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The phrase ‘[i]This is new[/i]’ was rote in Section 7. Whether it was gang wars, corporate espionage, or ritual zealotry, every single case had [i]something[/i](s) that got it ejected from the desk of whatever department should have been handling it, and put on the Easy Runner’s tab. New became norm, zebras became horses, and some days Yam was convinced all it would take to dupe their entire department was a cut and dry murder. Give them a jilted lover, and they’d likely spend a year trying to connect the victim to the Children of Helle, because Section 7 couldn’t see the forest through the trees unless it was on fire. 

All that to say, this was new. 

Not the scene itself, which was new in the old way. The shock and awe of a mass murder, smacking of [i]weird[/i] and reeking of dead wannabe syndicate bigshots. But Armand was here, which was new in the [i]new[/i] way; which meant it wasn’t actually new, because he’d shown up on a small number of cases before, but rather, it was now new in a way that made its old-new weirdness new-new weirdness. True-new. New plus. Suddenly every burning tree in the forest mattered. 

Damn. 

Yam crouched down in front of one of the flower-headed bodies. Lantanas. Interesting choice, which she did think it was—a choice. It wasn’t a bouquet, each of the eight overgrown victims sprouted the same flower, which meant they were chosen deliberately, or out of uniformity. Methodical inexplicability was the worst kind; there’d be rules, and Yam didn’t like playing games she didn’t know the rules to.

Thankfully, bugboy was on it. As grating as he could be—which was perhaps his most potent quality after his unshakable persistence—she hadn’t yet actually regretted having him on a job. His perspective, like his eyes, was manifold, and when you were dealing with weird, you wanted to see things from as many different views as you could. 

Speaking of. 

Yam shut her eyes, ignored the wriggling feeling beneath her eyelids, and then opened them again. She was, as always, keenly aware that they were no longer [i]her[/i] eyes, but she saw through them all the same. Albeit, there was a subconscious tug, almost like an itch, trying to force her attention to certain places. 

[i][color=9173CA]Thoughts?[/color][/i]

[i][color=gray]Plenty, constantly.[/color][/i] Bel’s voice was paved gravel, paradoxically smooth and also entirely too abrasive as it scraped across her mind. [i][color=gray]If that was a question, though, you’ll have to be more specific, and much more polite.[/color][/i]

Yam blinked her own eyes back and shut him out. She wasn’t in the mood, not until she'd had a few cigarettes. Besides, there was enough here for her to go off of on her own, at least for now. She got back to her feet, surveying the rest of the carnage. Blood, bullets, slashes, [i]stains[/i]. Whatever came through here wasn’t just big, it was [i]too[/i] big. 

“[color=9173CA]Think we’re looking for a human,[/color]” she said, moseying back to the others. “[color=9173CA]I’ve never seen a demon who could do this, and anyone who could would be wearing thirty pounds of curses. You don’t get that kind of work dispelled without people hearing about it.[/color]”