DC Hellblazer: I'm Constantine

C10. I'm Constantine

Most of the marks in my body are curses, curses, and more curses. But not all of them. Some are Hell's own signatures, demon sigils from fiends I've bargained with, beaten, or conned into owing me. Mammon's crest is among them. Not immediate, but close to Nergal's. The First of the Fallen's not far from Azazel. There are many more.

Through their sigils, I've invoked the powers of these demons before. That fight with Destiny won't be the last time I tap into it. The Spectre'll love that. He'll be furious when he learns I'm still playing with infernal fire, but if I can summon Mammon's *business acumen* without ripping myself apart, well, it might be worth the risk. Might.

Then there are the unknown marks, sigils, and runes I can't place. Mysteries I'll let lie. I've got enough trouble keeping the demons I _do_ know in line.

But it's not all arcane marks and demonic deals, is it? There's the mundane, like the fact that Batman still hasn't paid me. We had a deal, after all, and whether it was for the sake of humanity or not, I've never seen the Bat hurting for cash. He's got wealth to burn, and I've got no shortage of ideas for it—a little financial backing could go a long way in securing a meal that doesn't taste like the bottom of a tin.

I briefly toy with the idea of conjuring cash, if only magic worked as well as people think. It'd be a hell of a trick, but magic's got its limits. Anything I conjure reeks of falsehood, detectable to anyone. Transfigure soil or leaves to cash? Lasts a couple of hours, tops, before it turns back into whatever rubbish I started with.

Just then, Black Orchid's voice cuts through the stillness.

"There's a message for you, Constantine," she says.

"It's from the Justice League," she adds.

That piques my interest. The Justice League? Maybe the Bat finally came through. Took him bloody long enough.

I stretch until my spine cracks and make my way into the House of Mystery. The door creaks shut behind me, the sound almost alive, like it knows I'm finally ready to deal with the world again. Inside, the air hums with that familiar eerie ambiance. A whisper of its old owners lingers in every corner—most of them long gone now, save for Abel.

At the center of the room, a jagged shard of smoky quartz hovers above a table, faintly pulsing. Batman made me set it up yesterday, calling it my "League contact." Fancy way of saying they wanted a direct line to their favorite magical consultant.

I brush my fingers over the shard. It hums to life, projecting an image in cold, blue light—Batman's unmistakable growl of a voice filling the room.

"Constantine. In recognition to your recent efforts, we've transferred the agreed funds. Additionally, the League formally invites you to provide ongoing consultation. Terms remain flexible to accommodate the unique nature of your services."

I smirk. Consultancy? Maybe not bad. A faint hum follows, and a small bundle of cash materializes from a portal in the shard. Handy thing, this quartz. It's quasi-organic, capable of functioning as a magical router and a minor portal. Came with the House, though it's limited to small items—cash, trinkets, nothing grand.

The money's warm in my hand, and for a moment, I consider the absurdity of it. A portal-powered payout from the Justice League. Still, it's nice to know even Batman's willing to play my game when it suits him.

I'll be damned if I don't check how far this "consultant" fee can stretch.

The cash's still in my hand. I fan it out, the stack thick enough to bring a slow grin to my face. All the ways I could spend it flash through my mind like a hyperactive GPS mapping every casino on the planet. A thrill races through me, quick as lightning. I could dive into a poker game right now, one of those exclusive tables where stakes rise fast and the cards turn with every heartbeat. I can practically smell the smoke and hear the rattle of chips.

And then there are the fags. Could stock up for a good month, light up every time I please. A whole month's supply just for the taking. Then there's vodka—can't forget that, mate. A decent bottle, maybe even a stash of the good stuff, all just waiting for a proper night.

And women… ah, women do love a bit of cash in the pocket, don't they?

I clutch the cash and feel it thrum in my hand, every impulse lighting up, calling out for a taste of old habits. My conscience, bless its heart, pipes up with something righteous—whispers about maybe breaking the cycle, putting this toward something decent for once. Like a good meal for Christ's sake!

But the thrill's already bubbling, the adrenaline too much to ignore. By the time Black Orchid saunters in, my mind's made up. Just a taste of the old Constantine—just to remember how it feels. Nothing more, I tell myself. Promise.

"Buckle up, love. We're off to Vegas!" I announce, commanding Black Orchid, the House of Mystery itself.

Vegas.

It smells like desperation and cheap cologne, the kind of aroma that sticks to your skin and settles deep in your soul. The House of Mystery cloaks itself into nothingness behind me, blending seamlessly into the air, like it's Vegas itself holding its breath.

