"The trick," says Constantine, "is to avoid coming here on Saturday. Or
Sunday. Or any day when the weather is especially nice." The weather isn't
especially nice this afternoon, but it's not nasty, either--the sparse
drizzle of rain is too light to do anything but get people damp, and the
temperature is several degrees above freezing. People still crowd Camden
Market, but there's room to breathe, especially in this (relatively) calm
back alley full of tiny entrances to small shops. The grayness of the day
can't quite wash out the colors of the market, and it does nothing to damp
down the welter of noisy conversation, or the peculiar mix of smells:
rain, greasy food, incense, cigarette smoke, the occasional sticky-sweet
hint of marijuana, and, of course, the pervasive smell of many people
packed close together. "Used to live around here, when I was younger. It's
always nice to see that the yuppies haven't conquered it yet." He's
leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette as he chats with Lena and
idly watches the crowd.

She leans with him, smoking, dressed warmly, jacket with the collar turned
up to cover the bite marks, the bruises. Her clothing covers the marks of
her rough night, and she smokes with a faint smile, with an almost glazed
expression, except when John is talking. Customs was easy, he was right.
Walking on through is much faster than she had thought it might be. The
fierce blue eyes of the woman have been somewhat dulled by her recent
dreaming adventures... that and her abuse of alcohol. Silent, for a
moment, she glances up at John, and her expression is fond, though faintly
lost.

Some days, watching the crowd pays off better than others. In this case,
it pays off in that Constantine catches sight of the woman a second or so
before she sees him. She's tall, only a little shy of six feet, and even
in this crowd people seem unconsciously to leave an extra couple of inches
of space around her. Sleek dark hair sweeps straight to her waist,
unruffled by travel and rain; the sheen of round-lensed glasses prevents
her eyes from being seen at once; she's certainly not /dressed/ like her
brother, in jeans and boots and a violet jacket with fringed sleeves. But
she's unmistakable. Because other than her gains in maturity and
self-confidence, Romany Wisdom has barely changed in the last decade and a
half. Since, say, her brother's funeral.

Constantine looks down at Lena, smiling. The lost look worries him. He
starts to lean down toward her, but a second before he does so, he catches
sight of the Ex-Girlfriend of Doom. His expression freezes. "Oh, shit." He
grabs Lena's arm. "Let's move somewhere a bit more quiet, eh?" But it's
useless. She's seen him, and he knows it.

"Ain't lo--what the fuck?" Lena says, grinning, almost laughing as she
looks off toward Romany, whom she doesn't know, hasn't met, can't
recognize. What? Who? "What's up, Johnny?" she wonders of up, dropping her
cigarette, crushing it as she takes an easy few steps off his lead to go
'somewhere a bit more quiet'. She tries to follow his gaze, and she's
caught by Romany's presence--certainly, the woman is striking--and her
brows lift. Who the hell is /that/?

Why, it's the woman who's dropped whatever errand she's on to turn and
follow the blond man in the trenchcoat and the small woman whose arm he's
got. Her expression's barely changed - a faint compacting of lips, nothing
more than that - but somehow, that's enough that people glancing in her
direction are finding it somewhat more convenient not to be in her way.
See, it's not just Constantine this time. She moves with quick strides,
direct without seeming hurried. Determined, apparently, to intercept.
"Leaving already, John?" It's timed so that she doesn't have to raise her
voice to be heard. Romany hates shouting. "We haven't even said hello."

Constantine gives Romany a too-bright, nervous smile. "Oh, hullo, Romy.
Lovely meeting you here. Lena, this is Romany Wisdom. Romany, this is Lena
McLaran." Play nice, girls. Please?

It's times like these that Lena really *hates* being so short. "Pleasure,"
Lena drawls, her accent that of an upstate New Yorker, her blue eyes drawn
back to their normal ferocity. She gives the taller woman a nod and takes
out her cigarettes to light another, wearing the faintest smirk, keeping
close to John as she works the pack with one hand and then goes for her
lighter. She's showered, dressed, and not at all rumpled, though her hair
is a spiked and crazed explosion of blue-black, giving her an almost
punk-like look that the leather of her jacket and boots do little to
dissuade. Somehow, she still feels vaguely like a child around this new
arrival, and can't help but bristle.

At least she isn't taller than Constantine, too. Romany turns her gaze on
Lena at the introduction, examining her closely, but not with any
particular sign of disapproval. Or anything else, really. "So you're his
newest victim, are you," she says; it's just the same tone that she
greeted him in, presuming that counted as a greeting. "If I were you, I'd
walk out on him before things got any worse. How's the body count lately,
John?"

Constantine flashes Romany a grin. The nervousness has been smoothed out
of it. He's not going to let her get to him, dammit! Well, not visibly, at
least. "You'd be amazed. Last time an innocent died because of me was over
a year ago. Last November. Pretty impressive, eh?" A beat. "That's not
counting the ones that came back, of course."

What about Faith? Doesn't she count, John? With her twilight eyes and her
tumbledown blonde hair. So much like her mother. And she never had a
chance once you stepped in and fucked it up.

Body count. How... delicious. Lena doesn't glare, though her manners
aren't the sort of things that manage to stay outside and on top all the
time. Her voice is whiskey and cigarettes, and she says, "Huh. I guess
/I've/ got you beat there." Smirk. Shrug. "Well... he wasn't an innocent;
is that all we're counting?"

