Los Angeles. The newly built streets were wide, and the evening sunlight made this one look especially bright.
Constantine, a five-star model citizen, smoked as a low, streamlined car from the eighties or nineties honked at him. A heavyset man with a classic American country-style beard leaned out of the driver's seat, raised his middle finger, and offered Constantine's parents a few choice greetings.
"Not an illusion. No trace of magic, either. Looks like I really am back." He drew the Exorcist Revolver from his trench coat, checked the bullets, snapped the cylinder back into place, and called to the man, "Do you believe in Christ?"
The bearded man, now silent as a cicada in winter, shook his head.
"Good. Keep it that way."
Constantine strode across the crosswalk and left. Near Venice Beach, coconut and palm trees swayed, while the sea breeze brushed his face with a hint of chill.
He walked straight into a nearby building adorned with Renaissance-style reliefs.
A huge painting of Jesus's death hung above the fireplace. Flames crackled through dry logs, and neatly arranged bookshelves around the room held volume after volume on religion.
It looked like a library.
"Where is she?!" Constantine stared at the short, wavy-haired figure seated on the sofa with her back to him. "Gabriel, where's Angela?!"
Gabriel swirled the red wine in her glass and said calmly, "Angela is right in front of you."
"I mean Detective Angela," Constantine stressed. He had no interest in Gabriel's deadpan jokes.
"You're agitated, frightened, and desperate." Gabriel turned to glance at Constantine, puzzled. "Tell me, John."
"What happened? It seems you didn't give the Spear of Destiny to that Messiah after all."
Her gaze swept across Constantine's chest.
"God Almighty's busy falling in love. God Almighty has no time for me."
Constantine