Constantine stumbled out of the corn maze, brushing dirt and dried stalks from his trench coat. His vision steadied on the bustling Harvest Festival ahead. Neon lights flickered over makeshift stalls, and drunken partygoers drifted through the grounds in skimpy costumes, blissfully unaware of the hell he’d just gone through so they didn’t have to.

Clueless lot, he thought. These people were too busy sipping pumpkin-spiced cocktails and taking selfies with jack-o’-lanterns to notice their lives were hanging by a thread just minutes ago.

He moved through the stalls, thankfully no one suspected the blood-stained shirt or the gash on his cheek were anything but parts of a Halloween costume. He whistled at the partying eye candy and occasionally nicked a skewer from an unsuspecting drunk’s plate. Not bad, he mused, chewing lazily as he kept walking, eyes scanning the crowd.

Then the craving hit. He reflexively reached for his coat pocket and froze. His wallet and his cigarettes were both gone, left somewhere in the bloody maze after that wrestling match with the demon. He cursed under his breath, spitting the skewer stick into the dirt. “Brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant.”

He needed a smoke. And a drink. Preferably in that order.

A group of festival-goers stumbled past him, giggling and too deep into their cups to notice him. One of them had a half-empty bottle of something sloshing in their hand. John could feel the itch in his throat, the desperate pull for a drink.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking towards them. Time for a little con. If he could get that bottle and maybe trick someone into lending him a few cigarettes, the night wouldn’t be a complete loss.

“Oi, mates. Lovely night for a festival, innit? Reckon I could bum a smoke off one of ya?” He lowered his voice slightly, the burning craving making his accent slip out even more. “If you help me out ‘ere, I promise I’ll make it worth yer while. How ’bout I show ya a magic trick if ya hand me that bottle too, eh?”