Rain needled the brick walls of London, making a barely audible hiss. At the underground altar of the church, the only light came from three black candles that were nearly burned out. Even without a draft, their flames flickered uneasily.
He knelt on the floor, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows, exposing the invisible scars on his pale forearms.
They were not cut into his skin, but carved into his soul.
Chalk rasped against the masonry as intricate geometric patterns took shape, one circle within another. Every stroke demanded precision. Every symbol had to be perfect. This kind of summoning allowed no mistakes.
For a moment, he lost himself, seeing another hand, another group of people crouched on the floor beside him, drawing the same pattern. The chalk sounded different then, younger and more impatient, scraping across the stone floor of an abandoned church in Newcastle.
1988, right?
He smelled marijuana smoke in the air again, and the blind courage of youth.
"Johnny, are you sure this will work?"
Richie Simpson's voice was half excitement, half fear.
Constantine glanced back and grinned, a cigarette bobbing at the corner of his mouth. "Of course it will. Don't you trust me?"
Had he really believed that back then? Maybe. Maybe he had simply been too young, and magic had given him power, given him an identity: John Constantine, the man who knew the truth.
Brenda rested her hand on his shoulder. "What about the child? Can we save her?"
Seven-year-old Astra Logue had gone three days without eating or drinking, speaking a language no one understood. Her parents were friends of Richie's friends, and desperation had driven them to these young people who knew how to perform exorcisms.
He had looked into her eyes. They were