Stones.

Samuel is resting. He is in the land of Lucozade and chicken soup, with his guardian Angela watching over him. He’s coherent now, but not saying much, because his face is so bruised it hurts to speak. I asked Angela if he’s said what happened.
“He’s been beaten up.” She said.
“Did you work that out all by yourself Sherlock?” I said. “Who by? Where’s he been? Could they have followed him here?”

Samuel looks as though he walked home using his head instead of a foot. I don’t think he just went into the wrong pub either: the crucifix stuck in his arm was nasty, like it was personal.

Angela has stitched the deeper cuts, put plasters on the rest, put his arm in a sling, and slapped balm on the bruises. She wanted to take him to Northern General, but he won’t be seen by doctors. It turns out his eyes aren’t the only parts he’s had modified. His lungs were altered to let him breathe in demonic environments, so he can’t afford to be x-rayed. They’ll want to cut open his chest and document him for journals.

I want to tell him all about the photo and Miranda. I want to ask him when he knew my father. But instead I helped Norman make his vat of comforting soup and waited. And now I’m sleepless – back in my bedroom again, listening to random noises below and imagining what could have done so much damage to a man who kills demons.

“I’ve had worse.” Samuel said, when Angela let me see him briefly. “Of course, I used to heal in seconds. This pain is somewhat… wearisome.”

There are crystals set up around the sofa, as well as the effective medicines that Angela has used. She still has faith in them, but they’re just stones that catch the light now. She must know that.