Hellblazer 2 - Subterranean

Tonsell-by-the-Stream, a sleepy little village outside of London, is suddenly swallowed down into the earth through the hellish machinations of an ancient, ominous force. At the behest of an extraordinary supernatural agent—and in exchange for the life of his best friend—down-and-out and amoral occultist John Constantine must venture deep into underground shadows to investigate this cataclysmic occurrence. But unbeknownst to Constantine, something beyond his worst nightmares awaits below—the deadly and phantasmagorical realm of the Sunless . . . a terrifying world where the Gloomlord rules over all with a sadistic and merciless hand, and Tonsell-by-the-Stream was only his first target on the surface world . . .

CONSTANTINE HUNG HEAVILY IN DARKNESS, AS QUIETLY AS POSSIBLE.

The light was from far up the shaft. He could hear machinery clunking, grinding; felt the whisper of rising air lifting the hair on the back of his neck. He waited, dangling in a void, his arms aching.

The gripplers came. He could hear the fingers snuffling inquisitively around in the chamber he’d just left—he could picture them clearly, in his mind’s eye, four-fingered hands, like something on toads, tip-tapping their way along the floor, bloodhounds with their smellers in their fingertips, picking up his scent . . .

His arms throbbed; he felt like his shoulders were slowly, slowly dislocating.

He could hear them coming closer now, tippity-tap, slither, tippity-tap, slither, closer and closer, looking to grab his wrists, perhaps to fling him down the shaft to their fellows, where the other gripplers would pull him apart or, maybe worse, impregnate his skin with fungi that would send their roots worming into his flesh, his veins, and finally into his brain . . .

An
Original
Publication of POCKET BOOKS

A Pocket Star Book published by
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

Copyright © 2006 DC Comics. All Rights Reserved.

JOHN CONSTANTINE: HELLBLAZER and all related titles, characters, and elements are trademarks of DC Comics.

www.dccomics.com

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 1-4165-0344-6

First Pocket Books paperback edition December 2006

Manufactured in the United States of America

Farewell my freends let playne simplicity
Be stil your guide to lead you in your race
So shal ye neare approch to Unity
And evermore obtayne from him his grace
For double dealers, false and treacherous men
Wil quickly be entrapt in Errours den.

—Robert Fludd (1574-1637)

“Sometimes, mate, the only way out of the devil’s claws is double-dealing the devil’s way, and right brisk, too . . .”

—John Constantine (1953—?)

From the Servants of Transfiguration

Dossier on John Constantine

Top Clearance: Eyes Only

John Constantine, a working-class British magus, is rumored to be a magical adept by some, a con man by others. He may or may not be problematic to the SOT. He was born in 1953 in Liverpool (making him a “Scouse”) to a family that can be charitably called “working class” and this class association has marked his personal style. According to hospital records he was a twin, but his brother was born dead, asphyxiated by an anomalous loop of umbilicus. The magic symbolism of this seems ambiguous, to say the least. Additionally, Constantine’s mother died in childbirth. His father, Thomas Constantine, apparently blamed the infant JC for this. Thomas was incarcerated for stealing women’s underwear, at which time the boy and his sister were sent to live with an aunt and uncle, a rather troublesome pair, in Northampton. John Constantine’s relationships with family members have been rocky at best.

In 1967, he was expelled from school. Eventually he moved to Portobello, London, where he was involved in some of the more extemporaneous “rock and roll” scenes extant at the time. Constantine is reported to have had scores of occult adventures—possibly
misadventures
is a better term—but our researchers find it difficult to separate out fact from legend. It does appear that Constantine had a particularly nasty interaction with a demon invoked at Newcastle, leading to an extended sojourn in Ravenscar mental hospital. Despite the notorious sadism of Ravenscar’s staff, he seems to have emerged from the hospital with his sanity largely restored, all things being relative.

Constantine seems to be almost entirely without conventional financial support. We have no record of his taking money for an occult investigation or activity. He appears to make some of his very modest living through supernaturally enhanced gambling.

Our researchers are unable to discover precisely when and where Constantine learned about the Hidden World and gained a proficiency in ritual magic. We note a number of Constantine’s ancestors with a reputation for the supernatural (see SOT files,
The Inquisition),
hence he may have inherited some magical ability. He also seems to have actively explored the supernatural from fairly early in childhood, quite on his own initiative. As an adult, he may well have had inspiration from some other well-known figures in the uncanny realm, including the voodoo priest known as “Papa Midnite” (see dossier entry, “Papa Midnite: an authentic personage”). There are rumors that Constantine was involved with the (mythical?) elemental known as the “Swamp Thing.”

His abilities are not known for certain, but John Constantine is understood to be capable of limited telepathy precognition, astral projection, and the successful invocation of elementals, demons, and angels. There are persistent tales of his having visited Hell itself, somehow walking away more or less intact. However, he does not seem to have been allied with Hell’s supervisory denizens, nor is he regarded as a diabolist. Indeed, in recent years Constantine has been known to seek out white-magic spiritual adepts in a bid for improved control over his abilities.

Constantine has his weaknesses, including bouts of drunkenness, but is to be regarded as a dangerous adversary He is not without allies and is influential amongst aficionados of so-called chaos magick. E.g., there are at least two “alternative Tarot” decks which include an image of John Constantine as one of the face cards.

SOT operatives interacting with Constantine should keep in mind that he is cunning and treacherous. Our psych profile on him suggests that he is not without loyalty and some peculiar code of ethics evolved according to his own lights. Unfortunately we have no reason to believe his loyalty could ever extend to the SOT. He must be regarded as a loose cannon, at best.

If the opportunity arises, John Constantine’s elimination would be advisable.

Dossier Addenda

About a year ago, John Constantine interposed himself into our War Lord project, causing the destruction of several principle Servants—including Dyzigi—and, more disastrously yet, derailing the ritual invocation of the War Lord N’Hept, thus effecting the undoing of the Grand Transfiguration. The meticulously planned and prepared-for world war and Apocalypse did not come about.

Since that time, the halls of the SOT have been overcast by a cloud of disappointment.

The Council has held our own Hierophant Magister, MacCrawley, responsible for this fiasco, and has summarily assigned him to a new project that will bring about our revenge against John Constantine and set the stage for a new Transfiguration.

MacCrawley has been advised that he fails this undertaking at his own peril.

Prologue

A
fine misty rain fell on a street in an Irish city, on a late Saturday afternoon; it fell too on a man of middle age, walking along, hands in his trench coat pockets, a Silk Cut trailing smoke stuck in a corner of his mouth. The asphalt was worn away in places to show the old cobblestones underneath; a drunk snored in a doorway; a taxi careened by, a bus rumbled and squeaked and hissed and was gone . . . and a boy rattled by on a skateboard, shouting, “One side, gobshite!” at John Constantine as he slouched slowly down the sidewalk.

Constantine was only faintly aware of all this. His mind was retracing the journey he’d taken from London to Wales, thence to Ireland and a heroin-addicted neo-druid on the outskirts of Belfast who had given him directions to a crumbling monastery on the Irish west coast—where a policeman had fined him for “vandalism.” He’d been digging under a cornerstone, marked with a complex interlacing of crosses, looking for a stone artifact, more pagan than Christian. Which, sod it, someone else had gotten to before him. The box was there—plundered.

Knew it was likely to be a waste of time,
he thought.
Squandered two hundred quid looking for the bloody thing. Threw away valuable time that could be spent fleecing sheep in the casinos, or drinking meself into a stupor. Ought to go to the dock—wasting more time wandering about.