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“I have.”
“My condolences. The Ashes are into the Black Sun. Chaos magic. Technically, it’s about controlling elementals to bring you luck and your enemies bad luck. It’s power yoga for the ruling class. Tycoons and politicos love it. It’s sketchy, but no one’s getting attacked, so it’s all legal. Everyone knows the Ashes keep the big-money stuff off the books. Revenge. Banishments. Maybe even vaporware.”
“They’re soul merchants?”
“Soul trading is bigger than hookers and drugs combined in L.A. So many people have lost theirs or the one they have is so rotten they need a transfusion.”
“Think they’d murder someone for a particular soul?”
“There’s stories.”
“Working with elementals means they’d probably have hotshot demons on their Christmas-card list.”
“Along with their T-shirt size and favorite Beatle.”
“They ever been caught playing rough, demonwise?”
“The Inquisition has made some moves, but never found enough to do more than fine them. The Ashes are one of the oldest families in the world. They know how to cover their tracks.”
“Unless they don’t want to cover their tracks. Unless they want to make an example of someone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.”
I mentally walk through the Springheel house, from where Marshal Julie was pulling doorman duty to Santa Muerte standing guard over bones and gristle, to the broken magic circle that was really a hexagon drawn to call dark forces. One dark force. The eater. Did Cabal and Cosima know that Enoch Springheel was a Bone Daddy and sent him something special delivery? But why bother? From what everyone is saying, the Springheels were about as low as you could get and still have indoor plumbing. If you wanted to off somebody to make a point, why not go for the Geistwalds? But the Ashes are too smart for that. And if they just wanted to have fun, they’d go for civilian rubes, not another Sub Rosa. Still, there is a dead guy and the demon that ate him.
I don’t even know why I care. I didn’t know the guy. I don’t know any of these people. But I don’t like being lied to, especially if being lied to gets me shot. Springheel gets eaten. Lucifer gets bushwhacked. Another Sub Rosa named Spencer Church is missing. Carlos lost his pal, Toadvine, and that woman at Bamboo House is missing a kid. Probably none of this has anything to do with me, but as long as Lucifer means to drag me along into the Sub Rosa’s billion-dollar outhouse, I know there’s a gun pointed at the back of my head.
“Give me the Walter Cronkite on Hell. What’s the weather like down there?”
Kasabian turns from the movie and looks at me. He sighs.
“There’s nothing to tell. It’s the usual mess. Guys stabbing guys. Women stabbing guys who just stabbed guys. It’s rerun season down there. Nothing new.”
“The other night I was walking around East L.A. and for a second I thought I saw Mason.”
“You didn’t. That’s impossible.”
“Then he’s down there. You’ve seen it.”
“I don’t have to see it. I know.”
“From Lucifer?”
“I just know.”
“That’s not good enough. I need to know what’s happening. Lucifer is here for a reason and it’s not to make a damned movie.”
“Can’t help you. Speaking of movies, shut up. The two traveling doctors are about to open Barbara Steele’s coffin and bring her back to life.”
When you make a threat, make it big. When you make it big, make sure you’re prepared to go all in if someone calls you on it.
I go to the table and hit the power switch on Kasabian’s monitor.
“Hey, I’m watching that.”
I grab Kasabian and his deck under one arm, pull open the door, and carry him downstairs.
