The Undead Spider #96.
The bar stool groaned under Jake's weight, wood damp against his palms where condensation had settled into the grain. The jukebox thudded through the floorboards and the crowd shouted and drank around the two men suspended in webbing from the rafters, treating them as decoration rather than warning.
Tobacco smoke hung thick enough to taste, layering over spilled ale until the air clung to Jake's skin. Constantine settled beside him with the ease of someone who had learned to rest in rooms full of enemies, his eyes tracing the webbed shapes above before he turned to the woman at the counter's end, cigarette dangling as he gestured at the top shelf.
"Make it the good stuff, luv." He leaned forward, grin crooked around the filter. "The big fella in the hood is feeling generous, and I've got a thirst your usual swill won't touch."
The woman looked at Jake. The air between them grew heavy, pressure building against her chest until she set the glass down and retreated toward the kitchen without collecting her tip.
Constantine laughed, dry and short, and slid the drink toward Jake. Amber liquid sloshed against the rim as the glass crossed scarred wood. He dragged on his cigarette and exhaled blue smoke that swirled around his head, eyes never leaving the hooded figure beside him.
"You've got a way with the ladies," he said, eyes crinkling. "Real charmer. I've seen blokes try every line to get a smile from that one, and here you are managing it without so much as a hello."
Jake didn't respond. His spider-sense had become a deafening roar, sensory data spinning around Constantine in frequencies that made his head swim. Each word the man spoke struck a chord that tasted of ozone and copper, static raising the fine hairs at Jake's neck. The sense read Constantine not as person but as walking collision, old wounds and dangerous loose ends held together by momentum and malice.
"That type, eh." Constantine's face drained of humor. "Should try blending in, mate, instead of dramatic entrances involving the local talent and light fixtures."
"Lend me your coat and I might blend in." Jake's voice stayed low, weight shifting on the stool.
He felt the pull toward the tan fabric on Constantine's knee, fingers twitching with the urge to reach. The navigation thread pulsed and the totem icon glowed aggressive and steady, reminder of task and reward.
Constantine's eyes narrowed, following Jake's gaze to the coat. His hand gripped the fabric with possessive tension, then he exhaled, raspy and worn, looking at Jake's short sleeves.
"Something tells me the last person you borrowed kit from didn't take it kindly, seeing as you're bursting at the seams." He shook his head. "You wouldn't last a minute in this old thing, Spaceman."
"Trust me, I haven't worn my own for three weeks, and I'm better for it."
The timeline caught Jake's attention -- sustained flight mirroring his own since Gotham. He watched Constantine's thumb trace the glass rim, gesture of a man waiting for impact.
"Those men in the hallway," Jake asked. "After the coat?"
"Them?" Constantine threw a thumb toward the door. "Doubt it. I've got enough friends in this city to fill a graveyard twice, and half want my head on a platter. Could be the mob boss whose daughter had a turn after I helped her through a breakup -- or an exorcism, depending who you ask. Hard to keep track when bad luck comes in waves."
He paused, casual mask slipping to reveal cold calculation, and Jake's spider-sense shifted from dizzying hum to sharp scream.
"What I'm sure of is they weren't after the coat." Constantine's hand tightened on the fabric, voice dropping as he leaned in. "But you are."
"Who sent you?" he asked, eyes sharp and sober. "You're too fancy for usual goons. Nergal? Not his style, but tell him the check is in the mail if you're collecting."
"No one sent me." Jake's lenses stayed fixed on Constantine's face. "I'm here to strike a bargain."
Constantine paused, confusion crossing his features before he barked a laugh, loud and dry. He shook his head and leaned back, smoke curling around his face in the dim light.
"A bargain?" The word sounded foreign. "Bloody hell. I've spent weeks hunted by everything with a pulse and several without, and not once has someone come to chat. Usually I'm the one talking. You think you'll con me out of my coat while I'm looking the other way?"
"If I wanted it, I'd take it." Jake's tone carried no threat, only weight. "You couldn't stop me."
"Oh, you wouldn't want that." The smirk returned, weary and cynical. "Old girl's got literal tricks up her sleeve that would make your life short and loud. Better off asking nicely, though it won't get you far."
