“I’m sure Aelita will see it that way when you explain it so simply.”
I turn to the old man. He looks more concerned than I’ve seen him since the day Aelita stabbed me with her flaming sword. The day he quit working for the Vigil.
“You think she knows? Wells told me about their magic radar. Supposed to track the Sub Rosa and any big hoodoo going on in town, but I’ve never seen a bunch with less of a clue.”
“The Vigil’s technology is, at best, inconsistent, but they have psychics and Lurkers who can smell and taste changes in the aether. I have to think that the arrival of an angel as powerful as Lucifer will cause quite a ripple.”
“He’s not here for anything they’d care about. He’s here for his ego. He thinks he’s Marlon Brando.”
“Is that all?”
“And he wants out of Hell. Whatever fight’s going on down there, I think he’s losing. Maybe it’s Mason or maybe it’s just his time. I get the feeling he’s looking for any excuse not to be home right now.”
“Or he has another agenda altogether.”
“What?”
Vidocq shakes his head, sets down his coffee.
“I have no idea, but this is Lucifer we’re talking about. Next to God, the brightest light in the universe. He might not lie to you, but don’t assume just because he tells you the truth you know what’s going on.”
“Don’t start talking that way. My head already hurts.”
Allegra is still grinding ingredients, concentrating. Ignoring us. It’s nice to have a job and know exactly what you’re doing, what’s expected of you, and that you can do it all yourself.
“Sometimes I miss the arena. I miss being pointed at some monster and told, ‘It’s you or him, little drytt,’ and just going for it. No decisions. No motives. No guessing games. Just blood and dust, and afterward, I have a gallon of Aqua Regia and go to sleep.”
Allegra asks, “What’s a ‘little drytt’?”
I guess she is listening after all.
“A drytt is a bug that lives in the desert outside Pandemonium, Lucifer’s capital. Drytts are like sand fleas. They’re everywhere and get into everything. They live in the dirt and they eat and shit their body weight every day for two days. Then they die. They lay eggs in their shit and that’s where their young are born.”
“You miss being called a shit bug?”
“It’s what they call all mortals,” Vidocq says. “Angels, even fallen ones, are eternal. We, the story goes, are made from dust. We eat. We shit. We grow old and die. We are born in filth, decay, and return to filth. We’re all little drytt to them.”
Allegra shakes her head.
“I bet you were one morbid little kid, Stark. Your poor mother.”
“You have no idea.”
Vidocq asks, “How is the potion coming?”
“I have all the ingredients together. It just needs to be digested.”
“Show him what you’ve learned.”
Allegra turns and raises her eyebrows at me. I go to where she’s working at the table.
“In alchemy, digesting something just means cooking it. You need the Friosan nostrum to stop your scars from healing, right? The storax, the liquid amber, is the base for the other ingredients. There’s also white cedar, salamander bones, ground sea horse. All things that grow slowly.”
“What’s that other powder?”
She glances at Vidocq.
“I don’t know. Mysterious things in old jars with Latin names. Eugène helped with that part.”