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“It’s safe to go in?” asks Traven.
“It’s clear. I don’t know about safe. I don’t hear rats or even roaches in the walls. That’s not a good sign.”
“What does that mean?” asks Traven.
Vidocq says, “When even vermin abandon a building, it means that sensible people will stay out, too.”
“Right now we’re officially dumber than rats and roaches,” says Candy.
“Welcome to our world, Father.”
Traven starts to cross himself, catches himself halfway through, and drops his hand. Old habits die hard.
“Let’s go. I’m pretty sure I know where the kid is, so I’m up front. Vidocq and the father in the middle. You okay watching our asses, Candy?”
“What do you think?”
“Here we go.”
I lead them around the circular front room. We stay close to the walls. The place used to be full of antique furniture and Persian rugs. Now I can see down to the rock and grass of the hill where the floor has partially collapsed.
A couple of turns down a hall and the ceiling is intact. All of a sudden I’m missing the holes in the roof and their spooky shadows. With no lights back here, the place is pitch-black. As much as I hate it, I let the angel take the lead. Its vision is built for darkness.
The moment I ease back and let it run the show, Avila lights up like Vegas. I grab Vidocq’s sleeve and tell Traven and Candy to hold on to each other. Then I walk them slowly around the circular corridors toward the sacrifice chamber.
It doesn’t take long to find it. All roads lead here, the black nasty heart of the place. This is where I should have killed Mason. It’s the room where I rescued Aelita. I don’t think she’s ever forgiven m000r forgie for saving her. Maybe her thank-you note got lost in the mail.
The chamber’s double doors are still open, still full of bullet holes and shotgun slugs from the New Year’s Eve raid. Around here is where Candy and I had that first kiss on New Year’s, shot up and covered in other people’s blood. Good times.
A pale light comes from the room. I leave the others and step inside, sweeping the Smith & Wesson back and forth over debris from the partially collapsed roof. Going slow, I let my senses expand and fill the place, feeling for anything with lungs or a heartbeat. I feel something. I step lightly around bowling-ball-size chunks of marble that have fallen from the walls. A shaft of sunlight cuts down from a hole in the ceiling onto the stone sacrifice platform, and there’s Hunter, stretched out like a boiled lobster, ready for the butter and claw crackers.
I wave Traven and the others in. They spread out around the platform. Traven goes right for the kid. We hang back, letting the father do his thing. Hunter is lying on his back. He’s very still. His chest hardly moves. He looks like he’s been beaten, left under a heat lamp, and dragged behind a truck. Patches of blackened skin are peeling away from his arms and face. The skin that isn’t black or raw red is the greenish blue of tainted meat. Hunter’s clothes would make any self-respecting wino jealous. Worn and splitting at the seams, they’re covered in dried blood, shit, and vomit. He looks like he’s been wearing the rags for weeks instead of a couple of days.
Traven leans in right over Hunter’s mouth, listening for something. I’m waiting for the demon to take the bait and gnaw his ear off. But Hunter doesn’t move.
Traven goes back to his duffel, unzips it, and lays out a bag of sea salt and bread on the floor next to him. Next he takes out a battered wooden box. Inside is a bottle of black sacred oil and a yellowed bone pen shaped kind of like a short, thick hockey stick. He dips the pen in the oil and scrawls symbols along all four sides of the sacrifice platform. He’s creating a binding hex to keep the demon locked on the platform and away from us. I recognize most of the symbols. There’s Hebrew and Greek. Some angelic script and even some Hellion cuneiform script. It’s the last set of symbols that are the most interesting. Chicken scratches from some obscure heretical cookbook. I’ll lay you odds they’re from that Angra Om Ya book. Fine by me. Whatever hoodoo will keep Hunter and his demon on that side of the room and us over here in the cheap seats is fine by me. Now that I think about it, we should all be wearing body armor. Damn. Next exorcism for sure.
Traven’s bread is a disappointment. It looks like an ordinary round loaf of French or sourdough. I was hoping for something belching fire and spinning like lowrider rims.
Traven rips the bread apart, setting a piece down every few inches from Hunter’s throat to his crotch. He scoops up a handful of salt from the bag and drops a little mound of salt between each piece of bread. He sets the salt bag back in his duffel and moves it to the side of the room. He does it all in slow, practiced moves. A kind of moving meditation gearing up for the next step.
Traven points to Hunter’s head, where he wants me to stand. He stations Candy by the feet. Vidocq is in the middle across from the father.
Traven says, “I understand that you carry potions with you.”
Vidocq opens his coat like a flasher, showing Traven the dozens of pockets sewn into the lining.
Traven does his little smile.
“Do you have Spiritus Dei?”
“I didn’t know the Church knew about or approved of such alchemical tricks.”
Spiritus Dei is one of the best things in the universe. Like one of those all-in-one cleaners for your kitchen or hoodoo duct tape. It’ll fix anything. It’s a repellent for Hellions, demons, and pretty much any other nasty things with teeth. It’ll Scotch Guard your panties from hexes and even cure some poisons. It’s better than chicken-fried steak, but not by much.
“The church isn’t here. I am. I’d like you to have some Spiritus Dei ready to throw if Hunter should get through the wards I’ve placed around the platform.”
Vidocq nods.
