The altar is a jumble of magic objects. Saints and rosaries. A sephirot stitched together from separate pieces of parchment and linen. Pentagrams and swastikas drawn on Post-its. An old bottle of no-name whiskey. Animal bones. Bowls full of meth, joints, and poppers. Yojimbe bark.
I drag a chair over to where Wells is standing. The forensic crew is falling in love with me.
“Who is this guy?
“Enoch Springheel.”
“Springheel, like the Springheels?”
“Yep. Supposedly, the first Sub Rosa family in L.A. I guess a couple of hundred years back, when this was mostly Indians and coyotes, they were the cock of the walk. But other families settled here and things sort of fell apart for the Springheels. Lost most of their land. Lost their status. Homeland Security doesn’t know why. Neither does the Vigil. I was hoping maybe you knew something.”
“When I was a kid, I spent most of my time trying to get away from the Sub Rosa. I know the names, but not much of the family histories.”
“What a blessing it is to have you around.”
While Wells complains I climb on the chair to get a better view of the room. Whenever I reach out with my mind, the combination of whatever is coming off the body and the Vigil’s goddamn machines start making me dizzy. But from up on high something clicks in my brain and the scene falls together like a series of snapshots of things I’ve seen over the last eleven years.
Who needs nephilim superpowers when you’ve got the devil’s slide projector in your head?
I go back to the body and cut some skin and bone with the black blade. Then I spit on the incisions. That gets their attention.
“Give me some salt.”
One of the forensic drones pulls a vial from a potion case and tosses it to me. I sprinkle the salt over where I just spit. Nothing happens. Then there are bubbles. Steam. The saliva begins to boil.
“You know much about demons, Marshal Wells? What they are? How they work?”
“They’re elementals. Not like you pixies or Lurkers. Demons are primitives. Like insects. They’re pretty much programmed to do a single thing. Killing. Inciting lust. Planting lies.”
“They’re so dumb because they’re fragments of the Angra Om Ya. The old gods. They’re powerful but brain- dead crumbs of whatever god they fell from.”
“That’s blasphemy, boy. There were no gods before God.”
“Okay, forget that. Did your team take a look at these marks on the skin? They’re teeth marks. Senor Chew Toy could have healed himself, but he didn’t. He liked the scars. He just covered them with tattoos to hide his dirty little secret from the other Sub Rosa.”
“They’re so dumb because they’re fragments of the Angra Om Ya. The old gods. They’re powerful but brain- dead crumbs of whatever god they fell from.” “That’s blasphemy, boy. There were no gods before God.” “Okay, forget that. Did your team take a look at these marks on the skin? They’re teeth marks. Senor Chew Toy could have healed himself, but he didn’t. He liked the scars. He just covered them with tattoos to hide his dirty little secret from the other Sub Rosa.” Wells is looking at me now. “Keep going.” “If you find Enoch Shitheel’s head, check his teeth. I bet you’ll find he gave himself some of those scars.” “Demon possession?” “Think simpler. Ever heard of autophagia?” “No.” “I bet you’ve never seen any Sub Rosa porn either. You’re out of your depth, choirboy. In the books, autophagia is a mental disorder, but Springheel made it into a fetish. He got off on eating himself.” Wells is giving me his disapproving squint, but he’s listening. His team edges in closer, not even pretending to work anymore. “Santa Muerte is death and protection all rolled into one. A gangster Kali. She’d tighten Springheel’s jeans.” “Watch your language.” “Fuck you. You brought me in. I’ll do this my way.”
