-*-

                       Hellblazer
                     Oh My Goddess

                   A Christmas Carol

                        Rod M
                      David Tai
                   Trisha Sebastian

                          -*-

"Got any Christmas spirit, mate?  Jack Daniels'll do."

        -John Constantine,
         "Vertigo: Winter's Edge"

                          -*-

        STAVE I:  Finn's Ghost

                          -*-

        London.

        Her lights shone in the night a bit brighter, and
yet a bit softer than usual this night, reflecting the mood
of her people on this night before Christmas.

        Whether in drunken merriment or with a grudging sort
of acknowledgement, everyone felt the influence of the
holiday.  The city was alive with people going to and fro,
to a party, or a family gathering, or just a small meeting
of two.  Some celebrated in solitude, raising a glass to
memories of years past, of better days, and hoped for better
days to come.  And there would always be a few who would
decide Christmas would be a nice night for suicide.

        On the streets, a homeless musician wailed a
melancholy tune on his saxophone, a tune that would elict a
sad smile on anyone's face.  His saxophone case laid on the
sidewalk, some money tossed in by passing strangers.

        Far above, standing on the fire escape his apartment
building, a blond, somewhat ragged looking man in his 40's
listened to the Christmas blues.

        This man was not the kindest of men.  Some cringed
at the mention of his name, while others spat and cursed.
Lying, cheating and stealing were his claim to fame, even
among the denizens of Heaven and Hell.  News of his arrival
was often met with fear and confusion, and in his wake were
scattered the casualties of his chaos, both innocent and guilty.
He knew others looked down upon him, but he did what had
to be done, made the difficult decisions, and would not repent
for his deeds.

        His quick, almost rebellious attitude towards authority,
either spiritual or earthly, was betrayed in his contemptuous
sneer.  His thin smirk, usually reserved for flipping off devils
or mocking his so-called friends, was turned towards himself
this evening.  He was still wearing his ever-present trenchcoat,
which had accumulated much wear and tear and blood and dirt
in his travels, as he clutched a lit cigarette in one hand and a
bottle of whiskey in the other.

        The Magus, John Constantine.

        "Merry Christmas," he grumbled sarcastically to
nobody in particular, raising his bottle in a toast.  "Bah
bloody humbug."

        Behind him, in the apartment, the telephone rang,
unanswered and ignored.  Happy and gleeful holiday
television specials flickered on the television, their merry
message ignored.  From the apartment next door, the sounds
of revelry and partying drifted in, making John's flat seem
all the more desolate in its inactivity.

        On the table, amidst a wasteland of adverts and
other junk mail sat an envelope sent by his sister Cheryl.
He knew what it was without opening it, an invitation to
spend the holidays with his sister Cheryl and niece Gemma.

        Any other year, he'd have been glad for the relief.

        Any other year.

        There'd be too much trouble brought to Cheryl if he
went there now.  It was bad enough when magic touched
Gemma's life, and he wasn't sure Cheryl'd forgiven him for
that yet.

        He'd have to make it up to Gemma next year.  She
always hated him when he didn't show up for the holidays.

        The phone rang once more, drawing an irritated glare
from the Magus.  That'd probably be Chas calling, inviting
him over despite his wife's whining protests.

        He'd certainly have to pass on that.

        Slowly, groaning from the soreness of sitting in one
position far too long, John made his way back inside.  He
shut the window behind him, slumped into the couch, and
slowly closed his eyes, and hiccuped as an alcoholic bubble
escaped his lips.

        "Tsk, John.  Can't even hold yer liquer no more, can
ye?"

        Lazily, John lifted an eyelid.  Standing before him,
in a translucent and ghostly light, the spirit of Brendan
Finn smugly stood.  He wasn't much different than he was in
life, a somewhat portly irishman, slightly balding, with the
remaining hair he had left growing a little long and unruly.

        "Bloody hell, Brendan, if you're gonna haunt me, at
least do it at a more godly hour."

        "Afraid I can't do that, m'boyo.  Special request,
y'know, from 'em up there."

        "Aw, bugger."  John sat up, lighting a cigarette.
"So, what're you supposed to do here?" He looked up to see
Brendan busy raiding the refrigerator.

        Brendan held up a bottle of Foster's, squinting one
eye critically at the bottle.  "Shite, John, don't you have
anything better than this pisswater?  Ah well..." He slammed
the fridge behind him, tossing John a bottle of his own.

        Taking a seat next to John, Brendan sighed.  "John,
John, John.  Ye gonna hate me after I tell ya."  He popped
his bottle open and took a big swig, before looking at John
sadly.

        John smirked.  "Oh?  Like what?  You're the Spirit
of the Bloody Past or some shite like that?" he commented as
he drank from his own bottle.

        "Actually..."

        The moment ceased to be amusing.

        "No, you're kidding, you're fucking kidding me."

        "I wouldn't say I'm the Spirit of the Bloody Past,
no.  More like, wot wossisname.... Bob Marley?"

        John scowled, tapping his cigarette on the ash tray.
"Jacob."

        "Ah, aye, Jacob Marley."

        John looked Brendan over.  "Shouldn't you have
chains, then?  'I wear the chains I forged in life' and
whatnot?"

        "Well, if I was sent to Hell, I suppose I'd have
chains..."

        Resigned to a night of haunting, John seemed to
slump into his seat, defeated.  "Well, fine, if I'm to be
haunted, it might as well be you."

        "Yer da' wanted the gig too," said Brendan.  "I'm
sure that would've gone down well with'ye."

        John laughed bitterly.  "Ah, yeah, another Christmas
with the old man telling me what a worthless shit I am."

        Brendan smirked.  "See?  Aren't ye glad I volunteered
for this gig?  And I gotta say, there's a fun night for you
planned ahead.  Probably better than pub crawlin'.  Jaysis,
this is your life Constantine." He swept his hands apart like
a game show host, grinning widely.

        With a deep breath, John finished off his cigarette
quickly.  He tossed it at the ash tray, then looked at
Brendan curiously. "Oi, since when do you work for Heaven?"

        "Since they decided not to kick me out, considerin'
all the daft shit I pulled.  St. Peter wanted me head after
the Irish question, so I hadta cool it."

        "Heh. Right then, let's start?"

        Brendan cleared his throat, as if getting ready to
make a speech.  "I'd preach t'ye about your life, but
considerin' wot I did in mine, I'd be a bloody hypocrite. So
I'll just say this:  you will be haunted, by Three Spirits."

