John Constantine

The Watchtower’s main conference room was unusually quiet for once—if only because Bątman was mid-sentence. “There’s a magical anomaly forming near the perimeter,” he said, tapping through screens as an image flickered into view—distorted, glitching, pulsing with dark energy. “We’ll need magical containment and reinforcement for the retrieval team.” Zątanna leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing at the screen. “That’s blood-bound style,” she muttered. “Old world, Eastern European in style. Not really in my wheelhouse.” Bątman’s gaze slid toward Constantine. “John?” The magician sat slouched in his seat, trench coat half-falling off one shoulder, looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else. He took a slow sip from a metal thermos you knew didn’t contain coffee. “That