John Constantine was dying of lung cancer. It shouldn't have come as a surprise. He'd been smoking far too many cigarettes ever since he was a young teenager, so he was bound to face the consequences sooner or later.
At first, when he'd been leaning over the sink, puking his guts up, he'd assumed it was because of a curse, demonic poison, or one of Nergal's fiendish plots. Something farfetched and fantastical. But no, it was lung cancer. Boringly mundane, but it would kill him just as surely as any monster. In spite of all the supernatural enemies he'd made, he'd die a perfectly ordinary death, just the same as millions of other people.
They say the first stage of grief is denial, so after he got out of the doctor's office he went to the newsagent's around the corner and bought a packet of twenty silk cut cigarettes. Because really, why would he do anything else? Who was he trying to kid?
Then came anger and bitter recriminations. He remembered all the friends he'd led to their deaths, the poor sods he'd failed to save, and everyone else who had every right to be angry with him. What did it matter if he'd done his best to avenge them? They were just as dead as if he'd done nothing at all, as if he'd stood idly by and let their murderers go unpunished. In many ways, they'd have been better off if they'd never met him. Better if he'd never existed.
He made some excuses to visit the cancer ward at a local hospital where someone owed him a favour. "My Aunt Dolly's not too well. Cancer. It's her lungs, you see," he said. "She's got to go into hospital soon and I'd hate to see her wasting away with nobody she knows near her…"
All the doctors and nurses he spoke to did their best to humour him – they even got someone to show him around the ward – but it was clear from their pitying looks that they didn't really believe him. While he was there, he found out everything he wanted to know and more. Most of the patients he saw there would be saved by chemotherapy, but there was nothing anyone could do to save someone who was suffering from terminal cancer. It was already too late for him.
Divination was a branch of magic he didn't usually bother with, but at that moment it was easy to see the future that awaited him: helpless in bed, pumped full of so much medication that he'd barely be able to think, with no hope of anything better than a swift and relatively painless death.
After that, he got in touch with one of his few remaining friends. Brendan Finn, in Ireland. The ferry trip over there made him feel sick as a dog, but hope kept him going. He hoped Brendan, who was one of the finest mages he'd ever met, would know a way to cure him.
When he reached the crumbling old tower Brendan called home, he was dismayed to see how pale and strained his old friend looked, with his sagging gut, faintly yellow skin tone, and the spider's web pattern of broken blood vessels all over his puffy face.
Constantine wanted to get straight down to business, but Brendan insisted that they should have a drink first. "Haven't we a bit o' catchin' up to do?" he asked, pouring him a shot of whiskey.
It would have been rude to refuse and it wasn't as if Constantine was about to keel over and die that very moment, so he agreed. They spent some time reminiscing about old times and lost loves. Then, Brendan insisted on showing him his wine cellar, which was truly a sight to behold. Rare and valuable plonk from all over the world, vintages that'd been thought to have been lost, all of which had been maturing for decades.
Grinning exultantly, Brendan spread his arms wide like a preacher welcoming his congregation. "Just look at it, John. Look at it. Bloody bottled sunshine."
"Bottled liver failure, more like," said Constantine.
Brendan clapped a hand to his forehead and struck a theatrical pose, as if he was about to fall into a swoon. "Forgive him, Lord, for he knows not what a Philistine he is."
Despite his show of mock-piety, it was clear that overindulgence in alcohol was the closest thing Brendan had to a religion. Constantine expected him to get started on the wine, but apparently it wasn't time for that yet. First, his old friend had something else in mind.
Beneath the wine cellar, there was a spring that, according to legend, had been blessed by Saint Patrick himself. Pure holy water. Next to it, Brendan had set up a magic circle – a fairly simple transmutation spell – which turned the water into the finest Irish stout.
"Jesus changed it into wine, but I've all the wine I could ever want. And we are in Ireland after all," said Brendan, filling two glasses with the stuff.