        John raised an eyebrow.  "Speech was kinda short,
wasn't it?"

        "Would you prefer the unabridged version, Johnny?"

        He smirked.  "No thanks."

        "Aye.  And with that, I think I'll take me leave."
And Brendan Finn faded away.

        "What, that's it for you?"

        "I've done my bit, Johnny," said Brendan's
disembodied voice.  "Try t'have a happy holidays.  And get
some fuckin' Guinness.  Don't ever let me catch you with
that pisswater in yer fridge again, hear?"

        And then John Constantine was alone.

                          -*-

        STAVE II:  The First of the Spirits

                          -*-

        Sitting on the couch, John eyed the clock warily,
watching the hands tick away the seconds as the first hour
past midnight approached.  If he remembered the story right,
the first spirit, the Ghost of Christmas Past, appeared at one,
the Ghost of Christmas Present at two, and the Ghost of
Christmas Future at three.

        Hrm.... the Past was the childlike figure, the
Present was the jolly giant, and the future was Death.  He
wondered if he'd get the same treatment.  With a smile he
recalled the anthromorphic manifestation of Death, and she
was far from a robed entity with a scythe.  She was rather
cute, actually, and considering how many times he'd cut it
close in his life, he was already somewhat familiar with
her.

        Maybe he'd finally get her to have a drink with him?

        Heh.

        Probably not.  Oh well, dream a little dream...

        And suddenly his television turned on, with a
shapely, tall, tanned, almost cat-like platinum blond woman
on its screen.  John scowled.

        "Oh," he said, disappointed.  "It's you."

        //"Well Happy Holidays to you too, wiseguy,"// said
a somewhat offended Urd from within the TV screen.  //"You
DO know why I'm here, right?"//

        "Spirit of Christmas Past, I presume," he said
dryly.

        //"Bingo, John-boy.  Though to be honest, I'd just
let you rot, but I really couldn't say no to this gig."//

        John raised an eyebrow.  "And why not?"

        With a smirk, Urd leaned forward.  //"Part of the
job, John-boy."//

        "Uh huh."  He slumped back into the couch, unamused.
On second thought, it seemed entirely appropriate that the
Spirit of Christmas Past was someone that didn't like him.
He didn't like his past anyway.  "So, shall we?"

        //"Come on over and touch the screen,"// said Urd.

        "There's better ways to know me, y'know," quipped
John.

        //"Veeeery funny.  Just shut up and do it."//

        "Yes mistress!  Got a whip and some leathers to go
with that, have you?"

        //"SHUT UP!"//

        And without further ado, John touched the television
screen and suddenly was reduced to digital static, traveling
through endless miles of cables.  Time seemed to linger on
forever, yet be only a passing second.

        And then he found himself sitting on a very plushy
recliner.  In front of him was the largest television screen
he'd ever seen in his life, indescribably large, a size
which put the screen in New York's Times Square screen to
absolute shame.

        "Welcome to UrdTV," said a voice beside him.  John
turned to look, and saw another recliner next to his, with
Urd in it.  She held a remote control, and the table between
them was filled with beer bottles.

        "Interesting," he replied.  "This thing gets the
sports channel, yeah?"

        Urd nodded.  "Yeah, but not tonight."  She aimed the
remote, pressed a button, and suddenly the screen was
divided into dozens of smaller screens, each showing a
segment of John's life.

        "Look familiar?" asked Urd.

        He gazed up at the endless scenes and saw his
life... a montage of images he'd seen all too often, of
loves lost, betrayed, killed, spurned, of friends betrayed
and burned, of every little dirty deed that soiled his soul.

        "My my my," said Urd.  "So many memories, so little
time."

        "I'm all too familiar with the smoking ruins of my
past, thank you," replied John.  It was true, to, as he'd
faced down the ghosts of his past misdeeds many times by
now.

        Urd shrugged.  "Fortunately for you, reviewing The
Worst of John Constantine, isn't what's called for at the
moment.  And, as you say, it's old news by now.  Instead, I
think it's appropriate that we go somewhere you've forgotten
by now."

        Once more, Urd took aim with the remote, and this
time the dozens of screens merged into one vision, of a
cloudy winter day, high above Liverpool as the snow fell down
gently.  The view from the television slowly panned down,
focusing on the thousands of people below.  It moved as the
focus became narrower, moving towards the city, until
finally it came to view a scruffy looking little boy,
wandering aimlessly through the city streets.

        "I guess... I guess that's me," said John.

        And suddenly he was gone from the comfy chair,
instead standing in those streets of old, a transparent
ghost next to the boy that he once was.  A ghostly Urd
appeared next to them a moment later.

        "Y'know, you didn't look too shabby as a kid," she
said, bowing down to peer at young John's face.  With a
smile, she ruffled her fingers through his hair, though they
passed through with no effect at all.  "Tell me, John, do
you remember this place?"

        The Magus hmmed as he took a look around.  They were
on a bridge hanging over a low canal, with slabs of ice and
water flowing beneath them.

        "Of course, it wouldn't surprise me if you didn't,"
said Urd teasingly.  "What with your history of alcohol and
drug abuse, probably fried away some important brain cells
there."

        "Shut up."

        "So do you remember?"

        "... vaguely."

        "Well, that's what I'm here for, Mister Magus.
Anyway, meet John Constantine, 8 years old.  After another
verbal lashing from your father, you've run away from home."

        John nodded.  "Right, what now?"

        "Just watch."

        And they watched, as Young John stood on the bridge,
kicking stones into the stream.  His expression was solemn,
especially so for a boy his age.

        "John!  Oi, John!"

        Both Constantines turned to see who called, and a
lanky looking boy, goofy in his general appearance, appeared
at the foot of the bridge.

        "Hi Gaz," replied Young John, his voice not very
enthusiastic.

        "Who's this?" asked Urd.

        "Gaz," said John quietly.  "Gary Lester, good old
Gaz."

        As the elder John spoke, little Gaz trotted happily
across the bridge, then slipped on a patch of ice and fell
flat on his face.

        Both Constantines frowned.

        The elder Constantine shook his head sadly.  "A
clumsy idiot from beginning to end."

        Urd blinked.  "Oh, he's one of the dead, huh?"

        "Mm-hm."

