slipping the knife back into his pocket. On the floor, Fairmont was watching him with wide eyes, blood pooling on the wood from his open mouth.

"You are a monster," he whispered.

Constantine shrugged.

"Yeah? And you're a pervert."

He leant down to Fairmont, placing his face very close.

"You might want to remember what happens to perverts the next time you try and rape someone."

He turned and walked from the bar, back ram rod straight, slamming the door behind him.

It was only along the street that he let his posture slip, staggering slightly as the pain in his back and head caused a wave of dizziness. Shit, he probably had concussion.

He hailed a taxi, woozily giving the driver his address as he clambered into the backseat.

He struggled to keep his eyes open as the adrenaline began to wear off, his hands shaking uncontrollably as his eye lids drooped. He had to stay awake. If he was concussed then falling asleep was bad, very bad. He had to stay...if only his eyelids weren't so damn heavy…he had won one fight that day, but this one he could only lose as his conscious was dragged from being into blank nothingness.

He groaned, swimming through the murky layers of awareness as he began to wake, the throbbing pain in his head only slightly mollified by a cool, damp cloth wiping across his forehead.

His eye lids fluttered open, and he was struck by a very strong sense of déjà vu.

Gabriel was sitting by his bed, her hand holding the cloth that dabbed at his head, her hair loose around her face. She looked softer and more forgiving than she had the last time they met.

"Thought you didn't make house calls," he growled.

She smiled, a surprisingly gentle smile for Gabriel.

"You needed someone to take care of you," she replied, as if, on their previous meeting, she hadn't been ready to blast him down into hell for his sins of sodomy.

"And you were the best they could come up with?"

She laughed.

"Oh, you never change, do you?"

"Why bother. It's been working pretty well for me for the last thirty years."

"Hmm." Gabriel cast a critical eye over his injuries. "Not too well though."

He gave a one shouldered shrug, stifling the surprising gasp of pain it brought.

"Your friend seemed quite concerned," she continued, ignoring his poor display at macho.

"Beeman?"

"Small fellow. English. Rather nervous?"

Constantine nodded. "That's him."

"Yes well, it's him you have to thank for getting you up here. Apparently you passed out in your taxi on the way here. He paid the driver and managed, not entirely sure how, to drag you up here. He kept muttering that it was his fault. Something about Venezuela."

Constantine raised his head, gesturing to his jacket which was slung over a chair.

"The inside pocket."

Gabriel went to it, extracting the little brown package. She raised an eyebrow, then proceeded to unwrap it, producing a small, cylindrical tourist souvenir which depicted Venezuelan landscape on it, and made the sound of a local animal when turned upside down.

"Apparently Venezuela is very rare."

Gabriel set it carefully down on the table.

"Your friend is very strange."

Constantine shrugged, fighting a hiss of pain. Beeman was strange, who could deny it?

"I know how I got here, but what about you? You don't strike me as the type to have bedside manner."

Gabriel allowed a smile.

"I sensed you were injured, and realised that you may need my help," she replied simply.

Constantine wasn't buying it, not for an instant, but Gabriel obviously wasn't telling. And he had more important matters to deal with.

"Did Beeman leave me anything? Some paper, some information? A message."

Gabriel nodded, suddenly solemn, and handed him a folded piece of paper.

He opened it, holding his breath.

John, The car was licensed to a Josiah Reynolds, address Apartment 313, Redcar Building, 78 Rougier Avenue. I ran a search on him, but couldn't find anything else. Be careful, it looks more than a little suspicious.

He stared at the information read it once, twice, allowed a slight smile to grace his lips.

He had something, finally.

"You're going after him, then?"

He had almost forgotten Gabriel was there, but now he could feel the disapproval, almost coming off her in waves.

"Of course I'm going after him."

He kicked off the bedcovers, relieved to find he was still wearing his shirt and pants.

She sighed.

"John, don't be absurd. You're not fit to be running around after anyone."

"I have to find him."

She placed a firm hand on his chest.

"At least wait until morning. You're not going to do anyone any good charging around like this."

He fought her for a second, then collapsed back in bed, allowed her to pull the covers back over him. He did still feel as of someone had hit him over the head with a hammer.

"You still haven't told me why you're really here," he said, wishing his voice didn't sound quite so sulky.

She nodded.

"You're right. I haven't been entirely honest with you."

He waited. Gabriel would take her time. She always did.

"I'm here because we need your help."

"We?"

Gabriel waved an impatient hand.

"Yes, we, as in the Divine lot."

Oh, he really wasn't going to like this.

"I trust you have heard the rumours of the upcoming…shall we say…war?"

He nodded slowly, senses suddenly alert.

"I've heard about it, yeah."

"Well then, you'll realise why we need your help. We need everyone we can get."

"You don't need me."

Gabriel looked surprised.

"I assure you, John, we do."

"No. You don't. This war is between Heaven and Hell. Angels and Demons. The Divine and the Damned. This war is being fought above Earth, over Earth. Not on it. You can't need me."

"Well, you're different. You know this."

"What are you hiding from me, Gabriel? What is it you're trying to do?"

"I'm not trying to do anything!" She was angry now, her eyes spitting a golden fire. "I am merely trying to tell you that you need to focus all your energies on this war. This war that may decide the outcome for the Human Race! Are you so cold that you do not even care for your own people?"

He ignored the last part of her statement. Her words stirred something in him. He knew why she was here.

"You're trying to keep me away from Chas."

She regarded him coolly.

"You are being paranoid."

He shook his head.

"No, I'm not. You just said it. 'Focus all my energies'. Focus them away from Chas. That's why you're here. You don't give a fuck about the war. You just want to keep me from him." His eyes widened in sudden realisation. "It was you, wasn't it? You changed him, after the accident. You made him cold, dead, you changed everything between us. You drove him away!"

"That's enough."

He stopped, suddenly aware that he was flushed, his heart racing in an angry beat, hands clenched at his sides.

"Do you really think I would turn you to such a sin with another man? I did not drive Chas away." She smiled nastily. "You only have yourself to thank for that little piece of genius." She sighed. "It is true, however, that I am trying to keep you from him."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a hand.

"Please, John. You have to listen to me. If you go to him I fear it will be grave danger for you both. It won't matter if we win the war, for the two of you will be the world's undoing."

He shook his head vehemently.

"I don't believe that."

"You must. I speak the truth."

He looked at her.

"What have you seen?" He grabbed her hand. "I know you've seen something. I know you know the future. You have to tell me!"

She pulled her hand away.

"I have to tell you nothing. And I do not know the future. No one can tell you the future but Him, and that is not His way."

Constantine really, really felt like punching something.

"I won't stop. I don't care what you say. I have to find him."

She touched his cheek gently, unnatural sorrow in her grey eyes.

"It will destroy you both."

He closed his eyes, the feel of her fingers so gentle against his cheek.

For once he just wished he could let it go, let everything go. He wished he didn't have this burden, this huge responsibility. He wished he could just…stop. But that was what had got him into this mess in the first place, wasn't it? He couldn't just stop. He had to keep going, just like the rest of the world.

Gabriel's touch disappeared, and when he opened his eyes she had gone.

He was alone.

"It will destroy you both."

Chas was already destroyed, a shell of his former self.

Constantine couldn't continue to let him live like that. He wouldn't.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow he would go to Josiah Reynold's apartment.

Tomorrow he would find Chas.