He handed one to Constantine, who took a sip, discovered it was the best he'd ever tasted, and kept drinking until he'd drained the glass to the last few drops.
One glass followed another. And another. Before long, they'd drunk seven or eight pints and were more than a little tipsy. They sat down on the floor, leaned back against the wall and continued to drink.
Constantine's tongue loosened enough that he felt able to confess the real reason for his visit. "And I thought you might… well, you might know a way to get out of it. I'm not all that keen on snuffing it, mate."
Brendan stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief. "You… You want me to… You think I might know some spell or something? Cure cancer?"
"Uh-huh. That's it, all right," said Constantine, feeling slow and stupid. He couldn't drink like Brendan did and keep his wits about him.
So, he was surprised when his old friend burst out laughing. Surprised and indignant.
"What's so bloody funny?" he demanded to know. "I'm sodding dying!"
He struggled to his feet, gently swaying from side to side, and might even have thrown a punch if Brendan hadn't said something that made his anger ebb away like a wave breaking on the shore.
"Aw, John. Dear God, John," said Brendan, holding a hand over his face. "You want me to save you with magic, right? Cure your cancer? I was going to ask the same thing of you. I'm dying, mate. The liver's packin' up on me. Probably tonight."
After that, it seemed like there was nothing they could do but continue to drink. They were both dying and without hope, so why not spend what little time they had left with a dear friend, getting completely sozzled, enjoying each other's company and singing daft old songs?
It was nearly midnight by the time Brendan pulled himself together enough to say, "I'll… I'll have a wee sit down, John. Bit tired, y'know? You, uh, you can let yourself out, can't you? See you soon."
"Yes. See you soon," Constantine echoed him, wondering if it was true. What would happen to them after they died? Where would their souls end up?
He staggered back upstairs, knowing he'd lost another friend. He was exceedingly drunk and in need of a place to lie down, so he could rest. Even if he hadn't got what he'd hoped for, this visit had turned out for the best. He might never have had a chance to say goodbye to Brendan if he hadn't come this far.
Then, just as he was approaching the front door, he felt a shiver of apprehension and the hairs standing up on the back of his neck. Even in his intoxicated state, he knew something was very wrong.
That smell. That brimstone smell…
A figure stood in the doorway. It looked like a man, dark-haired and smartly dressed, but Constantine knew it wasn't really a man: it was a demon from the depths of Hell.
If he could, he would have fled, but it was too late. Besides, the demon was blocking the exit.
"It isn't necessary that you invite me in, but it would be simple decorum," it said.
Constantine tried to speak, but his tongue was clumsy and kept fumbling for the right words: "What… what's... I mean, why're you–?"
"I am here to make you an offer, Mr. Constantine," said the demon, with a thin smile.
"Uh, that's…" He took a deep breath, shook his head and said, "Look, I may be drunk, but… I know nothing good comes from making deals with demons."
"Before you make a decision, I suggest you consider what I have to say. There are things you should know."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"I could have approached you anywhere. In your own home, for example. So, why do you think I have come here, to the home of your friend, Mr. Finn?"
The breath caught in Constantine's throat. His immediate thought was that the demon was threatening Brendan while he was weak, inebriated and on the verge of death. But he didn't say that, just in case it gave the demon any ideas. Instead, he put on a cynical sneer and said, "I s'pose you're going to make him an offer as well?"
"I don't need to. Several years ago, he offered to sell me his soul in exchange for the expertise and power he'd need to amass a collection of the finest drink ever tasted. I'm sure you will agree he did precisely that. A rather old-fashioned arrangement, but I found it amusing enough that I agreed to it."
Constantine felt his respect for Brendan go down several notches. It seemed like such a paltry thing he'd traded his immortal soul for. However, thinking back to a conversation they'd had earlier that evening, he remembered how depressed Brendan had been after Kit had left him. She had been the love of his life, even if he hadn't always treated her as well as he should have done, and after she'd left he'd tried to drown himself in a sea of alcohol. His could be construed as a roundabout way of committing suicide, although maybe he wasn't consciously aware that was what he was trying to do. And his deal with this demon would ensure that he'd be punished even after death.
