When Schiller saw that name, he narrowed his eyes slightly. It couldn't be such a coincidence—could there really be a second person in this world named John Constantine?
"What do you want?" Schiller asked inwardly.
"In your memories, I am a character who exists in certain literary works."
"Yes." Schiller admitted it. "At least, the first time I heard your name was in a novel."
"But I do not appear much."
"Yes, not much."
"Do you have no opinion on that?"
"If I am to be honest, though you appear rarely, your reputation is widespread, because you are completely unlike your kin. You are very special."
"Don't you think that distinction should earn me more appearances?"
Schiller rubbed his brow. "So you want someone to write a novel about you? With you as the protagonist?"
"You are the protagonists," Nyarlathotep said. "Your kind has too many ingrained prejudices against me."
"That only proves my kind has keen eyes."
"I hope someone can help clear my name."
"Constantine? Don't you think putting him and the words 'clear my name' together is an enormous joke?"
"This is not his story," Nyarlathotep said. "It is your story. He merely recorded it all. He is quite a good writer."
"You two really are birds of a feather." Schiller let out a cold laugh. "You wanted to do this all along, didn't you? How many benefits did you give Constantine to make that sly bastard work for you?"
"It is simply where his interests lie. I did not force him."
"Whatever." Schiller put the book away in his coat without the slightest intention of reading it. "I have the item. Our previous transaction is over."
"What about the screw?"
"You never set any conditions for that." Schiller refused to fall for it. "A face-to-face transaction,