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[b]L.A. River
2:24 AM[/b]


“We have our last item for sale.”

The masked woman pulled from her cloak a 1950’s era camera. She held the bulky device in her gloved hands, high enough for the gathered auction buyers to expect it. Everyone there, Constantine and Ray included, could feel the power of the thing. It was a black energy that spread through the air like the tendrils of a vine.

“Between 1957 and ‘58, Harvey Glatman lured would-be L.A. models to his apartment under the auspices of being a professional photographer. Once there, he would the pull a gun on the women, tie them down, rape them, and murder them. He used this camera to take photos of his victims in their last moments alive, horrible shots of young women begging for their lives. Glatman was arrested in the fall of ‘58, died in the gas chamber the next year, and his soul condemned to an eternity of torment. But this camera was left behind. It still carries the emotional weight and trauma of Glatman’s deeds. Bidding for this will open at major favors, gestures, and life altering choices.”

“I bid my left ring finger,” came a voice from the group.

“A night of uninhibited sexual pleasure,” a sultry voice said. A few eyes turned and saw a comely woman in a stained wedding dress making eyes at the crowd.

“A week of my best luck,” said another voice. 

“My last good tooth.”

The masked woman nodded at the last bid. It wasn’t that someone’s last good tooth was of any value to her, but the sacrifice it represented was the currency. These people were willing to part with these irreplaceable things, things that created mental ties and psychic bonds when they were willingly given. That's what the masked woman hoarded more than anything.

“A year of suicidal depression,” said another voice.

All fell quiet at the last bid. Whatever the camera was worth, no one else was prepared to pay a cost equal to or greater than that. The masked woman pointed towards the woman who made the bid.

“Going once, going twice, three times… sold.”

With the camera cradled in one hand, she made hand signals with the other, a curling motion with her gloved fingers. The woman who had won the bid began to totter on her feet, her look of triumph gone, replaced by pain and sadness.

“Your purchase” the masked woman said, handing it off to the woman. “A year from today, your depression will lift.”

“Whatever,” she dully said as she shuffled off. 

“That’s it for tonight,” the masked woman said. “Based on our lunar charts, we will see you next year at the auction. Rest assured, we will have an entire year’s worth of product for sale there. Until then.”

As the Good People began to filter away from the river, back towards the stairs where they had entered, John and Ray approached the masked woman.

“E,” said Ray.

“Long time no see,” said John.

“Maybe that was by design,” the woman said coolly. “With one of you becoming a sellout and the other… well… the less I say about you, Conjob, the better.”

She removed her mask, revealing a dazzling pair of blues eyes and matching hair. Epiphany, mistress of the arcane auctions and ex-girlfriend of John Constantine. If Ray was an encyclopedia of occult knowledge, then Epiphany was Wikipedia. Her information was more vast, ever-changing and adapting, and at times highly suspect. 

“I need your help tracking down a mage,” said John. “A really bad guy, working for bad people.” 

“We think he goes by the name Jimmy the Saint,” said Ray. “E., Conjob isn’t lying. This guy is killing the laity.”

“...Fuck,” Epiphany said with a sigh. “Okay. Let me finish up here and we can talk.”