"Oh, yes." Romany's lips turn up at one corner, very slight; the
expression doesn't touch the rest of her face, certainly not her eyes.
"The ones that deserve it are an entirely different matter. Better be
careful, Lena; he's overdue. Unless one /does/ count the ones that come
back." She turns her head to let her pale grey-blue eyes come to rest on
John. No sign of anger, but then, when she's really angry, she doesn't let
it show. "Managed to botch one of those, too, didn't you. Impressive.
Might think you were trying to set a record."

Oh, but John isn't going to think about Faith now. Not with Romany around.
It would make him too fragile, and he needs to be cool and collected now.
"Hah. If it *was* my fault, I didn't do it on purpose." How does she know?
Never mind that. Romany has her ways--just like Constantine himself.
"Celliers is enough of a bloody nuisance when he's *not* brooding."

"Now that we've had a happy little reunion," Lena says, taking a sharp,
hot drag off her cigarette. She looks to both of them, amused in a
predatory, hungry, hateful sort of way--you're keeping me from sleep, from
/dreaming/. You're keeping me from a stiff drink. You're keeping me from a
good shag. Who the hell do you people think you are? "Are you actually a
sweetheart underneath that 'ice queen' thing, or should I just not
bother?" Lena wonders, anger, annoyance, jealousy rearing its head deep
down, though on the surface she's turning all smiles, easy-going and
almost warm. Who are you, and what right do you have to talk to him that
way?

"You didn't do it on purpose," Romany repeats, and there's something like
amusement in her tone. "Imagine you'd say you didn't get my little brother
eaten by a demon on purpose, either. And you /did/ kill three people in
Bermuda on purpose. It was only the bringing them back that wasn't your
fault. Isn't that how it generally works? If anything happens to Pete this
time, John, I'll have you know that you and your head won't be keeping
company terribly long. Oh, and go anywhere near the cemetery, and it's
worth a maiming. There. Now we've got that out of the way in advance.
Shan't have to stir up trouble on the wedding day." Reunion over,
apparently, since she breaks into a smile of her own as she looks back at
Lena. No, really, she does. "Shouldn't bother with him about, if I were
you. Rather like to meet you without him sometime. Much more of a human
being then."

"They chose," Constantine says with a shrug. "They chose to die to save
the world. All I did was set up the spell." He fixes Romany with a cool
blue gaze, just to show her how little she's rattled him. Of course, she's
rattled him plenty, and he suspects she knows it, but he has to keep up
the show. "And I've already said my apologies for your brother. None of
them are enough and we both know it. The market's closing soon," he asides
to Lena. "Any restaurant preference for dinner?"

"Thai," Lena says, without looking at John, her words to him almost
absent. She's looking at Romany, thoughtful and attempting to take in and
process the information. You're not for real. Killing people. Multiple
people. Her mouth twists up in a wry grin as she finally just drops the
cigarette and exhales harshly. Did I mention, John, that you're *fucked
up*? "Thai sounds good to me," she reiterates, looking up to Constantine,
offering him a genuine smile, seeming like more of herself than she has in
a few days.

Much, much farther down the alley, only seen for a glimpse... maybe not
even at all, a young girl with a red balloon. She's easily lost in the
crowd. Just how controlled are you, Constantine?

Oh, it's for real. Want to see one of the graves involved? Better not
bring your boyfriend, Romany's spent quite a few years reinforcing wards
in case he tries to tamper with the place. How about the bereaved parents?
Da usually lets people explain what they're doing there before he decides
they're part of the conspiracy; Mum you'd better see from a distance,
though, occasionally the drugs do bad things to her temper. "Good luck,
then," she says to Lena. "If you need a place to hide, do give me a ring."
And she glances over her shoulder to be sure that she doesn't collide with
anyone when she steps back. Might as well leave them to dinner.

"I know a good Thai place around here, if it's still there," Constantine
tells Lena. He smiles at her. Look how he ignores Romany, la la la! Not
going to get Lena killed! No, never! Or at least, he's not going to think
about it. The sight of the girl changes his expression, though: one moment
easy and casual, the next sharp, narrow-eyed, and a little frightened. But
at least the strange girl gives him a way to ignore Romany.

As Romany is leaving, Lena looks perfectly confused. "Ta," she calls,
lifting a hand to wave at the woman, blue eyes on her only a moment
longer. "Nice to meet you--we'll try for drinks some night. Or hey, maybe
a game of 7-card," she offers, warm enough, amiable enough. She looks back
to John, who's the one who might be able to explain it all, or at least
make it entertaining enough while she tries to ferret out answers to
questions. What the *fuck* was that all about?

Constantine watches Romany, narrow-eyed, until he's sure that she's gone.
Then, with a slight shudder, he sighs heavily, drops his cigarette end,
and steps on it hard. "That, love, was an old girlfriend of mine. Quite a
few of my exes have really got something against me. In Romany's case,
it's because I got her little brother killed."

Romany lifts a hand to Lena in return, just before she's half-lost among
the crowd. Constantine can catch glimpses of her for a few moments still:
the last is of her stepping into one of the shops across the way and a bit
down. She doesn't look back at the pair.

"Remind me, if we're ever fucked up, to come back and insult when you're
with your new girl," Lena says, smirking. "Oh, wait, no... I actually
*have* tact, no matter what some people like to fucking think," she
snorts. "I don't care if you killed the goddamned Pope, Johnny, the
Bishops ain't gonna come and rub it in your face like that. She's got some
nerve. I might like her if I didn't want to slap some sort of /expression/
onto her fuckin face."

If we're ever fucked up. If we're ever fucked up, love, you're unlikely to
survive. But that's the last thing Constantine needs to say--or think
about--right now. "She was a good shag," he muses almost wistfully. "And
very interesting to be around. I'm sorry about her brother. But, fuck,
don't join if you can't take a joke."