Weirdly, it feels like home. The blinding neon chaos, the hum of slot machines, and the relentless thrumming of bass from some overpriced nightclub all blend into a strange symphony that somehow soothes my nerves.

The casino I choose isn't the Lucky Devil, but it's a garish monstrosity in its own right. Roman columns, gold trim, and chandeliers dripping with faux opulence—this place promises grandeur and delivers regret. I catch a faint reflection of myself in the revolving doors before stepping in. Younger. Fresher. The years don't seem to weigh as heavily tonight. If I ditch the coat, I might even pass for someone who doesn't owe this city more than a few debts.

But that's not gonna happen, is it? Not my style.

Inside, the noise hits like a freight train. Slot machines clamor for attention, their flashing lights an assault on the senses. Dealers shout over the crowds, their voices competing with the constant din, while somewhere in the distance, a woman's shrill laughter pierces through it all—probably a big win or a bigger bluff.

I head straight for the roulette table. Call it a litmus test. If my luck's changed, maybe I've got a shot. If not... well, it's not like I'm unfamiliar with disappointment.

"Put it all on black," I tell the dealer, tossing the cash onto the table like I've got nothing to lose. Maybe I don't.

The dealer hesitates, eyebrows raised, but he spins the wheel. The ball bounces and dances, each click ricocheting through my chest.

It slows, teetering on the edge of red—a heart-stopping moment where even the crowd seems to hold its collective breath.

Red. It lands on red.

The dealer opens his mouth, a smirk already forming, ready to call me a loser—

—but then, impossibly, the ball wobbles. Just the faintest nudge, almost imperceptible. It hops once, twice more, and drops cleanly into black.

The crowd erupts.

I win.

And I keep winning.

The next table—blackjack—I play like I've got the devil whispering in my ear. Every card seems to come just when I need it. Craps? A roll of the dice feels more like prophecy than chance. Even the bloody slot machines can't resist, coughing up jackpots like they're trying to impress me.

The murmurs grow. People edge closer, the scent of cheap whiskey and envy thick in the air. Someone in a sequined dress gasps as I pull in another mountain of chips. A balding man mutters to his buddy, pointing at me like I'm some kind of circus act.

Then, finally, management steps in. A sharp-dressed man with a grin so polished it practically reflects the neon lights, approaches, flanked by two burly guards.

"Mr. Constantine," he says, his voice the picture of courtesy with just a hint of suspicion. "The house has been watching your streak with great interest. We'd like to extend an invitation to our exclusive VIP lounge."

I tilt my head, giving him my best devil-may-care smile. "Exclusive, you say? Well, far be it from me to turn down a bit of luxury."

They guide me past the gawkers, through a set of opulent double doors into a swanky lounge that screams money. The air smells faintly of cigars and aged whiskey, and the crowd here isn't snapping photos or whispering behind hands. These folks are too busy pretending they own the place—or maybe they do.

But before I can so much as grab a drink, the slick manager returns, his grin somehow even wider.

"Actually, Mr. Constantine," he says, voice low, "we'd like to extend an even rarer opportunity." He pauses, as if savoring the moment. "The VVIP lounge."

"VVIP?" I echo, letting a bit of incredulousness slip into my tone. "What's next, the ultra-platinum-mega lounge?"

The man chuckles, but there's a twitch in his eye that tells me he doesn't appreciate the joke. "This isn't just luxury, sir. It's an invitation to sit at our high-stakes poker table. Very few get the honor."

Ah. There it is. The real game.

"Lead the way," I say, keeping my tone light as he guides me through yet another door—this one guarded by a man who looks like he wrestles bears for fun.

The VVIP lounge is quieter, darker, and somehow even more suffocating. The lighting is dimmed just enough to feel intimate, but the tension in the air buzzes like static. At the center of the room is a table. It's not just any table—it's a masterpiece of black marble inlaid with gold veins, the kind of thing that whispers *power* with every polished edge.

Seated around it are the players. And I realize, in an instant, that I've been set up for something much bigger than I thought.

Because sitting there, grinning with all the smugness of cats about to pounce on a mouse, are the Demons Three.

"Well, well," Abnegazar drawls, voice dripping with false charm. "If it isn't the Lucky Devil himself."

I don't flinch. Instead, I slide into the empty seat like I own it, casually dropping my stack of chips onto the table.

"I was starting to wonder when I'd run into you lot," I say. "Thought maybe my luck was turning stale."