Chapter 4: Stagecraft and Street Magic
Somewhere in some city . . . we cut in on someones late night Activities
its about 3:55 am at night and
It was the kind of hour when only the desperate, the damned, or the dangerously caffeinated were still awake. The city was a patchwork of neon and shadows, and somewhere behind a pawn shop that smelled like old regrets, baby oil, and good fried onions,
John Constantine was explaining loudly, as always, why goblins were not to be trusted.
He was limping, grinning, and bleeding in at least two places, but none of this slowed him down as he rounded the corner and headed deeper into the alley. "And that's why you never trust a group of goblins," he declared, voice echoing off the wet bricks, waving a battered stick that radiated enough bad luck to make a rabbit's foot shrivel.
Behind him, Zatanna Zatara followed with the patient exasperation of someone who'd spent her evening babysitting a professional of a disaster in the form of a grown-ass man. Her top hat was still perfectly perched, and her fishnets were, improbably, spotless. "You're the one who stole their magic voodoo stick and punched their chief in the nose, John. They were just getting it back in blood. Maybe next time try diplomacy instead of oh,maybe, I don't know, grand theft and aggravated assault?"
Constantine stopped, turned, and started walking backward, his grin stretching even wider, showing off a few missing teeth and a nose that was definitely not pointing the right way. "And yet, Zee, here I am. Sure, I'm missing some dental work, and that poor nun's never going to see again, and maybe probably going to need therapy and holy water, but I got the stick, didn't I?"
He spun around and, with a flourish, kicked in the window to what he optimistically called his apartment. Zatanna rolled her eyes and muttered something about breaking and entering, but followed him inside. The place looked exactly like you'd expect: a mess of half-burned candles, spellbooks with suspicious stains, and stacks of cigarette cartons, but with a weird, unexpected cleanliness, as if somehow, God willing, every mess was exactly where he wanted it.
John rummaged through an old sea chest and started tossing bottles over his shoulder. Zatanna caught them one-handed, never losing her composure. Even with seven and a half bottles flying at her, one of them still corked, another half-full of something that glowed, her fingers snapped up with dancer's grace, blue-gold flashes of magic cushioning each bottle before it could shatter. She didn't look so much startled as she did slightly annoyed, like someone who'd just found out her favorite coffee shop had switched to only decaf and then got mad at you for asking or questioning why.
She eyed the last bottle and flicked her fingers, making it vanish in a swirl of sparkles. "John, if you wanted my attention, you could've just called. I told you after Budapest, I'm never drinking with you again. And you know exactly why."
John booed her, flopping onto the couch with all the dignity of a collapsing marionette. "Coward. Budapest was a laugh. You and I just remember it differently, that's all."
"No, John. I remember being chased by a flock of demon geese, and you trying to talk your way out of it by promising them free cigarettes for eternity."
He grinned, wincing as he touched his bruised jaw. "Worked, didn't it?"
"No, John, it did not," But then She just shook her head, lips twitching in the ghost of a smile, and started stacking the bottles on the floor, one by one, her cape settling behind her in practiced, theatrical ripples.
It was 4 a.m. and neither of them felt the shift at first. But something else in the room did.
Above Constantine's bed, a massive hourglass filled with sand the color of dried blood, one of his more questionable trophies, began to tremble, then fold in on itself, then The glass warped, the sand turned purple, and in a heartbeat, the whole thing exploded, sending shards and hot grains flying in every direction.
Zatanna reacted before she even registered what was happening. Her hand snapped up, fingers splayed in a perfect sigil. Blue-gold light coiled around her palm, her cape snapping in a wind that wasn't there, and the world bent to her will. The glass and sand froze in midair, suspended inches from their faces, hanging like a magician's trick gone wrong. "Pots ssalg dna dnas!" The words rang out, backwards and full of bite, and reality obeyed with the kind of obedience only Zatanna could command.
John, meanwhile, didn't look grateful. He shoved past her, dropped to his knees in the middle of the wreckage, and stared at the remains of the hourglass with a look of genuine heartbreak. "Not the hourglass. Not my bloody hourglass! Do you know how many demons I had to blackmail, bribe, and double-cross to get that? The things I've seen, Zee, the things I've compromised…"
He trailed off, noticing for the first time that none of his alcohol had survived the blast either. "No. No, no, no!" he howled at the ceiling, as if the universe might actually apologize if he complained loudly enough.
Zatanna didn't even bother to acknowledge the booze; her attention was on the magic. She could feel the aftershocks rippling through the room, could sense the wrongness in the air. Was it sabotage? A curse? Some sort of cosmic warning? Her mind raced, cataloging possibilities, her expression sharp and focused.
"You sure that thing wasn't cursed, John?"
He glared up at her, brushing glass from his knees. "Of course it was cursed. That's why I wanted it! You can't find proper time-magic on the open market these days."
She rolled her eyes, but there was real concern beneath the sass. "You ever think maybe the hourglass was booby-trapped? Or maybe someone wanted to send you a message? Because I'm getting the sense that we just got put on somebody's supernatural hit list."