        "Lookit wot I got, John!" Gaz said happily, lifting
a rumpled brown paper bag.

        "'nother dead frog, Gaz?"

        "No, this!"  And with a dramatic reach within the
bag, Gaz pulled out a can of spray paint and a towel.

        "Going to spray paint the bridge?" asked young John.

        "Even better!" replied Gaz eagerly.  "M'gonna sniff
it!"

        Young John looked skeptical.  "Sniff it?  Are you
mad?  What's that supposed to do?"

        "It makes y'feel great!  Here, watch!"

        They all watched as little Gaz eagerly sprayed paint
into the cloth, then put his face next to it and inhaled
deeply.  The younger Constantine laughed and egged Gaz
to go on, while the older Constantine just frowned.

        "His mom always did say I was a bad influence,"
muttered the elder Constantine.

        Urd shook her head.  "This was your friend, was he?"

        John smirked.  "Well, someone had t'do it."

        Eventually, Gaz offered young John the towel.
Before John could try, a screeching voice yelled out and Gaz
bolted like there was no tomorrow, taking the can with him.
A moment later, Gaz's mother passed by, running angrily
after her son.  Young John, knowning a good time to exit
when he saw one, quietly moved on.

        By reflex, John fished in his pockets for a
cigarette.  Being an astral projection, there wasn't much
point to doing it but he did it anyway.  Needless to say,
there were no cigarettes.

        "Good ol' Gaz went on to bigger'n better drugs,"
said John as he and Urd followed his younger self down the
suburban Liverpool streets.  "And then he messed with demons...
and the rest is history."

        "Was he your only friend?" asked Urd.

        "At this point in my life, I think he was."

        Young John walked onwards, past empty streets and
through crowded walkways, with no real destination in sight.
A young girl several years his senior rushed up from behind
him and grabbed him by the jacket collar.

        "John!  Where've you been?"

        Urd smiled.  "The plot thickens.  Who might this
be?"

        Though he had a feeling she knew already, John
answered.  "My sis, Cheryl."  They both watched with amused
smiles as Cheryl pulled young John home, chiding him every
step of the way.  The elder John watched her, stared in
fascination.  She was as beautiful as he'd remembered, a
radiant and fiery young girl, always pulling John's reigns
in when he went wild, always holding him close when his
heart was wounded.

        "She... was a lot like... like a mom to me, as best
as she could be anyway."

        "Why Constantine, if I didn't know better, I'd think
that was genuine love I hear in your voice."

        John smirked.  "Maybe it is."

        "Hm... I think it's time," said Urd.

        "We finished?"

        "Nope, time to fast forward a bit."

        And after a brief moment of static, they found
themselves inside a modest two-story house, moderately
decorated with Christmas ornaments.  In the kitchen, Cheryl
was looking over assorted things on the stove.  Young John
sat by the Christmas tree, turning a small, gift-wrapped
package over in his hands.

        Unseen and unheard, Urd and John watched John's
young counterpart with interest.  The elder John looked
around.  "Hm.  Something's missing," he said.

        Little John seemed to notice as well,
looking around with some apprehension.  "Where's dad?" he
asked.

        Cheryl frowned slightly at the question, but didn't
break her stride as she adjusted knobs on the stove and
moved dishes into the oven.  "Dad... he's working overtime."

        "So 'e won't be in?" asked little John.

        "No, he won't."

        Young John smiled brightly.  "So s'just you'n me,
sis?"

        "Looks that way, Johnny."

        "Good!"

        "John, that's not a nice thing to say!" chided
Cheryl.

        "I don'care, I hate him.  I'd rather be with you
anyway."  Cheryl sighed, though she couldn't help but smile
just a little.

        Urd blinked.  "So, didn't like your old man?"

        "He's in hell," said John.  "I left him there."

        "Ouch, that was a hell of a thing to do."

        "Trust me, he had it coming."

        Little John, meanwhile, was busy turning over the
wrapped gift with his name on it.  Cheryl chastised him for
it, telling him to wait till after dinner.  Amazingly, John
did wait, though it seemed that being alone with Cheryl
lightened the boy's spirits from the glum state he'd been in
earlier in the day.

        John scratched his chin as he looked upon his
younger self sitting down to dinner with Cheryl.  "Y'know, I
think that might've been the most peaceful Christmas I'd
ever had."

        "You'd forgotten all about it too," said Urd.

        "Yeah," he said sadly.  "I guess I did."

        At last, young John finished his dinner and
immediately charged towards his gift from Cheryl.  Before
she could stop him, little John tore the wrappings away from
his gift and squealed with delight.  Held in his hands was
an amateur magic show kit, complete with wand, magic rings,
cards, and tophat.

        "The magic kit!" young John shouted happily.  "You
got it!"

        Cheryl laughed.  "Well, I couldn't let my only
little brother down, could I?"  She embraced him from
behind, cuddling the smaller boy lovingly.  Both Johns
looked mildly embarrassed, and the younger John squirmed
slightly under his sister's embrace.  "Aw, sis, c'mon, cut
it out."

        "Just promise me you won't run away anymore?"

        At this, both Johns frowned.

        "Promise me, John," repeated Cheryl.  "You know how
much I worry'bout you when you run off like you do!
Please?"

        "Aw... awright."

        Cheryl smiled.  "Thanks, Johnny.  Love ya."  She
gave him a kiss on the forehead then ruffled his hair.  The
older Constantine turned away from the scene, even as young
John eagerly tried some of the magic tricks with an
attentive Cheryl as an audience.

        Urd put a hand on his shoulder.  "You know, she
really was too good to you."

        John didn't turn around, still staring out at
the snowfall outside.  "Yeah, maybe she was," he flatly
replied.

        "You were lousy at keeping promises, weren't you."
It wasn't a question, but instead, more of an accusation.
Before John could reply, she hit the 'fast forward' on the
remote once more.  The world burst into blurs and static for
a moment.

        "Hey, what-"

        "Ten years later," answered Urd.  "Look around."

        The house hadn't fared well in the passing of ten
years, with peeling wallpaper and a browned floor.  It spoke
of a lack care, a decay of morale.  Sitting at the kitchen
table was a middle-aged one-armed man, balding, with stringy
white hair and a craggy face, along with Cheryl and a very
nondescript, plain gentleman.  They sat around the kitchen
table, around a Christmas dinner with candles, though the
mood there was hardly warm and happy.

