“It isn’t terrible,” Dawes said hoarsely. “Hopefully the firefighters will tell Turner the extent of the damage.” “You sound like shit,” said Tripp.
Mercy blew out an exasperated breath. “I think what he means is that it sounds like you inhaled a lot of smoke.”
“There’s an ambulance,” said Alex. “You should get checked out.”
“I don’t want anyone knowing we were here,” objected Dawes.
Alex didn’t like the relief she felt at that, but she was glad Turner was willing to cover for them and that Dawes was willing to go along.
The firefighters and paramedics had been joined by two black-andwhites, and Alex saw Professor Walsh-Whiteley, bundled up in a long overcoat and a dapper little cap, approaching Turner, who was talking to two uniformed cops.
“The Praetor’s here,” Alex said.
Dawes sighed. “Should we talk to him? Try to explain?”
Alex made eye contact with Turner, but he gave the faintest shake of his head. The old Alex wondered if he was covering his own ass, laying a trail of trouble that would lead away from him and directly to her and Dawes.
They’d make easy scapegoats. And it was Alex who had brought them back to Il Bastone, who had claimed it as hers.
“We should get out of here,” Alex said, herding them toward the parking lot. They could slip out on Lincoln Street, wait for Turner there.
“I didn’t see Anselm,” said Dawes.
Tripp didn’t seem to care. “Maybe he went back to New York?”
“Probably.”
He had a family. He had a life. But Alex felt uneasy. It had been two days since he’d shut down their trip to hell, and they hadn’t heard a word from him. No formal dismissal or follow-up, and Il Bastone hadn’t been barred to them. Anselm had interrupted the ritual at Sterling. Alex didn’t know what rules governed demons, but what if they’d set their sights on him too?
She glanced back at Il Bastone, watching the smoke rise off the building in soft clouds, a warning flame, a ritual fire.
She trailed behind the others and laid a hand on the wall, as if she were placing her palm against the flank of an animal to soothe it. She thought of
her mother’s apartment, scarves thrown over the lamps, crystals and faeries in every corner. She thought of Ground Zero, its walls spattered in blood, of Black Elm rotting around Darlington like a tomb. Alex felt the stones hum.
Turner would fight in his own way, with law and force and all the power his badge afforded him. Dawes would use her books, her brains, her infinite capacity for order. And what tools did Alex have? A little magic. A talent for misfortune. The ability to take a beating. It would have to be enough.
This is my home, she vowed, and nothing will take it from me.
The Salt Pearls of Emilia Benatti; salt and silver wireProvenance: Mantua, Italy; early 17th century
Donor: Unknown, possibly gifted from the secret collection at the NewHaven Museum
The mechanism by which salt protects against demons is still largely amystery. We know that salt is understood as a spiritual purifier and isused to ward against evil in many cultures. Its more pedestrian uses alsospark the imagination—as a scouring agent, a catalyst for vinegar usedin cleansing, a natural preservative that wards off decay, a restorativefor failing flowers and fruit. Soldiers were paid in it. Gifts of it were onceoffered between friends. But what is the significance of Elisha pouringsalt into Jericho’s waters to restore them at God’s command? After afuneral, why do some Japanese households scatter salt over their floors?
And why do all of our records indicate that salt, above all othersubstances, is most effective in the dispatching of demonic bodies—bothimmaterial and corporeal?
Whether Emilia Benatti enchanted the pearls herself or simplyacquired them, we also do not know. But she and her family were someof the few to survive the demon plague that struck Mantua in 1629. Herdescendants immigrated to America around 1880 and settled in NewHaven, where they became prominent members of the Italiancommunity and can be seen at the St. Andrew Society Feast
photographed in 1936. The pearls may have been discarded along withother superstitions of the Old World, but how they came to bedocumented and preserved in the New Haven Historical Society’ssecret collection is unknown.
—from the Lethe Armory Catalogue as revised and edited by
Pamela Dawes, Oculus
32
They all squeezed into Turner’s Dodge like a gloomy, soot-covered carpool
—Dawes up front; Tripp, Alex, and Mercy jammed into the back. No one was walking home alone tonight.
They dropped Dawes at her div school apartment first. Turner and Alex escorted her to the door, and they warded the whole building with salt knots.
“We’ll meet up tomorrow,” Alex said before Dawes shut the door on them. “Check in on the chat every hour.”
Tripp was next, and he leaned forward through the gap in the front seats to give Turner directions to a big block of apartments not far from the green.
The building was nice. Exposed brick, warm faux-industrial lighting.
Tripp’s dad might have cut him off, but Tripp had to be drawing on some kind of trust fund. Hard times looked different to a Helmuth.
They warded the exterior and then drew a salt knot atop Tripp’s welcome mat for good measure.
“You, uh, want to come in?” Tripp asked. All of his excitement had ebbed away, the fear creeping back in.
“You can crash with us,” Alex offered. “We have a couch in the common room.”
“No, I’m cool. I’ve got my seabird, right?”
