DC Hellblazer: I'm Constantine

C8. I'm Constantine

There's a limit to how long you can observe something, even if it's a miracle or a Hell branding. I can see the questions and uncertainty in their eyes, but the way Zatanna is looking at me is what I find to be more fascinating. Her gaze isn't just concerned; there's something deeper there, something more complicated. A level of infatuation mixed with worry, a look that tugs at something in me that I don't want to acknowledge. She's seeing me in a way that no one else is—like I'm both a miracle and a monster. And for the first time in a long while, I find myself *wanting* to know what that means, but I'm not ready to find out just yet. 

I let it linger for a moment longer than I should, standing there, letting them stare. Let them _see_ what they want to see. Let them _feel_ whatever they're feeling.

Then I speak, shattering the moment with a touch of arrogance, the mask I wear best.

"Enjoy the view while it lasts," I say, my voice, rough but with a bite of arrogance, "There'll be plenty of time for all of you to admire the handiwork." I can't help it, a smirk slips onto my face. It's hard not to bask in the pride of the moment. After all, this... this damnation? This mark? It's mine. Finally, after everything, something that says _I'm here._ A reminder that no matter how far I fall, I'll always rise higher than they expect.

But Zatanna doesn't react the way I expect. Her eyes stay locked on me, full of an intensity I can't quite decipher. The others are there, their eyes flicking from one to the other, but it's *her* gaze that anchors me, pulling me into something I'm not ready for. It's like she's seeing the parts of me that I've been trying to bury. And I don't know whether it scares me or excites me.

Deadman opens his mouth, looking around the room with a detached concern. "So, you remember anything about Etrigan?" he asks, his voice low, a bit tentative.

I *don't* remember, and that's the problem. But I can feel the answer forming in the back of my mind. "Remember?" I repeat, as if the word might help me retrieve it. The truth is, I can feel the edges of the memory, sharp and jagged, but I don't want to face it. Not yet.

But Zatanna, damn her, speaks up, breaking through the haze of my thoughts. "Etrigan," she starts, her voice barely above a whisper, "he... he was ranting about how you damned Jason's soul, John." She looks at me, like she's expecting me to explain, to _make sense_ of whatever the hell that means. But I can't. I _won't_.

"Damned Jason's soul, huh?" I mutter, taking a breath, trying to push down the dread clawing at my insides.

"Etrigan tried to take your head off for it," Batman cuts in, his voice neutral, the way it always is, but it lands like a punch to the gut.

Now I know where they're going, and I hate it. I hate that it's all starting to make sense. 

I'm certain I don't remember what exactly went down though. That must be when I blacked out and sunk into a pool of torture and madness. My eyes dart around the room, but I don't look at anyone in particular. "It's a good thing you didn't let him, because I'm the only one who knows how to help Blood."

But then Zatanna's voice cuts through again, and I can feel the twist in my stomach. "We are not the ones who stopped him, John."

I swallow hard. 

"You did," Deadman chimes in, his voice almost too calm, like he's just stating a fact. The impossible fact. I was unconscious... it's unlikely. 

"Or whatever that thing was." Batman's voice is clipped, and now I know exactly what they're all thinking. They're all waiting for answers, digging into the impossible, trying to make sense of whatever the hell happened to me. What *did* stop Etrigan? What the hell am I now? And why does it all keep coming back to me? 

I run a hand through my hair, frustrated, desperate to just push through the fog and get to the point. I sigh deeply, the weight of everything crashing down on me. "Whatever the case, the important thing is finding Jason—his ghost—and fixing him up before it's too late." The words leave my mouth, but they feel heavy. *Too* heavy. I can't even let myself think about what happens if we don't find him in time. 

A week? I wonder, trying to calculate the devolution of his ghost in my mind. Blood's been alive for half a century, so it's likely his ghost can hold out longer than the average spirit. Maybe. But I don't know. And that uncertainty gnaws at me.

Zatanna steps forward, and for a moment, I think I see something in her eyes—something that catches my breath, something close to hope. "You're right," she says, her voice steady but full of the unspoken tension we're all feeling. "What matters right now is helping Jason Blood. Answers will come later."

I nod, though it feels like I'm just going through the motions, trying to mask the fear I'm really feeling. "What happened to his body?" I ask, trying to pull myself together, to focus on something concrete.

"It's in preservation," Batman replies, his voice still too calm, like we're just talking about any other case. 

