Prague, Czech Republic
John Constantine stood in what had once been a child's bedroom, smoking his fifth cigarette in ten minutes and trying not to look at the small, desiccated corpse on the bed. The boy couldn't have been more than eleven, but whatever remained looked like it had been dead for decades rather than days.
"Drained completely," he muttered to the local police inspector, a thin man named Novák who'd seen enough supernatural bollocks in post-Communist Prague to accept John's credentials without too many questions. "Every drop of magical potential sucked out like marrow from a bone."
The inspector crossed himself nervously. "Third child this month. Always the same—gifted children, found like this, no signs of struggle."
John crouched beside the bed, extending his magical senses toward the corpse. The psychic residue was overwhelming—not just death, but something far worse. The complete absence of possibility. Whatever this thing was, it hadn't just killed the boy. It had consumed everything he might have become.
"Bollocks," John whispered, standing abruptly. This was worse than he'd thought. Much worse.
He'd been tracking the entity for six weeks now, following a trail of horror across Eastern Europe. It had started in Romania—a promising young witch found dead in her family's barn. Then Hungary, where twin brothers with telekinetic abilities had simply... emptied. Poland, where a boy who could see the future had been discovered in his dormitory, nothing left but skin and bones.
But seeing the psychic aftermath up close, John finally understood what they were dealing with. This wasn't just a predator that killed magical children. This was something that fed on potential itself, growing stronger with each untapped gift it consumed.
And it was toward Harry.
"Inspector," John said, stubbing out his cigarette with more force than necessary, "I need everything you've got on this case. Witness statements, forensic reports, anything odd anyone might have noticed in the days before the boy died."
"Of course. But Mr. Constantine..." Novák hesitated, then continued in heavily accented English. "The other children, before they died—their families said they had been having nightmares. Dreams of being watched, of something calling to them."
John felt ice form in his stomach. "What kind of dreams?"
"They said there was a voice, promising them they could become more than they were. Offering to show them their true potential." Novák shuddered. "The parents thought it was just childhood fears, until..."
"Until their kids started sleepwalking toward the thing that killed them," John finished grimly.
Back in his hotel room that night, John spread out a map of Europe and marked each location where the entity had struck. The pattern was clear—it was learning, adapting, growing stronger with each feeding. But more troubling was the deliberate nature of its hunt. This wasn't random predation. It was specifically targeting children with extraordinary magical gifts.
Children like Harry.
John picked up his secure satellite phone and dialed a number he'd hoped never to need.
"Zatara."
"Giovanni, it's Constantine. We need to talk."
"John?" Zatara's voice immediately shifted to concern. "Is everything alright? Harry's fine, he's been—"
"This isn't about Harry. Well, it is, but not directly." John lit another cigarette, his hands steadier than they had any right to be. "I need to bring you up to speed on something nasty that's been hunting magical children across Europe. And I need to know if you've still got contacts in the old network."
There was a pause. "How bad?"
"The kind of bad that makes the demons I usually deal with look like choir boys," John said. "And it's heading for Harry."
For the next twenty minutes, John briefed Zatara on everything he'd discovered. The systematic hunting pattern, the complete magical drain, the way the entity seemed to be specifically targeting children with the most potential.
"Mother of God," Zatara said quietly when John finished. "John, you can't face something like this alone."
"Don't have much choice, do I? Thing's got maybe three weeks before it crosses the Channel, and I'm the only one who's been tracking it consistently."
"No, you're not." Zatara's voice carried the authority of someone making a command decision. "I'm activating the network. Jason Blood is already on the continent—some business with an artifact in Vienna. Dr. Fate's been sensing disturbances in the magical field for weeks. And there are others."
"Giovanni—"
"Don't 'Giovanni' me, Constantine. You think any of us would let you face this thing alone? Especially when it's specifically hunting children?" There was steel in Zatara's voice now. "Harry's not the only magical child who matters. And you're not the only one with skin in this game."
John felt something ease in his chest—a tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying. "Right then. What do you need from me?"
"Keep tracking it. Document everything. And John?" Zatara's voice softened slightly. "Stay alive long enough for backup to reach you. That's an order from someone who has to look Harry Potter in the eye every morning and promise him his guardian is coming home."
After ending the call, John sat in the darkness of his hotel room, staring at the map. Red pins marked the locations of each attack, forming a line that pointed inexorably toward Harry.