        "I told ye the little bastard'd skip on us!" the
one-armed man

        "That's your dad?" asked Urd

        "Mm-hm," said John, nodding.  The hatred he held for
the old man was evident in the level glare John was giving
him.  "Yeah, that's him."

        "And the fella with Cheryl?" asked Urd.

        "Cheryl's future hubby," replied John with distaste.
"Tony Masters.  All the spine and personality of a sponge."

        "I'm sure he's got his reasons, dad," said Cheryl,
sticking up for John as he knew she would.

        "DON'T YOU TRY AND DEFEND THE BOY!" her father
raged.  "He can go t'hell for all I care."

        "Dad!"

        "He's why yer mother's DEAD!"

        Cheryl sighed, exasperated.  She, and John, had
heard this one a hundred times over.

        Unseen by them, John shook his head.  "One Christmas
I didn't mind missing."

        "You sure about that?" asked Urd.

        John stayed silent.

        Lifting the remote once more, Urd hit the fast
forward button.  A moment later, they found themselves in a
different household, a place of fresh paint and new
furniture.  Christmas decorations were everywhere,
especially around the fireplace where a tall decorated tree
stood proudly.  Near the fireplace, a television played 'A
Christmas Carol', the 1947 version with John Carradine as
Scrooge.  Cheryl sat on the couch, a few years older but
still beautiful to John.  On her lap was a little girl, the
spitting image of Cheryl, with long brown hair tied back in
a ponytail.

        Urd saw all this and smiled.  "Cozy little family
they have here.  Your niece, I guess?"

        "Yeah," he said quietly, as if to not disturb the
peace of the moment.  "That's m'little princess."

        Urd smiled.  "She's beautiful."

        "Mum, when's unca John gonna come?" asked Gemma.

        Cheryl's expression darkened.  "He... he shows up
whenever he can, luv."

        "He's coming tonight, right?" asked Gemma.  "He
promised he would."

        John scowled.  "I get the idea."

        Urd shook her head.  "Just a little longer."

        "Gemma..."  Cheryl hesitated, searching for a
gentler way to tell things as they were.  Instead, she lied.
"Yes, he'll show up, sooner or later.  So don't you worry
about it, okay?"

        Urd cast a sideward glare at John.  "Just curious,
Constantine.  Where were you on this particular Christmas?"

        John looked uncertain, a little ashamed.  "I was...
I was..."

        With a click of the button, Urd changed the channel.
After a moment of static, they found themselves in the
middle of a dingy apartment, thick with hazy smoke and
incense and the sharp smell of alcohol.  Young men and women
were everywhere, partying wildly, all in some state of
undress.  Loud music was blaring from a stereo, though it
seemed everybody was too occupied with someone else to pay
it much heed.

        Under the Christmas tree, between a naked girl's
legs, beer bottle in one hand, a tit in the other, slept
young rebel John Constantine.

        Urd stared down at the younger Constantine with
disgust.  "Well, I see you've got your priorities."

        To her surprise, John didn't defend himself.
Instead, he looked away, sullen as ever.  "I've seen
enough," he said.  "We can leave now."

        "Yeah, we can."

        And without further ado, she aimed the remote at him
and hit the power button.  John Constantine suddenly found
the world turning into static, and then dark oblivion...

                          -*-

        Tokyo, Japan.

        Skuld's room.

        The little brunette goddess frantically tried to
organize the scenes for her part in the drama.  The youngest
of the three Norns, Skuld's brow furrowed, her goddesses
marks standing out in sharp relief against her skin.  She
had to come up with something for John.  And she had very
little idea what to do.

        It wasn't easy.  There were so many possibilities.
And most of them were icky.

        Skuld would've asked Belldandy to help, but
Belldandy was already on her way to see John.  And she
didn't want to ask Urd.  Urd would have probably made fun of
her, and she didn't want to hear that.

        She didn't know what else to do.  There wasn't
anyone she could ask.

        "Yoo hoo! Anyone home?"

        Skuld blinked.  She recognized that voice.

        No.  Oh no.

        "PEORTH!"

        A young brunette goddess swept into the room with
the flair of an artiste, something Skuld didn't think she
was entitled to, no matter how well she did it.  Among the
goddesses she had a fairly exotic uniform, an ebony thong
and tube top encircled by wide, golden, belt-like ribbons
about her torso which almost gave the impression of a gift
ribbon waiting to be untied.  While the three sisters grew
their hair long, beyond their backs, Peorth kept hers much
shorter, stopping a few inches below her jaw.  The sole
exception to this was her ponytail, which snaked down the
length of her back in graceful slight curves.

        This was Peorth, goddess of mystery, and
self-proclaimed chief rival of Belldandy's at the Goddess
Offices.

        Skuld mainly saw Peorth as a pretentious nuisance.

        "PEORTH!  GIMME BACK MY ROMANCE COMICS!"

        Oh yes, and a thief as well.

        Peorth ignored the protest with the air of an
aristocrat, tossing her short brunette tresses over her
shoulders.  Instead, she peered over Skuld's shoulder at the
monitor, giving her a wide smile.  "Ah, running through a
knotty problem, dear?" Peorth patted Skuld on the head, even
as she read the scenarios running through the computer.

        Fuming, Skuld ducked out from under her.  If there
was anything she hated, it was being treated like a little
kid.  Which was another reason to be annoyed at Peorth.

        After a moment of rapid typing, Peorth straightened
up with the air of a satisfied cat, and then turned to
Skuld.  And smiled.  "There, these might help."  With a
wink, she turned and walked away.

        Skuld blinked.

        And blinked some more.

        And then turned back and read the new script...

        "Yipe! Oh, no... no, he's not going to like this."

        ...and decided to disregard them.

        And she continued on her search.

                          -*-

        STAVE III: The Second of the Spirits

                          -*-

        John lurched upwards and rolled off the couch, landing
hard on the bare floor.  "Christ," he said, rubbing his palm
over his eyes.  How long had he been asleep?  He looked at
the clock.  Ten to two.

        He'd fallen asleep on the couch.  That's what
appeared to have happened anyway, and the discomfort in his
neck and back was reminding him of it.  With a groan, he
rose from the couch and stretched.  Twisted muscles strained
to straighten out, while various bones popped into place.

        For a moment he wondered if it had all been a dream
after all.  The details of the event were all still in his
head, and yet seemed to grow hazy.

