Constantine could hear a cleaning woman pushing a cart by, outside the window.
Ellie considered. She shrugged. “No. Nothing out of the ordinary in my day-to-day.” She reached down and got the bottle again, took a long pull. “And brother, that’s saying something.”
“Is he really your boss?”
“Not really - I’m more like a contractor these days. If he was my boss, you’d be dead by now. I’d have killed you my own self.”
He nodded. It was true enough.
She tilted her head to listen. “Gonna rain.”
“Weather report says no.”
But then he heard it pattering on the roof. Pretty heavy.
“I take it John Constantine is still looking for the big score. To set things right.”
“You got any better ideas?”
She tossed the cigarette into an ashtray, and found the pack in the tom sheets behind her. She tapped another out and lit it with a flame jetting from her fingertip.
“Anyway, Ellie…” He coughed, just once. Okay, twice. Well, three times. But short ones.
“Just keep your ear to the ground.”
“Most nights that’s where it ends up anyway.” She smiled wanly. “I do love it when you’re feeling self destructive. You know - I’m gonna miss having someone up here I can… relate to.”
She scooped up the Jack Daniel’s and passed it to him, kissing the back of his neck. Her tail switched behind her. He saw its serrated pink spike flashing in the mirror.
He drank deep from the bottle.
--
Chaz and Constantine sat in the cab, looking through the thin rain at the Theological Society.
“It’s like that place grew there,” Chaz said. “I can’t see it being built here. Like with an architect.”
“Plans were from a certain small cathedral in the South of France. Cathar country,” Constantine said vaguely.
The rain had eased off some by seven A.M. John was still drunk, but that had eased off some too. Coffee and aspirin kept the consequences of excess at bay. He’d only thrown up once. The booze was in its nervous energy phase now. The fatigue would set in soon. He needed to get moving. “I’m pretty sure I can get you in here, Chaz.”
Chaz looked at the Theological Society’s gothic towers. “What? To see the Snob? Pass.”
He shoved the meter down and it began its inexorable ticking. Constantine grunted in irritation at himself. Everything reminded him of mortality.
Pull yourself together, fool.
He got out of the cab and, only swaying a little, made his way into the building. The rain felt good on his forehead.
A priest was talking with a bishop in the vaulted chamber of the nave as Constantine walked through. Pausing at the holy water to take a splash, cross himself with it. And to light a few candles at the shrine to St. Anthony, the patron saint of the Society. Constantine wasn’t Catholic, but what could it hurt?
In the library, he found two men standing at the big fireplace - it was big enough for a child of Consuela’s size to walk right into. Constantine paused to look them over. One of them, anyway, was a man. The other only seemed to be. Constantine recognized him: his semblance and his spirit, both. The semblance wore a cream-colored Armani suit. He was handsome in a delicate way, with high cheekbones and a narrow chin, thick hair. Prettily pale, startling green eyes.
Body as feminine as masculine. An androgyne. Constantine knew that this androgynous man, this being, had been aware of him the moment he’d entered the door - probably before he’d come in. The other man at the fireplace, more rugged, was Father Garret.
A young servant - probably a priestly intern of some kind - appeared at Constantine’s elbow.
“May I take your coat, Mr. Constantine?”
“No thanks. I’m not staying long.”
“How about you, ma’am?”
Constantine turned to see a young woman, lovely but with a grim purpose about her. Auburn hair, full lips, hazel eyes. Pretty enough to never bother with makeup. An air of strength, even danger, in a skirt, a white blouse. She
Ellie considered. She shrugged. “No. Nothing out of the ordinary in my day-to-day.” She reached down and got the bottle again, took a long pull. “And brother, that’s saying something.”
“Is he really your boss?”
“Not really - I’m more like a contractor these days. If he was my boss, you’d be dead by now. I’d have killed you my own self.”
He nodded. It was true enough.
She tilted her head to listen. “Gonna rain.”
“Weather report says no.”
But then he heard it pattering on the roof. Pretty heavy.
“I take it John Constantine is still looking for the big score. To set things right.”
“You got any better ideas?”
She tossed the cigarette into an ashtray, and found the pack in the tom sheets behind her. She tapped another out and lit it with a flame jetting from her fingertip.
“Anyway, Ellie…” He coughed, just once. Okay, twice. Well, three times. But short ones.
“Just keep your ear to the ground.”
“Most nights that’s where it ends up anyway.” She smiled wanly. “I do love it when you’re feeling self destructive. You know - I’m gonna miss having someone up here I can… relate to.”
She scooped up the Jack Daniel’s and passed it to him, kissing the back of his neck. Her tail switched behind her. He saw its serrated pink spike flashing in the mirror.
He drank deep from the bottle.
--
Chaz and Constantine sat in the cab, looking through the thin rain at the Theological Society.
“It’s like that place grew there,” Chaz said. “I can’t see it being built here. Like with an architect.”
“Plans were from a certain small cathedral in the South of France. Cathar country,” Constantine said vaguely.
The rain had eased off some by seven A.M. John was still drunk, but that had eased off some too. Coffee and aspirin kept the consequences of excess at bay. He’d only thrown up once. The booze was in its nervous energy phase now. The fatigue would set in soon. He needed to get moving. “I’m pretty sure I can get you in here, Chaz.”
Chaz looked at the Theological Society’s gothic towers. “What? To see the Snob? Pass.”
He shoved the meter down and it began its inexorable ticking. Constantine grunted in irritation at himself. Everything reminded him of mortality.
Pull yourself together, fool.
He got out of the cab and, only swaying a little, made his way into the building. The rain felt good on his forehead.
A priest was talking with a bishop in the vaulted chamber of the nave as Constantine walked through. Pausing at the holy water to take a splash, cross himself with it. And to light a few candles at the shrine to St. Anthony, the patron saint of the Society. Constantine wasn’t Catholic, but what could it hurt?
In the library, he found two men standing at the big fireplace - it was big enough for a child of Consuela’s size to walk right into. Constantine paused to look them over. One of them, anyway, was a man. The other only seemed to be. Constantine recognized him: his semblance and his spirit, both. The semblance wore a cream-colored Armani suit. He was handsome in a delicate way, with high cheekbones and a narrow chin, thick hair. Prettily pale, startling green eyes.
Body as feminine as masculine. An androgyne. Constantine knew that this androgynous man, this being, had been aware of him the moment he’d entered the door - probably before he’d come in. The other man at the fireplace, more rugged, was Father Garret.
A young servant - probably a priestly intern of some kind - appeared at Constantine’s elbow.
“May I take your coat, Mr. Constantine?”
“No thanks. I’m not staying long.”
“How about you, ma’am?”
Constantine turned to see a young woman, lovely but with a grim purpose about her. Auburn hair, full lips, hazel eyes. Pretty enough to never bother with makeup. An air of strength, even danger, in a skirt, a white blouse. She
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