Somewhere out there, the thing that had drained seven children of their magical potential was still hunting. Still growing stronger.
"Not on my watch," John said quietly to the empty room. "Not ever."
He stubbed out his cigarette, gathered his hunting gear, and began planning how to kill something that fed on the dreams of children.
Two Days Later - Outskirts of Prague
John crouched behind a shipping container in an abandoned industrial complex, watching something that had once been human stalk through the shadows fifty meters away. The entity had finally shown itself, drawn by the magical beacon John had set up using every detection ward he knew.
It was worse than he'd imagined.
The thing retained a roughly human shape, but it moved wrong—too fluid, like it wasn't entirely anchored to physical reality. Where its face should have been was a void that seemed to drink in light, and when it turned its head toward his hiding spot, John felt a pressure against his mind like fingers made of ice.
Come out, practitioner, a voice whispered directly into his thoughts. You taste of old magic and bitter knowledge. I could make you so much more than you are.
John's hand tightened on the iron blade he'd prepared, its edge inscribed with banishment runes in three different magical traditions. The creature was trying to do to him what it had done to the children—seduce him with promises of power before draining him completely.
The difference was, John Constantine had been hearing those same promises from demons, angels, and things in between for thirty years. He knew bullshit when he heard it.
Not today, you parasitic bastard, John thought back, and launched himself from cover.
The battle was brief, brutal, and completely one-sided. The entity moved faster than anything human had a right to, and John's binding spells slid off it like water off glass. He managed exactly three offensive spells before claws that felt like frozen void raked across his chest, sending him flying into a concrete wall.
So much potential wasted on cynicism and fear, the thing said as it approached his prone form. Let me show you what you could become.
John felt his magical defenses crumble under an assault unlike anything he'd experienced. This wasn't just a psychic attack—it was an attempt to rewrite his very essence, to transform him from a stubborn, chain-smoking bastard into something pure and powerful and completely empty.
He rolled desperately to one side as claws punched through the concrete where his head had been, came up running, and threw every emergency escape spell he knew in rapid succession.
The monster let him go.
John realized, as he stumbled through Prague's back alleys three hours later, that it had been toying with him. Testing his abilities, learning his techniques, measuring him the way a chef might examine ingredients before deciding how to prepare them.
The realization was terrifying for what it implied about the creature's intelligence. This wasn't some mindless predator driven by hunger. This was something ancient and calculating that had been learning from every encounter, adapting its methods, growing stronger with each feeding.
And it was still heading for Harry. Still hunting the most magically powerful child in Europe.
John found a pay phone and dialed Zatara again with hands that shook only slightly.
"How long until backup arrives?" he asked without preamble.
"Jason's en route from Vienna. Should reach you by tomorrow evening. John, what happened?"
"I found it. It found me. I'm alive, barely, and it's worse than we thought." John lit a cigarette with a lighter that required three attempts to work. "Giovanni, this thing isn't just powerful—it's smart. Ancient. And it's been specifically hunting children with the kind of magical potential that Harry's got."
"You think it knows about Harry specifically?"
John thought about the creature's parting words, the way it had seemed to see through his defenses to something deeper. "I think it can sense magical potential from a very long distance. And I think Harry's signature is like a bloody great beacon to anything that feeds on power."
"Then we stop it before it gets close enough to sense him."
"Yeah," John said, watching his own blood drip onto the pavement. "That's the plan. Assuming we can kill something that just shrugged off everything I threw at it."
"John."
"Yeah?"
"Come home," Zatara said quietly. "We'll find another way. You can't face this thing alone, and—"
"Can't do that," John interrupted. "Thing knows I'm hunting it now. If I run, it'll just accelerate its timeline."
"And if you die?"
John was quiet for a moment, thinking about Harry safe in New York, learning magic from patient teachers and making friends his own age. Thinking about the boy's trust that his guardian would come home, that the first adult to choose him wouldn't abandon him.
"Then at least I'll buy you time to come up with a better plan," John said finally. "But I'm not dead yet. And this thing's made a mistake—it's let me see what it really is."
"What do you mean?"
John smiled grimly, stubbing out his cigarette. "I mean I know what it's afraid of now. And tomorrow, when Jason gets here, we're going to use that fear to kill it."
The line went dead, leaving John alone in the Prague night with his injuries, his determination, and the growing certainty that he was about to face the most dangerous hunt of his life.
Somewhere in the darkness, ancient hunger stirred and began moving west again.
The game was far from over.