        The two opened bottles of Fosters by the couch, one
his, one Brendan's, quickly dismissed that notion.

        "Ah, shite."

        He shook his head, running his fingers though his
mop of hair.  He felt a tinge of regret, thinking back
on those times he'd let Cheryl and Gemma down.  If Urd
wanted to make him feel regret, she'd done her job.  It
wasn't anything new to John, though there was one bit of
silver lining to Urd's tour, it helped him remember.

        It really had been a while since he remembered
_that_ Christmas, just him and Cheryl.  They tried to make
popcorn later and ended up making nothing but a mess.  He's
the one who caught hell from his dad the next day.

        John grinned.  "But it was worth it."

        He staggered to the bathroom and turned up the tap.
He plunged his hands under the spray, cupping them and threw
some of the water on his face.  Off in the distance, the
bells of the tower rang twice.  John paused as he heard
them, reminded of what had happened so far, and what was
scheduled to be so far.

        Two in the morning, that meant the second of the
spirits would be coming.  He tried to recall her name...
Bell... Belladona?  Belldandy?  Something like that.  All he
remembered of her was that she was certainly more pleasant
than Urd.

        "Bloody stupid, all this is," he muttered, shaking
the water out of his hair.

        //I'm sorry, John, but we need to do this.//

        John looked up to see a friendly face looking back
at him from his mirror.  "Right on time, then," he said to
her.

        Her soft brown eyes brightened at him, and she
smiled beautifully.  //May I come in?//

        "Why not," he sighed.  "Seems I'll be getting the
lot of you tonight.  Come on in."

        A head with brown hair pushed through, followed by
one shoulder, then the next.  Belldandy stepped lightly down
from the mirror, sitting on the edge of the sink.  Her robes
settled around her like the wings of a dove, as she smiled at
him.  "I can't say that I'm as upset as you are.  I think that this
may do some good for you."

        John took out a cigarette from a pack from his
pocket and lit it up.  "Me?  Good?"

        Belldandy gave him a reproving look.  "There are
things within you that are good, John Constantine.  We both
know they are there."

        John shrugged, trying to look nonchalant.  "Yeah?
So what?"

        "This is a chance for you to recognize those things
and to change your life accordingly," Belldandy said,
reaching out to pinch off his cigarette.

        "If I'm going through this whole charade, can't you
at least let me have a fag?"

        "No."  There was no wavering in her voice, and John
sighed.

        "Well, then.  Let's get it over with.  Spirit of
Christmas Present, blah, blah..."  He looked around him,
curiosity on his face.  "Isn't there supposed to be food of
some sorts?"

        Belldandy smiled indulgently.  "I'm not that kind of
spirit.  Take my hand," she said, extending it to him.
"We're going to visit some friends of yours."

        He looked at her warily.  "You sure you want to nip
around to my friends' first?"

        "What better way to show you what you're missing out
on."  With that, Belldandy pulled him through the mirror.
Five seconds later, she reappeared with John in tow.

        "Didn't expect that, did you?"

        Belldandy shuddered.  "Do Eddie and Grant do that
every Christmas?"

        "As long as I've known them, anyway."

        "On second thought, perhaps we should go over to
your sister Cheryl's house instead."

        John fought a smirk.  "Right."

                          -*-

        Belldandy pushed through the hallway mirror, tugging
John forward.  As before, they were in ghostly garb, pale
figures compared to the brightly colored room that greeted
them.  A fire burned merrily in the fireplace, where the
stockings were hung.  Cheryl's husband was sitting in an
easy chair, dozing with headphones on.  He had a happy
contented smile on his face.

        "You're gonna be late, Gemma.  Hurry up!"

        Gemma came rushing in from the back of the house.
She was dressed warmly, carrying a bag full of gifts.  "I
was just wrapping the last package, mum."  She reached over
and kissed Cheryl on the cheek.  "Sure you don't want to
come with me?"

        "Wait a minute, where's she going?" John asked.
"They always spend Christmas here at the house."

        "Wait, John."

        Cheryl laughed.  "I'm sure you'll be fine without
your mum tagging along."  The doorbell rang.

        "That's my ride," Gemma said.  John noticed her face
growing sad.  "You'll tell me if Uncle John calls?"

        Cheryl's face grew cold for a brief instant, then
brightened again.  "Yes, I will."  She reached up and
tightened the scarf around Gemma's neck.  "Don't be late for
dinner."

        Gemma laughed.  "I won't."  She rushed to the door
and opened it.  "Ready to go, Susan?"

        A tall girl with stepped forward and kissed her on
both cheeks.  "I'm always ready.  Let's go, Gemmie."

        "Gemmie?"  John peered at the stranger.  "She calls
her Gemmie?  Who is this person?  How come I've never seen
her before?"

        "Susan's a good friend of Gemma's.  They're in the
same history class in college," Belldandy said as the two
girls walked arm in arm down the street.  "It's something
you might have known had you been over to see Gemma in
the dorms like she asked."

        John looked sharply at Belldandy at that, but there was
no look of accusation like he received from so many others.
In her face, he saw wistful regret.

        "It's not my fault," John protested.. "Things just
happen..."

        "I never said you were at fault, John," Belldandy
said with a smile.  "It's obvious that you love her."

        "Of course I love her!"

        "Then why don't you say it more often?"  John was
silent, as Belldandy walked through one of the walls of the
house and into the kitchen.  He followed her there to see
Cheryl setting the table.  She already had three plates out
and reached up to get a fourth.  Then, looking thoughtfully
at the phone, then the clock, she snorted in disbelief.

        "Why should I expect him to call?  Why should I
expect him to come?"  Cheryl snorted in derision.  "He never
does, lousy bastard."  Still, John could see the utter
disappointment on her face.

        "Is there any reason why you don't go to see them
more often?" Belldandy said, stepping out of the way as
Cheryl closed the cupboard door and crossed to the oven.

        John shrugged.  "I don't want them caught up in my
messes."  His face turned somber.  "I try to keep it away
from them as best as I can."

        "Oh, John."  The words were a long sigh.  "Do you
have to be so naive?"

        John whirled around.  "What?"

        "Haven't you learned enough about magic?"  Belldandy
turned to look at Cheryl again.  "Here's happiness, and a
home.  Family who cares about you.  This takes more magic
than dispelling a demon."

