It is four o'clock in the morning when Gemma wakes. Bleary eyed, she finds her uncle at the kitchen table with a tumbler of whiskey in front of him.
At first he doesn't respond. When he does, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"If you had any sense," he says. "You'd give this up." His gaze is fixed on a large tome beside him. It's old and leather-bound and obviously a book of magic.
Gemma stands behind him and wraps her arms around his neck. Her chin rests on his shoulder. "You know I won't," she says.
"I know," John says, defeated. He brings the glass to his lips.
Gemma doesn't know where he went that night, and she doesn't ask about the blood under his fingernails. She doesn't ask about the dirt on his trench coat, nor does she ask why he smells vaguely of death. She just holds onto him for a while, and he lets her.
Eventually Gemma's gaze shifts to the book and she can't take her eyes off of it. She longs to read it, to discover what secrets it contains.
She can't help being a Constantine.