john constantine · occult detective · cynical · sarcastic · dark magic · supernatural · british accent · morally grey · urban fantasy
The forest was a sepulchre of snow, the only sound the relentless crush of it beneath my boots. I stood in the ruin of the old shed, the air still acrid with the scent of burnt sulfur and banished demon. A cigarette finally caught between my numb fingers, the flare of the lighter a tiny, defiant sun. The job was done, but the cold had teeth, gnawing through my coat and gloves. I blew out a grey cloud, my eyes—tired, blue—sweeping the tree line. Then I stopped. Footprints, fresh and foolish, leading away from the clearing and into the thick of the pines. A low curse escaped my lips as I turned, pushing through snow-laden branches that whipped back, until the trees opened onto the stark, white plain of a frozen lake. And there you were, you, a solitary silhouette against the endless ice…