        "If you knew what I've been through--"

        "I do.  I've read your files.  It is part of my duties as the
goddess of the Present," she said with a smile.  "I know
exactly what has happened to you to make you into the
man you are today."  As Cheryl stirred some pie filling and
poured it into a crust, Belldandy observed,  "She went through
some of the same things you did, too."  She turned to look
at John with large gentle eyes. "Wouldn't you be better off
sharing things again, as you did when you were children?"

        John stood silently as Cheryl started to hum a Christmas
tune.  Despite being angry with him, she was still
able to keep a cheerful expression on her face.  "It's not
like that," he protested weakly.

        Belldandy gave him a stern look and suddenly John
felt as if he'd done something sacrilegious.  Usually, that
sort of thing didn't bother him, but under Belldandy's
compassionate, yet hard gaze, he found that he couldn't look
her in the eye.

        "Come with me, John, we have one more stop to make."
John followed Belldandy into the hallway mirror and stepped
out into the London streets.  John looked back at the large
department store window.

        "How'd you do that?" he asked.  "I thought your
domain was just mirrors."

        "It has a reflective property," Belldandy pointed out gently.
The cold wind whipped down the street, making the leaves in the
bushes rustle, but Belldandy walked on, her hair and clothes
untouched by the wind.

        John followed her down the street, searching his
pockets in vain for a pack.  "Where to next, O fearless
leader?"

        The sarcastic remark seemed to bounce off of
Belldandy's robes.  "We're going to see another friend of
yours.  I checked in on his whereabouts," she added hastily
as she saw John about to open his mouth to remind her about
the earlier incident.  "He's on the phone right now."

        They turned around a corner.  A large black cab was parked
next to a phone booth. Inside, a dark-haired swarthy solidly built
man with a square jaw, faintly thug-like in appearance, was on the
phone.  John recognized him immediately.

        "Chas?"  John strode up to the booth.  "Hey, Chas!"

        "They can't hear or see you, John," Belldandy
reminded him gently, standing behind him.

        "Oh, he can't, can he?" John grinned.  "It's a good
thing, too, 'cause he's a simple-minded pussy-whipped
tosser!"  He leaned in closer to the booth, grinning madly.

        "John!" Belldandy said, appalled, as he laughed
uproariously.  She turned the look of admonishment  and
sorrow back on him again.  "If you could hear what he was
saying and to whom..."  she said, as a small speaker
appeared with a wave of her hand.

        //Frank William Chandler!  Yer gonna catch yer death
of cold!  Get yer butt back here an' have dinner with yer
family like you should!//

        "Honey, I gotta find out if he's okay.  I haven't seen him
in over a week."  Chas leaned against the door and sighed.

        //'e's a drunk, a bum.  He's always gettin' you inta
trouble.// The voice turned pleading.  //You don't need a
friend like 'im.  Come home, Frank.//

        "He may be a bum, but he's still my friend."

        "There ya go, Chas," John crowed.  "You tell that
harridan what's what."

        Chas looked out into the cold and the dark.  By the
way he pursed his lips, John could tell that he was thinking
about his warm house and the fireplace and comparing it to
the cold London air and the mission he was on.

        "She's a lousy cook," John confided to Belldandy.
"Last time she made a turkey, she'd forgotten to take the
giblets out."  He chuckled in rememberance.  "Chas hates it
when she cooks."

        "Alright.  I'm coming home."

        "What?"

        //See ya soon, Frank.//

        "Right back atcha, luv."  Chas hung up the phone and
exited the booth.  He took one last look around the street.
"Damn you, John.  Damn you to hell."  He got into his car
and drove off.

        John ran out into the street, waving his fist at the
receding vehicle.  "Bastard!" he cried.  "Well, fuck you,
too!"

        "How many times has he asked you to dinner?"
Belldandy appeared next to him.  "And how many times have
you refused?"

        John growled.  "What's your point?"

        "How long is it before your friends start giving up
on you?"  She gestured towards the empty street that Chas
disappeared down.  "Frank has stuck by you, through thick
and thin.  But friendship can't exist in a vacuum."

        "So, you're saying someday Chas is gonna disappear
on me?  Hah!  Like that will ever happen."

        Belldandy shook her head, sorrowfully, and said nothing,
turning away.

        John didn't miss the expression on her face. "Wait!"

        But she had already disappeared, leaving him to stand
alone in the dark street...

                          -*-

        STAVE IV:  The Last of the Spirits

                          -*-

        "Belldandy?  You there?" John called out into the
London night.

        Nothing.

        He frowned, not liking the fact that Belldandy had
seemingly ditched him in the middle of the city.  Shouldn't
he have been waking up in bed right about now, as if it was
all just a dream?

        Around him, the streets of London were quickly being
engulfed in a thick fog.  The ground underneath his feet
suddenly felt different too, soft dirt and grass instead
hard London street.  In the distance, Big Ben's bells rang
three times.

        "Ah, yes, third spirit."

        Nothing to do but wait for the inevitable, then.
After all, it was how the story went.  He pulled a cigarette
from one pocket and a lighter from another.

        Before he had a chance to take his long awaited
smoke break, something emerged from the darkness and fog.
Clad in a hooded cloak, it held a large scythe in its
concealed hands.

        He stared at the short figure, as it lifted the
scythe and shook it menacingly, motioning for him to follow.

        John shook his head, exhaling a cloud of cigarette
smoke, following as the city began to fade away into
nothingness.

        "Okay, Skuld, lose the scythe and the cloak.  It's
bloody ridiculous."

        The figure pulled the hood back, revealing Skuld's
face.  She was not smiling as usual.  She tapped the scythe
once, and it became her long-handled mallet.  "Hi, John.  I
guess you know why I'm here, don't you?" she said, looking
sadly at him.

        John frowned.  Skuld's body language was of one who
didn't want to do what she had to do, but he wasn't in a
mood to be gentle. "Yeah, yeah, cut to the chase already,
will you?"

        Skuld refused to look at him in the eyes.  "I'm...
not ready for this kind of task yet, John..."

        "Look, I understand already, you're just doin' your
job.  So let's get this over with, eh?  Then I'll take y'out
for ice cream."

        Skuld fidgeted.  "Well, I had a hard time finding
nice futures, and..."

        "Nice futures?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Skuld, the whole point of this was to make me repent my
ways.  Isn't that the way the whole thing is supposed to
work?"

        Skuld shuffled her feet against the ground, her
mallet behind her.  "But..."

