John had seen Chas waiting for him like this so many times since they'd met that it was hard to believe he wasn't just reliving some unspecified memory of their past. Chas was stood in shadow, fidgeting.

'So why Midnite's?'

Angela must have told him, and Chas was as belligerent as ever.

'What can he do that you can't? I mean, isn't seeing the difference between angels and demons like your one God-given skill?'

John, why can't you see me?

'John?'

Given that he was essentially being insulted, John refused to dignify him with an answer.

Given that this had long been their pattern, it didn't escape John's notice that rather than carrying on unimpeded, Chas looked troubled and unfocussed, like he'd just remembered he had a headache. Being ignored had never slowed Chas down before. He'd probably only ever talked that much because he was rarely interrupted.

HONK!

'Cab for Constantine!'

John turned to get his companions attention, and for the briefest of moments he saw his eyes flare gold.

The thought came unbidden into his mind that this might really be Chas, and that even if the forces of good had restored him he was unlikely to be unharmed by such a process. The idea that Chas may have been manipulated into something else scared him in a way that had nothing to do with his own safety. He might never be his Chas again.

John wondered – if this was Chas – what he was going through. He wondered if it was anything like his own experience with death, and concluded it was more likely to be the exact opposite.

As they drove away he saw Chas shoot an uncertain look behind them.

The journey to Midnite's felt anticlimactic. He sat in back and stole occasional glances at the front seat, as though by squinting he could turn back time.

Why?

Apparently the voices only spoke to him when no one else would.

Why would you want to go back?

Things were simpler?

Pussy. The future could be so much better than that.

John found himself retreating from his current predicament. Lost in the hum of the air-conditioning and the movement of the cab, a long forgotten conversation floated through his mind.

'Cab Drive? You hired Cab Drive?'

Hennessy's tone implied this was less a description than a moniker. There was too much death in their line of work to bother learning the names of the non-established.

'He fits my needs.'

John could have asked how Hennessy knew of him, if not what he knew of him, but his own alcoholism was advanced enough that he could identify what brand Hennessy had been drinking that morning by the abrasive smell alone, and he was keen to replicate and elaborate. He coughed.

'You sick Constantine?'

'Only of your bullshit,' he said tolerantly.

A smokers cough was nothing new to him, but any kind of sensitivity to alcohol certainly was. He must be coming down with something. "Elaboration" tonight would have to include a cocktail of painkillers. It wasn't going to be a drinking session so much as a foray into alchemy.

The fact that he was sick was already too much information to give a gossip with nothing tangible in return, and he knew it would become gossip just as he knew what Hennessy's parting words would be regarding.

'Let me know how you enjoy Cab Drive.'

John's voice echoed as he shouted over his shoulder. 'Let me know when you have something I can use!'

Hennessy laughed, a sound made hollow and disturbing by the high ceilings.

'Cab Drive,' he was saying to himself as John left. 'Occult equivalent of a storm chaser that one.'

John left the darkness of the church behind him and began to cough again. Chas was waiting for him.

What colour were his eyes?

John was brought back to the present by the impertinent voice in his head. He didn't know what colour Chas' eyes were – he doubted he'd ever known – and he couldn't find out since Chas was facing forward. He looked slightly older than he'd been when he died, almost imperceptibly leaner, hair shorter, skin brighter. His various tics weren't the same when he was a passenger as opposed to driver.

The air-conditioning carried away the humidity of the day and brought with it a smell like apples and earth which must have been the product of an air freshener since he was sure he'd never noticed it in Chas' cab. That had probably smelled of licorice.

By the time they stood outside of Midnite's the sun hung directly overhead, the sky a harsh blue. It was oppressively hot, but the darkness of Midnite's looked far from inviting.

John took a breath and wished for a cigarette. Chas grabbed his arm, firmly holding him back.

'John,' it turned out his eyes were a dark brown. 'What happened to my car?'

The inquiry into Chas' death was long over; his cab was either scrap or driving around LA with a different driver and serial number.

'It's gone. Shall we?'

Chas eyed the entrance to the club thoughtfully.

'I always hated that fucking car,' he shook his head and walked in ahead of John, leaving a clean, earthy smell in his wake.

John would have thought he'd loved that car. He would have thought that Chas smelled of licorice, himself of smoke, and that Eden would smell of apples and earth.

The future could be so much better.

He suspected all newborn angels might smell that way, and he further suspected that if he ever met God, the guy was a fucking riot.