"I know your reputation. I'm sure you're already concocting a plan to save him. With that in mind, I should tell you that Mr. Finn insisted that I take his soul by midnight on the day he died. If I were to stay here, talking to you, until after midnight, I would be unable to take the payment I have rightfully earned. In which case, his soul will fly free to whatever afterlife will take him in."
"You mean he'd still end up in Hell."
"Potentially. But that would be down to him and the sins he has committed over the course of his life. Nothing to do with me."
"It's five to midnight," said Constantine, checking his watch. "If I can stall you for just a little while, you'll miss your chance to take Brendan's soul, is that right?"
"Indeed."
"Why would you tell me that? Just to taunt me?"
There was a short pause, after which the demon answered: "The current ruler of Hell, Lady Tanya, has a lot to say about business deals, supply and demand, and so on. No matter how much I despise her, she seems to know what she's talking about – and she'll spend hours delivering lectures to anyone who seems the slightest bit interested – so I have taken the opportunity to learn from her. Any knowledge is useful if I can gain an advantage from it."
"Her name is 'Tanya'?" asked Constantine, furrowing his brow.
"Like many of us, she wasn't always a demon. I myself was once an angel. They call me the 'First of the Fallen'. Even before Lucifer's foolish rebellion, I had already been cast down from Heaven and into Hell. I was its original ruler. Before long, I will reclaim my throne." He smiled as if savouring the victory that was yet to come. "That is why I want your help."
"I don't see why you'd need me. I'm just a man."
"False modesty ill becomes you. You are a skilled and powerful mage. I have need of one such as you. Although I have immense power of my own, I cannot use certain spells and rituals that were designed by mortals. One of those rituals was used to ensnare Dream of the Endless, one of the most powerful beings in all of creation, after which he was imprisoned for decades."
"I've heard about that," Constantine admitted. In fact, he'd met the newly-freed Dream of the Endless just a few months ago and helped him to retrieve his stolen pouch of dream sand, for which he'd been well-rewarded when the worst of his bad memories began to fade.
"I'm sure the ritual could be repurposed to ensnare other powerful beings such as Lady Tanya. And so, with your help, I will defeat and overthrow her before she has a chance to defend herself. By the time she realises that she's in any real danger, it will already be too late."
"Seems like I'd be doing all the work. What's in it for me?"
"In another minute or so, Mr. Finn's soul will be forever beyond my reach. I suspect I may already be too late; I would need to hurry downstairs to have any chance of catching him now. But I don't think I'll bother. He's your friend, isn't he? I assume you'd prefer it if I didn't take his soul, so I won't. I'll willingly relinquish my claim to it. Consider it a down payment for your services."
"I haven't agreed to anything yet, so it wouldn't be a down payment. But I appreciate your letting Brendan off the hook. Very generous of you."
"An incentive, then. Lady Tanya is enthusiastic about such things," said the First of the Fallen, with a grimace of distaste. "No matter how much I dislike her, I must admit she has been remarkably successful in persuading all sorts of people to make deals with her. Therefore, it makes sense that I should emulate her, at least to some extent."
"If I agree to do this job for you, how will you pay me?" asked Constantine, who couldn't believe he was even considering it. He knew making deals with demons was a bad idea; under normal circumstances, he'd have laughed in the demon's face and tried to kick him in the bollocks. He found it easy to be brave and defiant when someone else was being arrogant and threatening, thinking he'd back down. At various times he'd got himself into terrible trouble by standing up to people, monsters and ethereal beings who assumed they could just bully him into submission. On the other hand, he found it much more difficult to be rude and abusive to someone who was clearly making an effort to be polite and accommodating. Even if they happened to be one of the worst demons in Hell.
"You're dying of lung cancer and you're unable to heal yourself with magic. I'll use my demonic powers to heal you if you'll perform the ritual that will trap Lady Tanya. A fair exchange, don't you think?"