I turn to Deadman, the spirit that's been haunting me through all this. "Any leads on his ghost?" I ask, but his shake of the head is answer enough.

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to steady my nerves, but the weight of everything is too much. The pressure's building, and I know if I don't act soon, everything will slip through my fingers. "We need to find his ghost, bring it to his body, and bind him with Etrigan," I say, my voice firmer now, even though the uncertainty still churns in my gut. But there's no more time for second-guessing. There's no more time for me to fall apart.

*This is it. This is what we need to do.*

Our first stop is obvious: Jason Blood's sanctum. He's layered enough wards and bindings around it that even London's old bones seem to shiver when we draw near. Magic has a way of haunting its own, after all, and Jason's presence hangs here like fog in an alley. This place is a map of his mind, veiled in its own ancient shadows, and we're not sure what will greet us.

With the Keshanti Key still in my pocket, getting there takes less than a breath and more than a moment. Zatanna, Deadman, and I step through, barely leaving a trace. Jason's sanctum feels alive, but barely, like it's holding its breath, hiding some truth in plain sight.

The room is dark, filled with dusty tomes and relics that speak to Jason's past—a mingling of the human and the demonic. Shelves buckle under the weight of ancient books bound in leather and, by the looks of it, something less savory. A single candle flickers in the far corner, the only light in the room, casting jagged shadows that dance across the stone walls. It's as if the sanctum itself is whispering, *He was here.* 

We're all quiet, reverent, as if we're walking through a cemetery. But I can feel them watching me, waiting for me to act.

I dig my hand into my coat pocket, fingers brushing past salt packets and crushed sage before landing on a small pouch filled with ash—a concoction I've used before when dealing with restless spirits. "Stand back," I say, my voice low, catching in the echo of the room. "This'll pull in whatever residue's left of him. If he's been here, we'll know."

I take a pinch of the ash and sprinkle it in a circle on the floor, the dust settling in silence. Then, from another pocket, I pull out a vial of rose water and let a few drops fall into the ash. A tendril of smoke rises, thick and heavy, like fog on a winter's night. "In the name of blood and shadow," I murmur, my voice thick with intent, "we call upon the presence bound here. Let it be revealed, in form or in echo."

For a moment, there's nothing, just silence pressing down on us. But then, the ash begins to stir, forming faint, fragmented shapes that shift and ripple like water. A hand, a flash of a face, a figure turning away. And then—Jason. Or at least, something that looks like him. His ghost.

He's not the translucent wraith we'd expect. He stands there, whole, in a worn coat and boots, his gaze solemn, as if he's looking straight through us. There's no hollowness, no sense of the ethereal. He's standing there like a man, solid as we are, his expression pensive and human, untouched by the grave. It's more unsettling than any specter or shade.

Zatanna lets out a soft gasp. 

"That's no mere ghost," Deadman murmurs, his voice low, charged with something between awe and disbelief.

I stare, unable to look away.

Jason's ghost—if that's truly what this is—feels like more than a lingering spirit. His eyes glint with the same intelligence, the same spark of humanity I knew from before. There's something unsettlingly familiar here, something that echoes Deadman's presence but with a weight, a substance I didn't expect.

I swallow hard, a knot forming in my throat. Whatever's anchoring him to this world is stronger than it ought to be. More binding than I intended...

But, on the bright side, it's just enough to keep him grounded. Just enough to keep him sane. And if I'm lucky—just enough to make him useful.

"Seems he was here," I murmur, my words barely a breath. "But not now." Jason's image fades like mist on a cold morning, dissipating in the strange draft that's swept through the room. I turn, letting out a tight sigh, relief tinged with a kind of hesitant admiration. "If he wanted to leave, he'd have found a way back to his body by now. He doesn't need us."

Batman's steady, unflinching gaze shifts to me, dark as stone. "I thought you said he needed help."

I meet his stare, the weight of that small, unflinching truth settling between us. "I was wrong," I say. "Looks like he's found some peace with his new state, enough to stop himself from running straight to Etrigan."

"Maybe we don't disturb his patience," I add, glancing over at Deadman, who nods slightly, an understanding forming between us.

Deadman looks at Jason's last, lingering traces, his eyes thoughtful. "It won't take long before he realizes the downside of being a deadman," he says, a soft resignation in his voice.

Still, there's a certain comfort in having a hidden ace up my sleeve—especially with the cosmic stunt I'm about to pull. And for the first time since waking up, a calming wave of relief washes over me