Multiverse 1, Earth-0, Greenwich Village, New York.
The streets at midnight were still far from quiet, and all manner of occult shops remained open for business.
People dressed as Gypsies, monks from India, Japanese shrine priests, and the like sat in their shop windows like special-service workers playing at uniforms, waiting for another novelty-seeker to appear on the street.
As mentioned before, practically everyone on this street was a fraud, and it was full of fakes and lies. There was probably only one spellcaster with genuine skill: Madame Xanadu.
The red phone booth on the corner suddenly opened, and a man in a yellow trench coat stepped out with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. At that moment, his face wore an extremely greasy smile.
That was not an adjective. To evade any possible pursuit, Constantine had smeared corpse grease across his face. As long as he held his breath, he could temporarily disguise himself as a dead man.
But if he still wanted to smoke at the same time, the trick probably would not work very well.
Still, it would do. Why take things so seriously? He had a scapegoat with him anyway.
"Come on, buddy. Carry her over here."
He turned and gestured toward the phone booth. Gabriel, his so-called "buddy," had drunk John's liquor, so he could not drink it for free.
Even if he could no longer use an angel to take a blade for him, bringing one along to haul cargo was not bad either.
Who knew where that woman had fallen from? Her life was not in danger, but it looked like she had hit her head when she landed. Even being carried by such a handsome archangel had failed to draw any reaction from her.
Well, Gabriel was currently as filthy as a