It occurred to Constantine to wonder if he could trust anything the First of the Fallen said. For one thing, he only had the demon's word for it that Brendan's soul was now free or that he'd ever sold it in the first place. Also, how did he know that 'demonic powers' would be able to heal him if magic could not?
"I don't suppose I could get an advance on that?" he asked. "Just enough so there's no chance that I'll keel over and die while I'm in the middle of setting up the ritual for you, yeah?"
"I suppose that could be arranged," said the demon, after a moment's thought. "So long as you're willing to accept the deal. What do you say?"
Constantine was sure he was making a dreadful mistake, but he nodded anyway. What else was he going to do? Just give up and die?
"Yeah. Sounds good to me," he said. "You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours."
"I'm pleased to hear it. Shall we sit down somewhere and discuss it in more detail?"
"Why not? And while we do so…" Constantine had already drunk a lot that evening, but all this talking and dealmaking was thirsty work. "Downstairs, Brendan assembled the world's finest collection of booze. Wherever he's gone, it's no good to him now. What do you say we open a bottle and have a drink while we get down to business? A toast to his memory, shall we say?"
"If it makes you feel better, then yes."
"But don't drink the stout," Constantine advised him. "Brendan made it from holy water, so I suspect you wouldn't like it."
"To say the least," said the First of the Fallen, looking faintly uneasy. "Thank you for telling me."
True to his word, the demon healed Constantine just enough that he was no longer coughing up bloody chunks of flesh and black sludge. Perhaps if he submitted himself for chemotherapy immediately, he might have a chance to survive. But the First of the Fallen would probably see that as an attempt to wriggle out of their deal, so he decided not to risk it.
When the demon explained what he had to do to uphold his end of the bargain, he was surprised to hear the name 'Fawney Rig', which he knew was a stately home that had once belonged to his distant ancestor, the Lady Johanna Constantine. Of course, that had been centuries ago. Since then, it had passed through many different hands; most recently, it had been purchased by the famous occultist, Roderick Burgess, who had turned it into the headquarters of his secret society, the Order of Ancient Mysteries. Although they were generally regarded as charlatans whose 'magic' was a scam they used to trick gullible people into giving them money, they had in fact managed to capture Dream of the Endless, rob him of the mystical artefacts that were his symbols of office, and keep him locked in a cellar for many years. During that time, the Order had fallen apart, various members had stolen its treasures before fleeing overseas, and Roderick Burgess had died. His son, Alex Burgess, had taken over, turned away from black magic and instead dedicated the organization to New Age claptrap. And then, just a few months ago, Dream had escaped from his underground prison and taken revenge by putting Alex in a permanent coma.
Or so Constantine surmised, examining all the available evidence, rumours and conjecture, when he was planning how he was going to break into Fawney Rig. It shouldn't be too difficult; there was a caretaker who went in twice a week, but other than that it had been more-or-less abandoned.
In fact, it was almost suspiciously easy to sneak into the manor house and find the cellar where Dream had been held captive for so long. There was an arcane circle and a crystal dome inside which he'd been rendered helpless, and there were chairs where security guards had sat and watched to make sure he didn't escape. Examining these objects, with a sinking heart, Constantine realised the enormity of the task ahead of him.
The First of the Fallen had given him a copy of the Magdalene Grimoire, the book that had been an essential component of the ritual which Roderick Burgess and his acolytes had used to trap Dream of the Endless. As he read through it, Constantine was increasingly convinced that their success had been an accident. They got lucky. In more ways than one: if they'd succeeded in what they'd been trying to do, which was to capture Dream's sister, Death, the consequences could have been disastrous. Not just for them, but for the entire world. Multiple worlds, probably.
