Evelyn Valerious –I'm really glad you liked it, because I always think I'm writing John and Angela out of character. Thank you so much for reviewing!

TheDevilsDaughter2010 – Wow! Thanks!

LadyHawke – Thank you! I'm definitely continuing, even if I'm being slow about updating. Lazy me…

JimmyNoName – Thanks! Am I updating fast enough for you?

Silverbloodrain – It was kind of meant to be Chas (with the lighter, geddit?) but I don't think it came off that well. I was considering cutting it out, but I really couldn't be bothered. Anyway, I'm glad you thought it was awesome, and thanks for reviewing!

I am having a pretty damn shite day, and so I'm doing my best to do at least one thing right. Voila. Another chapter. In fact, I've been having a shite few days, and all of your reviews really helped. Thank you!

This one's more from Angela's POV, and goes into her past a bit, because as far as backstories go, Angela's was…non-existent really, so I'm trying to give her a decent background. I hope you think this is in character.

Oh, also, the title Memento Mori means 'think of death', or 'remember you are mortal'. I thought it suited the fic. Plus, it's in Latin, something most of my Constantine fics end up having in them.

Enough babbling. Enjoy!

Chapter II: Forgetting to Mourn

Angela didn't go home right away. Instead, she lingered, searching the graveyard for something else. The mist was hanging like a veil over everything, a fine cobweb obscuring the

The grass crunched crisply under her feet, almost as though it was protesting against being trodden on. Every nerve was on edge, as though she was in danger, and her body had picked up on it whilst her mind hadn't.

The graveyard felt empty, yet haunted. Angela wasn't really paying too much attention to her surroundings though. She was thinking.

Just when she'd thought everything was getting back to normal, everything had gone wrong, again. Whilst she'd been convinced that Isabel's apparent suicide wasn't an accident, she'd had purpose, a sort of meaning that had pushed away any sort of grief. And then, as she'd immersed herself deeper into the supernatural world of demons and angels, Heaven and Hell, it had pushed any chance for grief away. The only time she'd properly cried about her sister had been in front of Constantine, just as she was persuading him to let her See. That wasn't exactly effective mourning, that allowed her to move on. Instead, she found herself feeling frailer than ever, and Angela wasn't used to feeling frail.

Now, here she was. Enjoying a world without Mammon ruling it, and demons crawling everywhere, pressured into taking a few sick days by Weiss, and trying to sort everything out. She'd done everything possible to keep herself busy, painting her apartment, sorting through old boxes of rubbish that she had kept purely for sentimental reasons. It was there that she'd found an old order of service for a funeral she'd attended years ago.

And that's why she came tonight. Not just for Isabel. For the other one. She wandered through the overgrown cemetery, her footsteps leaving no mark in the wet grass.

At last, she came to it. The gravestone, the other one. It was neglected, forgotten, worn and decayed like someone had thrown acid onto it. With green moss covering it, the words were almost indecipherable. A few words were exposed to the world though, and just one stood out clearly, as though it was illuminated from within. Dodson. Michael Jack, Angela knew the first few words were, as after all, she'd commissioned this headstone for her father.

She stepped forwards, brushing the lichen and moss off of the top as best she could, and kicking aside the wilted remains of a bouquet that had once been placed lovingly in front of the slab of granite. She had just about cleared off the top part of the tombstone, when she noticed it. The writing at the bottom.

May he rest in he…ll

She froze, almost unable to believe what she was seeing. Just seeing that, the inscription, brought it all back, Isabel…

Angela pushed away the memory, forcing herself not to think about it. She knew what it should say, under the lichen and overgrown weeds, but at that moment, all she could think about was what was in front of her eyes.

Okay, Angela. Think like a cop. Don't believe your first impression. Uncover all of the evidence and then make a rational judgement.

Angela constricted her breathing, trying to breathe mechanically and regularly so that she had something to think about. When she had convinced herself that she wasn't going to faint, she extended her hand, shaking slightly, towards the slab, intending to brush away the remaining lichen, but as her fingertips touched the cold stone, moist from the misty air, she pulled back without thinking, feeling like she'd been electrocuted.

Could it be something…psychic? The last time she'd had any sort of powers had been when she was eleven, and she'd just taken them for granted, not tried to see what she could do with them. Now, she had no idea of the breadth of her powers, and recently, anything like this, she'd been jumping at the tingle down her spine.

No. This can't be. This is just a reaction to everything. This is not supernatural…

How many more times would she have to say it before she believed it herself?

Angela touched the moss over the words, so soft, and gently brushed it away, uprooting it and letting it fall to the ground. The bones in her spine felt like they were shivering – almost with tension. Her fingertips felt so cold, and everything time she touched the stone she wasn't sure what she was feeling – her own cold or the harsh stone. When all of the moss and lichen rested on the ground, replacing the bouquet she had kicked away, she stood back, reading.

Michael Jack Dodson

1948 – 1993

May he rest in heaven. Sleep well.

There it was. Exactly the way she remembered it after twelve years. The moss had obscured the end of the epigraph, except for the last two letters. See, she told herself. Nothing to worry about.

Her task done, Angela sat down, not worrying about the dampness of the dewy grass, waiting in front of the gravestone as though she thought something was going to happen. She suddenly realised how emotional she felt, like she was confused and scared and angry all at once. She hadn't been here for twelve years. Twelve years. What had happened to keep her away for so long?

