“Ich schlief. Es tut mir leid, mein herr.”
“Take care of his wounds.”
The old man nods and sets his bag on the table as Lucifer goes back to his chair. I start to take off the jacket, but Dr. Allwissend waves at me to stop. He takes an oversize cutthroat razor from his bag and, with a couple of smooth Jack the Ripper slashes, cuts the jacket and shirt so he can lift them right off me. I wouldn’t want to be dating this guy’s daughter. He wipes the blood from my wounds and takes some bottles from his bag. He spreads them on the table and begins mixing a potion.
“So, which one of them did it?” I ask.
“Which one?”
I look over the doctor’s shoulder so I can see him.
“Which one of everyone who hates your guts set you up? Mason? Aelita? Some civilian who doesn’t want his soul on a hook in a Hellion butcher shop? Maybe Bruce Willis is scared your movie will be bigger than his?”
“You’re hilarious. I have no idea.”
“Guess.”
“Not Mason. He wouldn’t have done it like that. He would have gone for something more … baroque. Winged snakes. Fire from the sky.”
“Yeah. Lizzie Borden with a death ray stuff.”
“Exactly.”
“At first I thought it was the Vigil, but—and don’t get offended, I’m just the messenger—you’re not on Aelita’s radar. She thinks you’re all buggy whips and syphilis. Quaint old antiques.”
“Lucky me.”
“That only leaves one candidate. Someone at the party. A Sub Rosa?”
“How’s that?”
“Who else knew where you were going tonight?”
“Just you and Kasabian.”
“Kasabian didn’t know when you were leaving. If I was the one who arranged the hit, I could have just let those guys take you. That means either I arranged to get myself shot again or it was someone else.”
“There were a lot of people at the party. Including civilians.”
“Yeah, but how many of them have the contacts to arrange a hit like that? They came at you with nonlethals, so they wanted you alive. That means someone has the contacts to set up a snatch-and-grab that size and the balls to think that they can hold you. That doesn’t sound like a civilian to me. At least not a civilian on his own.”
“I don’t imagine they wanted ransom. Whom would they ransom me to?”
“One of your generals? Mason? God?”
Lucifer laughs.
“If Father wanted me, he wouldn’t send a SWAT team. A rain of toads or plague of locusts, maybe, but not children in ninja pajamas.”
“What about a civilian who wants his or her soul back?”
“Hmm.”
The doctor pours the potion he’s put together into his hands and smears it on my wounds. It’s thick and smells like diesel oil. From a battered wooden box he pulls a couple of fat, glistening beetles. Puts one on my stomach and the other on my back. They start eating the oil.
“Shit!”
I try to twist away, but the doctor grabs me.