[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xPfAC72.jpg[/img][/center] [b]Los Angeles 3:01 AM[/b] “You’re seeing this?” “Of course I’m seeing it” Constantine said as he lit up a fresh cigarette. “Anything you can see, I can see.” Charlie Rembrandt drove him and Constantine up the 101 through the heart of the city. Traffic was relatively light, but still busier than it should have been for three AM. Rembrandt was able to keep a steady seventy-five miles an hour in his cruiser. K2 had been left behind at Constantine’s apartment, salt laid on the doors and windows to kept his soul trapped inside the building. What unnerved Rembrandt were the faces. Men, women, and children all lined the sides of the highway and stared at the passing cars. They were all dressed in 30’s and 40’s style clothing. The car was going too fast for Rembrandt to make out, but he could feel waves of melancholy and sadness rolling off of them. “What the fuck is this?” “Slow down a tick,” said Constantine. Rembrandt moved into the right lane and slowed his speed down to fifty-five. He could make out faces of the people watching traffic. They were all Asian with tear-streaked faces. One of the men, dressed in, dressed in a suit and tie, had a red, white, and blue striped pin on his lapel with the words “USA” in bright, bold letters. “We’re near Little Tokyo, yeah?” John asked, blowing smoke as he spoke. “It's the ghosts from the internment during the war. Thousands of them packed off to camps for their so-called protection. Money and property seized, many of their homes bulldozed to make way for this lovely freeway. That type of trauma gets remembered, even after everyone’s dead. The scars run deep.” “Jesus fucking Christ,” said Rembrandt. He sighed. “I already had to deal with seeing South Central burn again. Now any time I get on the 101, I gotta see this shit? How the fuck do you deal with it, Constantine?” “Booze, cigarettes, and humor as deflection,” said Constantine. “You’ll get numb to it eventually. They’ll be bloody street signs before you know it. This place is unique, though. Los Angeles has a lot of damage for such a new city. Besides you’re dealing with the Sight better than most. Plenty of people....” Constantine trailed off. He blew smoke out the window and watched the passing ghosts of Japanese prisoners with indifference. “Plenty of people don’t take the change well,” he finally said. --- [b]Hollywood 3:45 AM[/b] “Back the fuck up, motherfucker” The bouncer eyeballed Rembrandt’s shield before looking at him and John. A crimson neon sign above the building’s front door announced the location as BLOODBATH. The bouncer wore red pants with a red button-up shirt. Charlie saw the ends of tattoos around the man’s wrists, implying full sleeve tats. “LAPD,” Charlie said again, this time with more force than he had before. “I’m here to see Lance.” After a moment’s hesitation, the bouncer stepped aside. He let Rembrandt pass by, but held out a meaty forearm when Constantine started to follow. “Show me your badge or you can get fucked,” the bouncer spat. “I’m more than just simple LAPD, lad,” Constantine said with a grin. He reached into his pocket and produced a business card. From his vantage point, Charlie saw that it read ‘Rusty Joe’s Plumbing' with a San Fernando address and phone number. “See?” “Oh, shit,” the bouncer said. “I’m sorry, sir.” “I’ll overlook it this time,” said Constantine, winking. “The fuck was that?” Rembrandt asked once they were through the front door. “A simple spell. He sees the card and it says whatever works to allow me access. I’m apparently someone very powerful.” The two men went through a dark corridor that led to an empty dance floor. A few workers were busy cleaning up for the night, paying no attention to either Rembrandt or Constantine. “Help you with something?” They turned and looked up. A skinny black man in black pants and black turtleneck sweater looked down at them from the top of a staircase above the dance floor. Charlie could see a strange aura around him, the color of copper. He squinted and furrowed his brow in recognition at the man’s face. “Lonnie Sledge,” said Rembrandt. “Used to be chief of Compton PD.” “That was another life ago,” said Sledge. “Now who the hell are you?” “Charlie Rembrandt,” he said holding his badge up. “LAPD, Robbery-Homicide." "Name rings a bell," said Sledge. "Used to work Hollywood. What does RHD want with me?" "I’m looking for Lance Rawlings.” “Who’s your friend?” Sledge said, nodding towards Constantine. “DI Constantine,” John said with a smirk. “On loan from Scotland Yard.” Sledge sucked his teeth before turning around and disappearing into the club’s second floor. Rembrandt turned to look at Constantine. “I don’t like this,” he said. “Lonnie Sledge is bad news. Under his watch, Compton PD got shutdown by the FBI for corruption. They could never tie Sledge to anything, but there were rumors about him working with and for street gangs.” “A bobby on the take? Say it ain’t so.” “What was up that with color around his body?” “He’s a familiar,” said Constantine. “You ever seen Dracula? The little bloke that acts like Drac’s slave? It’s kind of like that, but more intense. He’s linked to a magic user willingly. He gives the mage power by the link, and in return he