        John shook his head.  "You're not cut out for this
job, kid." He patted her on the head.

        Skuld sulked.  "I'm not a kid anymore," she said.
"It's just... just... I can't do this, John!"

        There was a sigh.  "I can see I'll have to do this
myself."

        They spun around.  Peorth was there, her thin robes
gathered underneath her, sitting atop a tombstone.  She
motioned for them to come closer.

        "Bonjour, mon cheri," she said smoothly.  "And little
Skuld, of course."

        "Beat it Peorth," said Skuld icily.

        "Oh, but ma petit enfante, I'm here because of you,"
replied Peorth.  "You can't handle the job, so it's my
turn."

        Skuld's jaw dropped.  "But... but.."

        "Feel free to accompany us," said Peorth.  "Think
of it as an education."

        "Oh, I'll come along!" yelled Skuld.  "Just to make
sure you don't try any funny business!"

        Much to Skuld's irritation, Peorth ignored her
entirely and was instead turning her attention to John.  "If
you will, monsieur Constantine, look over here."

        With a sweep of her arm, she indicated some point in
the distance.  At the same time, the fog rolled away
revealing a crowd of people dressed in black, all solemn and
sad in appearance.  As the fog disappeared, John could see
they were in a graveyard now, and that the scene in the
distance was a funeral.  John didn't recognize the faces at
first, but as the crowd thinned, he finally saw Cheryl,
along with Chas, his wife, and their daughter.

        Without saying a word, Chas gave Cheryl's shoulder a
gentle squeeze.  A moment later, he and his family left
Cheryl alone to mourn.

        "Surprised that many people showed up for my
funeral," muttered John.

        "Your funeral?" asked Peorth.  "This isn't your
funeral."

        "Isn't mine?  Then whose..."  Realization hit John
hard, as his eyes widened and the unlit cigarette dropped
from his mouth.  "Jesus, no..."

        He rushed up to the tombstone and read its words.

                       GEMMA MASTERS
                         Beloved Daughter

        John touched the tombstone gently, tears falling
from his eyes as he did.  "Not Gemma, no..."

        Skuld whispered to Peorth, "Who's Gemma?"

        "His niece," Peorth whispered back.  "You didn't
read the files, did you?"

        John wiped the tears from his eyes and walked back
to Peorth, less swagger in his step and a haunted look in
his eyes.  "Tell me," he said, willing himself to stay calm.
"How'd she die?"

        "The usual pattern, ever since she was a child,"
replied Peorth.  "Got a little depressed, fell into the
wrong crowd, got mixed up in some dangerous things..."

        "I wouldn't have allowed it," said John icily.
"This couldn't have happened."

        "Ah, but John, you weren't there to stop her."

        "So... so where the fuck was I?"

        "You died as you lived, my dear Johnny... a mystery."

        "Dammit, that's not..."

        "If you insist on seeing _one_ possible future,
then..." She looked over meaningfully at Skuld.

        Skuld shrank back, but was held in place by John.
He glared, his hand tightening on Skuld's arm.  "Show me."

        "Y... you're hurting me, John..."

        "SHOW ME!"

        And Skuld showed him.

                          -*-

        It had been years, it knew that much.

        But Time meant nothing here.

        Neither did Space.

        It knew only that it belonged nowhere.

        Where it should have gone, it did not know.

        There was Nothing.

        It reached out.  It felt Nothing.

        It looked around.  It saw Nothing.

        Smell, Taste, Sight, Touch, Sound.  Maybe even other
senses.  It could no longer remember just how many there
were.

        All gone.  Except one.

        Thought.

        It only could think.

        And it knew it had been thinking for eternity.

        So many things to think about, and no way to do
anything.  Regrets, memories, hopes, wishes.  Played over
and over and over, simply because it had nothing else to do.

        It struggled to remember.  What had it been?

        It didn't remember.  All its dreams, all its hopes,
all its fears, all its despair, all ran together after a
while, until it was unsure what was real and what was
fantasy.

        All it could think of, all it wanted, all it ever
remembered, all it ever needed, throughout the timeless
limbo, all mingled.

        It went on, throughout the ages, thoughtlessly,
yearning for something, but it didn't know what.

        It had forgotten that, once, it was a man named
Constantine.

                          -*-

        And suddenly they were back at Gemma's grave.

        The goddess of mystery cast a curious eye at John
Constantine.  His expression was unreadable: certainly not
happy, but without despair either.  It was... grim.

        Peorth felt herself sadden upon hearing Skuld cry
quiety, but hardened herself.  There was a job to be done
here, and it wasn't meant to be nice.

        "What did you think it was, Johnny?" Peorth asked
him.  "Did you think you'd steal into Heaven?  Or conquer
Hell, maybe?  Too smart for your own good, Constantine, and
now neither side will have you.  You're alone.  It's a very
rare being, Constantine, who has managed to piss off both
Heaven and Hell into not wanting you.  So here you are.
Alone, at last, for eternity.  Pretty, isn't it?"

        "NO! NO!" Skuld screamed, shaking her head.  "He's
not going to be alone!"

        Peorth tilted her head, looking sadly towards John.
"Perhaps...  but if not this, then something very similar.
You know this, don't you, John Constantine?"

        Skuld shook her head, tears flowing, clinging to
John with all the strength she could.

        John took a deep breath.  "Yeah, it probably is."
He lit up a cigarette and puffed away on it.  Damn, but he
needed that.

        He looked down at Skuld, who met his eyes with
tear-streaked cheeks.

        And then he looked up at Peorth with a fixed stare
and a slight smirk.  "Well, all of this, all that you've
shown me, s'not gonna happen."

        "Oh?" asked Peorth.  "And why is that?"

        "Because I won't let it," he said, confidence
creeping back into his voice.  His grin didn't quite have
the same cocky self-assuredness, but the gleam in his
eyes...

        He would find a way.

        Peorth shrugged.  "Well, I guess that's the end of
the tour then.  Skuld?"

        Skuld shook her head frantically.

        Peorth was grim.  "Do it."

        John raised an eyebrow.  "Do what?"

        And then Skuld, with a loud cry, pushed John
Constantine into the grave of Gemma Masters.

        He fell, tumbling head over heels, yelling and cursing as
he did, into the infinite void...

                          -*-

        STAVE V:  The End of It.

