Erskine let the comment about magicians pass without offering his kneejerk reaction. Mortals. Mortals using sleight of hand and misdirection. Nothing he and the other Dead Men hadn't done a thousand times, and probably better. He was more interested in a few of the other comments the man had tossed out to focus on something so mundane.

When Constantine finally spoke again, one of Erskine's eyebrows arched and the faint trace of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "Angel? There's one I haven't heard in a while." He chuckled quietly, looking down at his hands as he spoke. "Back in the day, people used to ask if I was one of the sidhe. Anton likes to call me the 'cleaning faerie.'" His mouth curled a little in distaste at that one. "I've heard angel a few times. Demon a few more times. I think 'incubus' was my favorite."

Dodging the angry husband, not so much.

"I'm a sorcerer." He lifted one hand and snapped his fingers; a spark flickered in his grasp, and he cupped his hand to nurture the spark into a little ball of writhing flame before clenching his fist to extinguish it. "We don't all have golden eyes, though. Luck of the draw on that one, I suppose."

He looked up at John finally, actually looked at him. "What about you? You talk to angels much, that you know the color of their eyes?"