John pulled a cigarette from behind his ear, flicked it open, and tried to light it with a spell, only to have the flame sputter out. "Fan-bloody-tastic. My luck's running backwards now. First I lose the hourglass, now the fags won't even light. You know, Zee, it's nights like this that make me wonder why I don't just pack it in and open a bakery."
Zatanna smirked, flicking a shard of glass away with a hint of magic. "You'd poison half the city with your baking, John. Stick to what you're good at, making a mess and dragging me into it."
He looked at her, a little less haunted, a little more grateful than he'd admit. "You're a saint, Zatanna."
She raised an eyebrow, voice warm. "Careful, John. Flattery might get you somewhere, but it won't get you another hourglass."
For a few heartbeats, they just stood there in the mess, two of the world's weirdest, wildest magicians surrounded by purple sand, broken glass, and the lingering sense that something big had just changed.
Somewhere, the city ticked toward dawn, and the magic community started feeling a chill they couldn't shake. Zatanna and Constantine stood together in the half-light, not quite friends, not quite enemies, and definitely not out of trouble yet. But for the moment, they were both exactly where they belonged, smack in the middle of the impossible . . .
Somewhere else and again before the clock strickes 4 am . . .
Madame Xanadu had seen plenty of odd mornings, but waking up to find her mailbox fully removed from its post and inside her shop, no less, was new even for her. She'd lived a dozen lifetimes, weathered centuries of magical weirdness, but there was something off-kilter about a mailbox that simply shouldn't exist in her reading room. She sat up, pushed back the velvet covers, and let her bare feet find the old wooden floor. The shop was still as She padded across the room, her steps soft and unhurried, robe trailing behind her with the elegant indifference of someone who'd worn silk before most people knew what silk was.
The mailbox perched absurdly on her table, looking smug and out-of-place among the tarot decks and scrying mirrors. She arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow and muttered, "If I find out this was Constantine again, I'm hexing his cigarettes to . . . ."
But the moment she opened it, the breath in her lungs caught. Candy. Not just any candy, her favorite, from a childhood so far gone she sometimes suspected she'd dreamed it.
The sweet, sugar-dusted drops that had vanished when the old confectioner died, taking his secret with him. Nestled beside the candy, a small bouquet of flowers, delicate and pale, their petals trembling with a memory of sunlight from a kingdom that didn't even exist anymore. She traced one petal, remembering a time when she'd played by rivers with sisters who now bore names like legend and curse.
There was a note, folded twice, the paper heavy and familiar beneath her fingertips.
Two lines, two hands. The first was a scrawl she didn't recognize: '''From your favorite apprentice and student, with love.'''
The second, unmistakably her own, neater and sharper: '''Pull cards at 4 AM. Trust fate.'''
She let herself laugh, the sound rich and warm and a little bit sad. "Of course. Leave it to me to send myself a message with my own handwriting. At least I still have good taste." She considered the candy, the flowers, and the handwriting.
There was nothing for it but to do as instructed. She dressed with care, a flowing indigo dress, silver jewelry that caught the candlelight,
She moved with that same deliberate grace, every gesture neither rushed nor wasted, as if she'd already glimpsed the whole day from start to finish. She sat at her round table, the velvet cloth soft beneath her hands, the air in the shop humming
She took a moment to savor it. The familiar scent of dried herbs, the flicker of blue and violet candle flames, the subtle pressure of magic settling into the bones of the building. Time never felt quite right in her shop
clocks ticked out of rhythm, even more so now
if you listened,
At exactly 4:00 AM, she began to pull the cards.
old muscle memory, the cards to her fingertips as she spread them in a careful pattern.
The first card made her frown. The Card a half broken mirror . . .
—a warning, sharp and clear, a sense of something coming that she couldn't quite see.
She drew again, a premonition more than a prophecy, and this time, tucked between two blank cards, she found something else: a train ticket, stamped for Gotham, one week from today.
She stared at it, turning the slip of paper over in her hand, reading the tiny print and feeling the shape of possibility twist in her chest.
"I haven't been to Gotham in… well, let's just say I'm due for a visit," she murmured, tracing the edge of the ticket with a thumb. Gotham.
The city that never learned, never slept, never ran out of trouble. The last time she'd set foot there, the Bat was just a rumor, and she'd left more than a few old ghosts behind.
She drew another card, just to be sure, and the answer was the same:
The words '''Go.''' in Bold
She let her head fall back for a moment, eyes closed, exhaling the kind of sigh that only comes with centuries of stubborn hope.
"You know, Nimue, for someone with this much foresight, you really should stop acting surprised when fate leaves you with so many unanswered questions," she said aloud, for only the shop's to hear, then She gathered the cards, the ticket, and the tiny bouquet, and made her way to the window. Outside, the street was empty,
Her shop would follow her to Gotham, she knew. It always did.
Madame Xanadu didn't fear fate. She just liked to meet it on her own terms, dressed for the occasion.