gets… whatever the mage has promised him, usually some kind of reward unobtainable by conventional means.” “Gentlemen.” The man who emerged at the top of the stairs wasn’t tall or heavy or anything that could be described as physically threatening. He was average all the way around. But both Constantine and Rembrandt both could feel his power as he walked down the stairs towards them. His aura, like his expensive suit and shoes, was blood red and it seemed to throb like a pulse. The pulse seemed to come from his necklace. A plain golden medallion with a large crimson diamond in the center. Both men could [i]hear[/i] the thing speaking to them. Whispers and muted screams of countless voices, all overlapping to make a low din throughout the room. Sledge followed in his wake, his copper aura oozing and mingling with the man’s crimson one. “I’m Lucas Rawlings,” the man said with a polite smile. “Everyone calls me Lance. What can I help LAPD out with tonight?” “Kirsnick Kemp,” Rembrandt said, pushing through despite the noise coming from the necklace. He noticed that Rawlings had focused in on Constantine, not bothering to even make eye contact as Charlie spoke. “He was murdered tonight. I was told that he worked for you.” “That’s correct,” said Rawlings, finally pulling himself away from leering at Constantine. “I’m sorry to hear about his passing. He was a great artist. Troubled, but great.” “Can you account for your whereabouts tonight, sir?” Rembrandt asked. “Yes,” said Rawlings. “I was at a fundraiser for the African-American scholarship endowment at UCLA. I was there until the party broke up at two this morning. I’m sure if you speak with Mayor Garcia, Chief of Police Irving, or Lieutenant Governor Scott they would all remember seeing me there.” “I was his driver,” said Sledge. “Per Sledge Security standards, I keep a GPS tracker log of every trip done at Mr. Rawlings’ behest. For billing purposes. I’d be happy to turn those over once you get a warrant.” “Right,” said Rembrandt “Can you think of any enemies Kemp might of had?” “Take your pick,” Rawlings said, his eyes drifting back to Constantine. “He feuded with half the industry over Instagram and Snapchat. I warned the boy that running his mouth would get him killed. And look where that got him. I’m sorry, detective, but who is your friend?” “He’s a fellow detective,” said Charlie. “Really?” Rawling asked, raising an eyebrow. “Because he looks to me like John Constantine, former frontman of Mucus Membrane.” “Got it in one,” said Constantine. “I didn’t realize that a man of your… standing, would be aware of a bunch of grubby punks from Liverpool.” “I have eclectic tastes,” Rawlings said, licking his lips. “Just because I produce hip-hop music doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy other genres. I am curious why a washed up punk rocker is here with a LAPD detective on a murder case.” “I have eclectic tastes as well.” “I bet,” Rawlings said with a twinkle in his eye. “Gentlemen, if you need anything else please contact my attorney. Mr. Sledge will escort you out. Have a good evening and if I can be of any help finding who killed K2, do not hesitate to ask.” Sledge led them out in silence. He opened the door and watched them leave without a word. Constantine waited until they were back in Charlie’s car before he began to curse. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he swore repeatedly. “I think I just fucked myself over.” “What do you mean?” Rembrandt asked as he pulled out on to the street. He saw the ghost of the insane German axe killed again, Krazy Karl, running down the road and screaming at the top of his lungs about god’s love in German. Rembrandt drove through him, his spectral form losing its shape as the car passed through it. He emerged on the other side whole, still running on its loop and no wiser that anything had happened. “Rawlings is more than a bloody tinpot mage,” Constantine said as he reached for his cigarettes. “I should have fucking known based on everything else, but he’s what they call a blood mage. You felt the medallion, yeah?” “Of course,” said Rembrandt. “I could fucking hear it” “The medallion is a channeling item. Rawlings captures people’s souls and consumes them. The kid K2 is full of shite about a lot of things, but he was right about what his boss does to enemies. Those screams we heard? Those were his victims. Everyone he steals, he’s able to draw on their power… did you see the way he was looking at me?” “I couldn’t tell if he wanted to fight you or fuck you.” “He wants my soul,” said Constantine. “It works both ways, Charlie. That rentboy of his, Sledge, was left in the fucking dark, but Rawlings could see me, I mean really see me, the way we could see him. He knows what kind of power I have and he wants it.” “Fuck,” said Rembrandt. “I didn’t mean to do that, John. You know that.” “It’s okay,” Constantine said, looking into the car’s rearview mirror. “Maybe we can use it to our advantage. Have you noticed that car, Charlie?” “The one following us?" Rembrandt looked in the mirror as well. "I saw it. It picked us up once we were about two blocks away from Rawlings’ club.” “Good," said John, a smile forming on his face as the gears in his head began to turn. "Let them follow… I think I may have a plan.”