Although he'd been told that the ritual could easily be repurposed to trapped Lady Tanya in the same way that it had trapped Dream of the Endless, Constantine quickly realised that it wouldn't work the way his demonic ally seemed to think it would. For one thing, the ritual shouldn't have any effect on anyone who wasn't one of the Endless. Even if he succeeded in summoning Lady Tanya, the arcane circle would be no obstacle to her; she'd escape as soon as she took a step forward. It made him wonder if the First of the Fallen really understood anything about ritual magic or what it could be used for. It didn't seem likely. Demons could use their powers as easily as breathing, so why would he ever have cause to learn about the particular branches of magic that were accessible to mortals? He seemed to expect that Constantine could do impossible things. And no doubt he'd be murderously angry if it turned out he couldn't.
Constantine knew what he was doing was wrong, but there was no way out of it. Over the course of his life, he'd done plenty of stupid and selfish things, but this was the first time he'd willingly been the willing accomplice to such an ancient and malevolent being. He was ashamed of his own weakness, but he just wanted to live. The First of the Fallen had promised to heal him, give him a new and healthy set of lungs, in exchange for doing this little job for him. No doubt he'd keep asking Constantine to do him various favours, now that he'd got his hooks into him, but that was a problem for later. For now, he was focused on staying alive, even though he knew he'd pay for it in the end, in the afterlife if not on Earth. He'd do what he had to do and not think too hard about the morality of his actions. Anyway, what did it matter to him who was the ruler of Hell? One demon was just as bad as another.
After much thought, a cup of tea in a local café and some calculations scrawled on the back of a napkin, he figured that it was just about possible for him to cobble together his own ritual that would target Lady Tanya and cage her in an inescapable prison. But it would take time. More time than he had left, probably. And even then, it was unlikely to work. She'd need to be severely weakened, first.
In one of the larger conference rooms, Tanya was in a meeting with two of Being X's representatives: the angels Remiel and Duma. She greeted them with exquisite politeness and feigned interest in what they had to say. By her side, she had the demons Hastur and Ligur, whom she had found to be reliable if unimaginative employees. They would have let her do all the talking if she hadn't prompted them to speak and offer their opinions from time to time.
On the other side, Remiel did all the talking. Contrary to Tanya's expectations, he seemed nice enough: well-meaning, passionate and fervently convinced of the rightness of what he was saying. Occasionally, he looked to Duma for support, seeming to draw strength from his presence. However, Duma never spoke. In fact, he seemed incapable of speech. Tanya was aware that his disability didn't need to be a problem; for all she knew, he was a valued employee with an abundance of knowledge and useful skills, but she felt indignant on his behalf that he hadn't been provided with some kind of text-to-speech device. Or a chalkboard, if he'd prefer a low-tech solution. Or did he use sign language? Over many lifetimes, she'd learned multiple different sign languages, but she didn't know if she had any in common with Duma. And anyway, she was so out of practice that she could easily make a fool of herself by accident, which she would prefer to avoid.
"Is there anything I can do to help you take part in this discussion?" she asked, addressing him directly. "Your contributions would be most welcome."
Duma gave a small shrug.
"He's fine," said Remiel. "But thank you for your concern."
"If you say so." Tanya began to wonder if Duma's silence was a deliberate ploy, intended to intimidate or discomfort her.
"We have come here with a proposal for you," said Remiel, with an enthusiastic smile. "For too long, people have been sent to Hell whose sins were relatively minor compared to others. Why should a virtuous non-Christian be punished just the same as if they were a rapist or a murderer? I know you have railed against this, seeing it as unjust, so I am sure you will seize upon this opportunity to rectify it."
"So, you admit Being X made a mistake," said Tanya, in a sickly-sweet voice.
"I… I have no idea what you mean by that." He shook his head and then decided to press on as if she hadn't said anything: "After a certain period of time, which will be determined by the number and severity of their sins, people who've been sent to Hell will be given a chance to move on to Purgatory and eventually to Heaven. Provided that they are truly repentant and they acknowledge God as their Lord and Saviour, of course."
"Why would you want that?"
Remiel looked at her with an expression of gormless confusion. "I'm sorry?"