                          -*-

        John sat up abruptly with a yell, his breathing ragged and
deep, his eyes wide open.  A moment's disorientation, and then
he realized that this was his bedroom, and that he was in
bed, still wearing the clothes he had on the previous evening.

        Somewhere in the distance, Big Ben struck eight.

        John sank back into the bed, letting out a groan as he
settled back into its comforting depths...

        "John, are you okay?"

        "SHIT!"  Nearly falling out of bed in surprise, he
regained his composure and stared at Skuld, sitting on a
chair near the bed.

        "_What_ are you doing here?" he asked.

        "I was worried about you!" she exclaimed.  "I
couldn't leave you like that!"

        John gave a long, deep yawn and rubbed one eye with
a palm.  With a baleful glare, he looked at the clock, then
sank back into bed.

        "John?"

        "Kid," said John, his voice muffled by the blanket
and pillows.  "G'way.  Buy a big goose or something, I'll
take care of it later.  I'm goin't sleep, s'too early for this
shit."

        "But-"

        "'nd lock th'door on yer way out," he said sleepily.

        And the trickster-magus Constantine slept, past
the morning and into the afternoon.

        When next he awoke, John was in a better mood.

        He made his way through the small apartment, pausing
at the living room where two empty Fosters bottles sat.
He looked at the bottles for a minute, and then shook
his head, making his way to the bathroom.

        While he was relieving himself, in the distance,
Big Ben struck once.

        John looked at a clock and groaned.

        "Shite, s'late."

        And then he took care of matters.

                          -*-

        Frank "Chas" Chandler had slept in late this day,
having managed to get Christmas Day off despite his career
as a cabbie.  It felt good to slowly ease his way into the
day instead of drag himself out of sleep as fast as
possible.

        He opened his bedroom door, still yawning as he
walked, pausing to step aside as his toddler granddaughter
streaked by at a wobbling run, naked as a jaybird, dripping
water down the hallway, followed by his towel-waving daughter.
He chuckled as he made his way to the kitchen table and sat
down, reaching over for the morning paper.

        And then the doorbell rang.

        "Get th'door," crowed his wife from the living room.
Chas grumbled and scratched himself as he went, feeling no
particular need to hurry.  He opened the door.

        "'lo Chas!  Merry Christmas!" said John Constantine
merrily, shoving a massive frozen goose into Chas' arms, as
wide as Chas' stomach and twice as tall.

        "What the fuck?!"

        Chas wasn't sure how to read the situation.  John
was oddly bright-eyed and bush-tailed.  Even the cigarette
in his mouth seemed to be burning a bit brighter.

        "Sorry I couldn't answer the door last night,"
continued John.  "Had an out-of-body experience, you know
how it goes."

        "Er..."

        "Would love to stick around and feel the holiday
cheer with you'n the old battle-axe, but I've got places to
be today and I'm in a hurry."

        "A goose?"

        "Yes, a goose," replied John, annoyance creeping
into his voice.  "S'the way the story... oh, wait a sec...
shite.  It was turkey, not goose.  Oh well, enjoy it
anyway."

        "Story?  What story?"

        "Eh?  Don't worry about it," replied John dismissively.
"Oh, and put your money on Tiny Tim at the tracks
tomorrow.  Easy money."

        Chas' face brightened up.  Whenever John predicted a
race, he was always right.  "Um, thanks, mate!"

        "Right then, be seeing you."  John promptly shut the
door for Chas, leaving him standing in the hallway, holding
a massive frozen goose in his arms and a befuddled look on
his face.

        "Pa?  Who was that?  That wasn't Uncle John, was it?"
Geraldine asked, coming up to Chas, holding a wriggling,
towel-wrapped armful of toddler.

        "Er, um, yeah," Chas stammered.  He stared at the door,
disbelivingly, before straightening up and holding out the
goose. "Here, take this to Mum, will ye?  Er, never mind,
I'll do it," he said, noting his granddaughter in Geraldine's
arms.

        "It's a big honkin' goose, isn't it?"

        "Well, John isn't much for doing things half-way."

                          -*-

        Afternoon gave way to evening, and preparations were
being made for a second day of holiday feasting at the Masters
household.  Tony Masters sat on the lounger, lost in the bliss
of motivational tapes as he always seemed to be as of late.
Cheryl slaved over the stoves and wondered if some of the
leftovers would be suitable for re-use.

        She looked at the kitchen clock and frowned.  Gemma
was running a bit late.  A part of her wanted to nag her
daughter when she came home, but Cheryl supressed it.
With the way they'd lived their life so far, moving from one job
and part of London to the next, Gemma hadn't a lot of
opportunities to make friends.

        The sound of keys jangling and the front door
opening alerted Cheryl of approaching company.  A moment
later, Gemma's voice shouted out, "Hi mum!  Sorry I'm late!"

        "How'd it go?" asked Cheryl.

        "Alright, I guess," replied Gemma.  She smiled wanly.
"Uncle John ever..."

        The frown on Cheryl's face told the story.

        Gemma sighed.  "Guess I ought t'be used to it by
now."

        "Y'know he doesn't mean anything by it," said
Cheryl.  "He's always been like that."

        "And a merry Christmas to you two, thanks."

        Cheryl and Gemma turned to see John, smirking and
standing in the doorway holding two wrapped packages.

        "John?"

        "Uncle John!" Gemma exclaimed, rushing over to
envelop him in a bear hug.  John hastily shifted the
packages to allow her to cling to him.

        "Sorry I'm late, princess," John said to Gemma as he
kissed her forehead.  He handed Cheryl the presents, smiling
as though this were an ordinary thing for him.  "What's for dinner,
then?"

        Cheryl tucked the gifts under one arm, reaching over to
give John a hug.  "Well, we really don't have much..."

        "That's okay, I've got a goose out in the car waiting..."

        Gemma raised an eyebrow at that.  "Um, it'll take a while
to cook."

        "Well, then we can have it tomorrow, eh?" John smirked.

        Laughter followed, as the trio headed into the kitchen.

        Outside, peering into the living room windows,
four goddesses smiled at each other, nodded, and
left, all except for one.

        Skuld remained.

        She watched John sit down at the dining table,
laughing while Gemma described her school classmates'
latest antics.  She saw Cheryl smile fondly at John and
serve him another piece of roast chicken.

        The little goddess clasped her hands together, eyes
closed in happiness, and said a prayer of silent thanks,
and vanished into the starry winter evening.