[sup][h1][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Kxxi3Xf.jpg[/img][/center][b][center][color=black] Z A T A N N A[/color]
[color=lightgray]Z A T A N N A[/color][/center] [/b][/h1][/sup]
[b]Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean
Now[/b]

The drone of the jet’s engines rumbles in my right ear, the one that just won’t pop, no matter how hard I try. I try my best to ignore it by reading the medical journal I brought with me, but all I’m doing is absentmindedly staring at the words on the page and not absorbing anything worth a damn. Not that I’d really be able to do any studying. Not at a time like this.

A face across the aisle turns to look at me. It’s the middle aged creeper I noticed slip off his wedding ring when I walked by after my last trip to the restroom. One of those finance assholes who thinks [i]The Wolf of Wall Street[/i] is something to aspire to, not the morality tale it really is. Probably thinks he has a chance at the mile high club with the sweet college student. He has a better chance of flying after I toss him out an emergency exit like I’d preferred to do.

I take out my EarPods and ask, “Can I help you?”

He smiles, so proud of himself that I gave him the time of day, “Just wondering if you’ve ever been to London before, love?”

“Can’t say that I have,” I roll my eyes at the “love”.

“We’ll, if you could use a guide, I’d be more than happy to show you around town,” he smiles even wider, like a tiger who thinks he’s got a kill in front of him.

“Well, how would your wife feel about that?” I raise my eyebrow.

“I-uh-what are you talking abou-“

“My dad was a sleight of hand magician,” my smile is as condescending as I can manage. “You were as clumsy as an elephant in roller skates.”

He mumbles something that sounded an awful lot like “witch”, and I chuckle to myself and go back to my journal.

“Well done,” the older woman sitting next to me leans over with a warm smile. She’s giving off real grandma energy, and while I’d normally prefer not to talk to anyone on a plane, I respect it.

“Thanks, can’t stand that kind of guy. At least you probably didn’t have to deal with his kind back in the day, right?”

“On the contrary, there were probably more of him,” she sighed and cleans her glasses with her shirt. “And we couldn’t tell them off like you just did without being called some names.”

I give her a sympathetic look, “I get it, sister.”

She chuckles, “I couldn’t help but overhear that your father is a magician? Did you hear about what happened to that famous one from Vegas? Zoltan or something? Horrible, horrible business isn’t it. Had your father told you about that?”

“Yea,” my smile disappears very quickly. “Yea I heard about that.”
[center]**********[/center]

[b]Las Vegas
Two Weeks Ago[/b]

I sit in my father’s manager’s office, numb to the world. It was just yesterday I was woken up by a phone call from the Las Vegas PD telling me my father was missing and presumed dead. I jumped on a flight, and now I’m here. Of course, the story is already all over the news. TMZ was here almost immediately, and managed to get a picture of the dressing room he disappeared from. The blood and the occult symbols were already being plastered across every corner of the internet.

Brian Smith, my dad’s manager, looks worse than I do at this point. Probably didn’t sleep at all. I did, but mostly because I think I’m so numb to all this.

“So he didn’t tell you anything? That he was involved with anyone weird? Or being threatened by someone?” His hands are shaking as he picks the coffee cup up to his lips. “No stalkers or anything?”

“Not that he told me,” I shrug. “Was acting normally the last time we talked a few days ago. I take it you don’t know anything?”

He puts the cup down and puts his face in his hands, “Nothing.”

His one hand opens a drawer on his desk and slides an envelope over to me, “But he did give me this the morning before it happened. I didn’t think anything of it.”

The envelope has nothing on it but my name written in my dad’s handwriting. I open it to find an 8.5x11 piece of paper with just a few words written on it.

“Well?” Brian asks.

“All it says is ‘John Constantine. London.’ Any clue?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “But I can buy you a plane ticket.”