Sooner or later, Tanya would probably allow herself to be persuaded, in exchange for a few concessions, but first she had a few points to make: "No matter what I might wish, the true purpose of Hell has never been justice. It is unfair because it isn't supposed to be fair. Instead, it is a weapon of faith, which Being X and his worshippers use to intimidate pagans and heretics and anyone else who doesn't follow the 'one true religion'. The words written on the gate might as well be, 'Do what I say or else.' And yet you want to change that. I admire your boldness, but I wonder how you will be chastised for it."
"God is merciful and all-loving!" Remiel insisted.
"Yes, tell that to everyone who has been punished for thousands of years just because of the circumstances in which they were born and raised." Tanya sneered. "Hell is a tool used to terrorize people into submission. But if you change it so it is no longer an eternal punishment, you'll take away much of its capacity to frighten. If sinners know that all they have to do is wait and then recite a few platitudes about how Being X is the greatest, why shouldn't they continue to sin and sin some more?" She paused for a moment, hummed softly to herself and said, "I don't think you've thought this through properly."
"You're just like all the other demons! You don't care about the people who don't deserve to be here in Hell, not really!" cried Remiel, pointing an accusing finger at her. "You only care about yourself!"
"I'm not sure how you reached that conclusion," said Tanya. "And I–"
There was an explosion of fire and light. She raised her shields just in time. Even so, they were nearly overwhelmed. Intense heat washed over her, scorching her uniform. The conference room and its surroundings were reduced to rubble.
In the next moment, shaking off the dust and debris, she leapt to her feet and glanced around, taking stock of the situation. Ligur was dead, reduced to mere fragments. What was left of him resembled a handful of mashed slugs. He must have been standing closest to the bomb when it went off.
She was relieved to see that both of the angels were alive and only mildly scraped and singed. If they'd died, it could have turned the ongoing squabbles between Heaven and Hell into a full-scale war, which had probably been the intention of whoever had placed the bomb under the table. She would have to make sure that Remiel and Duma were kept safe and escorted out of Hell as soon as possible.
"They killed Ligur. Those bastards," said Hastur, who was smeared with soot and seemed to be in shock. "Those complete and utter bastards. He hadn't never done anything to them!"
Of course, some deaths were less permanent than others. Tanya had heard of demons who'd died horribly and messily, but eventually managed to recover and carry on as before. She didn't bother to ask if that would happen to Ligur; she suspected Hastur wouldn't appreciate it.
"Get ready to fight," she told him. "We'll need to punish the ones who did this."
With a visible effort, he managed to pull himself together. "Yes, my lady," he said, clenching his fists. "Right away."
"Oh, you're going to punish uzz, are you?" said a droning, buzzing voice. As well as smoke and sulfur, the air was filled with the stench of rotting meat. Out of the shadows came a long-legged androgynous figure in a veil of winged insects. Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies. "And how do you intend to do that?"
Tanya hurled a blast of energy that forced them to hastily duck behind cover. "Like that," she said.
"You're going to miss us entirely?" said a swirling, shadowy creature with a multitude of eyes and mouths. "Not much of a threat."
"Azazel," said Hastur, snarling at him. "After I've torn you apart, your fate will be whispered in dark places by mothers to frighten their young." Then, as if he felt that the language of Hell was insufficient to convey the intensity of his rage, he added, "You're going to get taken to the bloody cleaners, pal."
"That's better," said Azazel, with a thousand fanged smirks.
"We are united against you," said a relatively ordinary-looking man dressed in a formal business suit. Tanya recognized him as the First of the Fallen. "Do you imagine that you can defeat all of us?"
A savage grin spread over Tanya's face. All around her, the ruined office building began to shift and change. She was high up in the air, looking down over the trenches and the fields where tens of thousands of men had been told to walk, not run, towards the waiting machine guns. She could smell filthy mud and blood and cordite. She heard distant explosions, the pounding of artillery fire and the screams of the dying. She felt the ever-present chill, the wind and bullets whipping past her. She was home at last.
"Let's find out," she said.