“I’m impressed again. I know that thinking goes entirely against your ethos, so the fact you’re considering a new approach to things is a good sign.” “A sign of what?” “That you might actually live. That you’ll become a new and improved monster. Not killing everyone means that if something happens there will be survivors to question.” “Of course, none of it means shit. Wells hires me to kill things and so do you. Thinking is like playing in a band when you’re fifty. It only happens on weekends and holidays.” “Why don’t we agree on a new policy starting tonight? I don’t expect any problems, but if something does happen, try using magic instead of violence. I want to support the idea of a newer, better you.” “We’re still talking about killing, right? Not potty training.” Lucifer turns the pyx over in his hands. “Who was that bunch back at the hotel?” “The most important human-only coven in the city. They had a lot of power back in the day, when Los Angeles was changing from orange groves into a city, but now they’re mostly a nuisance.” “The Sub Rosa took over.” “The Sub Rosa have always been in charge here, but it helped to have civilians as go-betweens with politicians and business. These days everyone has moved beyond that kind of Checkpoint Charlie thinking. The Sub Rosa are powerful and there isn’t a politician or businessman alive who doesn’t like to rub shoulders with that.” “So, what’s in the box?” He hands me the pyx. “Take it. Consider it your first bonus.” I wonder how much buzzard-claw Amanda liked being blown off back at the hotel? Is she the type to throw some disrespect back at Lucifer? Slip him some bad juju or an underwear bomb? I hold the pyx at arm’s length and open the top. Nothing happens. I look inside. “Are those fingernails?” “Yes. A few toenails, too, probably. No, you don’t want to know where they came from.” “I was just telling Kasabian I hoped I’d get to see a pile of ripped-out fingernails tonight. I guess dreams really do come true.” Lucifer lights a Malediction. “The box is Grecian ivory and very old. Take it to a good auction house. You’ll be able to open a dozen video stores.” “How much do you think I can get for the nails?”
THE DRIVER TAKES US south on the Hollywood Freeway, gets off at Silver Lake, and steers us up the hills to the old reservoir. There’s a concrete path all around and a steep descent down to the water. The driver stops on the street bordering the reservoir, gets out, and opens Lucifer’s door. Neither of them says anything as the driver closes his door, gets back in the front, and drives away. Lucifer says, “He’ll be back when we need him,” and leads us through a typical L.A. excuse for a park—parched grass and a line of half-dead trees—to a walkway sticking out over the water. At the end of the walkway is a burned-out three-story concrete utility building. Technically, it’s only two stories now. It looks like the top one collapsed and caved into the second during the fire. The city bolted wire shutters over all the ground-floor windows to keep kiddies from playing in the death trap. Naturally, most of them are torn down or bent back enough for someone skinny to squeeze inside. The double metal doors in front are shut with a padlock and chain heavy enough to hitch the Loch Ness monster to a parking meter. Why am I not surprised when Lucifer pulls a key from his pocket, pops the lock, and throws open the doors? A blast of cold, wet air hits us from inside. The place smells like Neptune’s outhouse. There’s a set of stone steps inside, winding down to the waterline. A few high school kids are hunkered on the stairs below the first turn, drinking forties and passing around a joint. They lurch to their feet, a little shaky in that panicked stoner kind of way where cops and pigeons are equally terrifying. I guess they don’t see a lot of tuxedos down here. Lucifer nods to them and one of the boys nods back.