"I need your help." Jake ignored the warning. "I've got a target on my back and you're suited to remove it. Since you're in a bind yourself that you can't maintain your poker face, I think we can work something out."
"What do you want?"
Constantine went quiet, face doing several things Jake's sense couldn't read. He turned toward the empty space where the barmaid had stood.
"That drink you promised would be a start," he said. "But look at this place. Service moves slower than a funeral procession."
He looked at Jake, eyes scanning mask and hoodie with calculation already running toward exits.
"You're in deep, aren't you? I can smell the desperation, mate. Familiar scent. But I've got my own ghosts to outrun, and I'm not in the mood for passengers."
The front door didn't open -- it vanished, splintered wood and metal spraying across the room. The jukebox cut to static, replaced by a roar that shook glasses on their shelves.
Chaos erupted. Factions poured through the gap, violence blurring into screaming panic. Men in heavy wool coats carried blunt instruments and knives, eyes frantic with desperate energy, but among them moved shapes that didn't belong in light. Creatures with gray translucent skin and elongated limbs crawled over tables, mouths opening to rows of needle teeth dripping black fluid.
Jake was off his stool before the first table overturned, hand closing on a flying chair leg and swinging it into an approaching chest with force that sent the attacker backward into the wall. He moved before understanding caught up, body reacting to the room's fracture with cold kinetic certainty. A blade hissed through air where his throat had been, followed immediately by green fire scorching the bar and turning spilled ale to hissing steam.
The attackers spared Jake no glance, eyes fixed on the man in the rumpled shirt with singular predatory focus. They moved with twitching unnatural grace, skin the color of wet slate, eyes glowing with sickly rhythmic light that matched the green flames. One of them, gaunt with fingers ending in hooked blackened bone, lunged over the counter with a screech that set Jake's teeth on edge.
Constantine didn't flinch. He caught a heavy mug and smashed it against the creature's head, glass shattering into diamonds that caught the dying jukebox light. He followed with a kick to the chest, sending the thing tumbling back into spirit shelves with a crash of breaking glass.
"Bloody hell, fellas," he shouted, voice gravelly with London edge. "Told Nergal the check was in the mail, didn't I? Or has the old git finally lost patience, sending bottom-barrel rejects? You lot smell worse than stagnant puddle in the East End."
He ducked a swinging chain and reached into his pocket, pulling shimmering dust that he flung into a second attacker's face. The creature erupted in blue sparks, howling as the substance burned through translucent skin. Despite his competence, the numbers were telling, circle closing around the bar's corner.
Jake stepped into the gap, shoulder catching a demon midsection and launching it through crates with a dull thud. He stood between Constantine and the encroaching gray flesh, lenses glowing faint steady white beneath his hood's shadow.
"Schedule your appointment with him for later," he said, voice low rumble through floorboards. "Or you'll have a very big problem with me."
The leader, face a ruin of scar tissue and ancient runes, skidded to a halt feet away, chest heaving wet and rattling. He pointed a blade toward Jake, eyes flickering warning that pressed like weight against Jake's chest.
"Back off, human," he hissed, words like dry leaves across stone. "You've no idea what rot you're inviting. Think you're making a bargain? You're the next name on a long list of people John Constantine sold down river to save his skin. He's a soul-broker with a bankrupt account, and we've come to collect interest."
Jake shifted his weight, mechanical fingers curling into fists as his sense screamed about reinforcements gathering in the hallway shadows.
"I'm well aware," he replied, tone flat and heatless. "Need him in one piece for the next hour though. And I just can't let you take him."
Constantine let out a dry hacking cough and wiped black blood from his chin, smirk tugging his lips as he looked at the surrounding creatures.
"Hear that, boys?" he muttered, accent dripping cynical charm. "Man's a regular philanthropist. Now if you're quite finished with sermon, I've got an expensive hangover to start and you're ruining the ambiance."
The scarred man's eyes turned deep bruised purple, and the pub's air turned freezing, moisture on walls crystallizing into frost patterns. Behind him, the creatures began to hum, low-frequency vibration rattling glass in window frames.
The room went silent for a single breath-holding second.
Then Jake found himself swinging below the leader's jagged blade.