Why was she even bothering asking that question?

Father Garrett read out the words solemnly, stopping to glance occasionally at Angela and Isabel, who stood side by side, separated from all of the other people at the funeral. The casket was deep brown wood, polished immaculately, including a white cloth thrown across the centre of it, with a small hole in it to allow the golden crucifix affixed to the top of the coffin to poke through. The hole in the ground was rapidly filling up with rain, turning the soil to mud and soiling the immaculate white fabric of the cloth.

Rain streamed down Angela's face, dripping into her eyes like shampoo in the shower. Her hair, recently cut to just below her shoulders, clung to her head limply, and she shivered in her long black skirt and jacket. Isabel, next to her, however, wore a much thinner outfit, looking strong and impervious, her thick curly hair, a little darker in colour than Angela's, still buoyant, even though it was just as wet as Angela's.

Angela looked around. No other relatives – they either lived on the other side of the planet or were dead. Their mother had died three years previously, from cancer, and their father had never got over it. Probably why he did what he did. There were others, cops from the station, sorry for their father's loss but not telling the twins what they were thinking; anyone who goes after a killer without extra ammo or a bullet-proof vest, well, it justifies their death.

She held Isabel's hand tightly, more for herself than for her twin. Isabel was already committed, not at Ravenscar this time, but at St Sepulchre's, an institution run by the church. Angela couldn't face telling her the news herself, so she had asked the doctors to do. Apparently she'd taken the news of their father's death well, no outbursts, no tears, no nothing. The news meant as little to her as the news that there was a fly on her window.

Even now, Isabel had the strange, faraway look in her eyes which usually meant trouble. Angela loved her sister dearly, but it was hard to cope with her. She was eighteen, she would be going to college in the fall. What would she do with her sister Lock her up, pretend she never existed? What could she do?

Father Garrett spoke on, his words barely making an impression on Angela, who was too lost in her own thoughts. Without warning, her sister's voice cut through the still, oppressive air like a sharp knife.

"He deserved it" Isabel suddenly announced. Everyone looked up, both a little surprised by her outburst, but not shocked. She was after all, the crazy one. Poor man, one daughter going to college and planning to be a cop, intelligent and rational, a credit to her father, the other at a psychiatric hospital, claiming to see demons and angels, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…

Angela inhaled sharply, but Isabel ignored her and continued speaking, dropping her sister's hand.

"He deserved it" she repeated. "May he rest in hell"

"Izzy!" Angela said, unable to stop herself from crying or stop her twin from speaking.

"He burns in hell. Every bullet he fired, is aiming at him now…" Isabel raved on, her eyes unfocused, meaning that she was seeing something no-one else could. "He wishes he'd regretted shooting them. He wishes he'd cared more now. He wishes…But the First of the Fallen cares not. He's watching him, feeling satisfied, feeling fulfilled…"

Father Garrett stepped forwards, trying to soothe Isabel. There was a scream in Angela's head and it wasn't going away. She had to escape from this, this moment, this life.

She wheeled away, needing to get out of there, get away, far away. She was never coming back here, she never wanted to be reminded of this moment…

Tears cooled on her cheeks as Angela remembered. It had all happened her. She hadn't seen Isabel after that until she came back from college, and then she was different. She didn't talk to anyone at all. It took Angela a long time to rebuild some form of trust with her sister and coax her to talk again. If only she hadn't stormed away…

She gave up, and cried, full sobs that heaved through her body and made her curl up protectively in a ball, hugging her knees tightly. Every single knotted ounce of pain, sadness and regret that she had squashed down and repressed came out in a flood of salt water. She had no idea how long she sat there, and she seemed to pass out of time, just sitting there, mourning in the only way humans know how.

A hand laid itself on her shoulder. Angela suppressed a jump; she hadn't even sensed anyone coming, and considering that she was a psychic, that didn't happen a lot. There was only one person who it could be, only one person who could get the jump on her, and she'd seen him here, so her logical cop's mind said that it was most likely him.

"Thought you'd gone" she said, the words coming out more calmly than she'd thought she could manage at the moment. She wasn't the sort to cry, at least, not in public. She'd seen some pretty horrendous things as a cop, but she'd never let any of them affect her. She just acted as cold as ice and when she got home, when she was alone and all of her work was done, she maybe allowed one tear to fall onto the cold pillow next to her.

There was no reply.

Angela turned around, ready to face John, deal with whatever he was there for. After all, he'd seen her crying over her sister, possessed by the fucking son of Satan for Christ's sake, and looking like an entrant into the Californian Wet T-shirt Contest. If he was going to be sarcastic about her crying at her fucking father's grave, then he had another thing coming. She turned, suddenly, expecting to see him standing there chomping on that irritating gum.

But, there was no-one there behind her.

Angela looked in every direction, but there was no-on near her.

Then whose hand was it on her shoulder?

Part of her wanted to believe that it was Isabel. Part of her wanted to believe that it was her father. And another part of her just wanted to go home, get in the shower and wash the dewy wetness and rosemary smoke off of herself.

However much she wanted to believe that first two, there was no denying that she was alone in the graveyard, except for her memories.

With a sigh she stood up, and walked out, back into reality.

Any comments? Please review! By the way, I should be updating pretty soon, but I have mocks, so if I disappear, don't panic!