"I'm sure I can come up with something." There was always something. If nothing else, Ravel was sure to have a great many things Solomon would enjoy holding over his head just for the fun of it.

"Since the war ended and I was able to get a manicure that actually lasted instead of dying a quick and sudden death under the grime, sweat and blood of battle?" Dexter asked, and Solomon heard a scrape of something on fabric which he realised, after a moment, was probably Dexter buffing his nails on his shirt. "If you're lucky I'll even give you the number of the woman who did them for me."

China finished before Erskine could answer, and Solomon's lips quirked as he pushed himself off the wall. "China dear, if there was anyone who could come close to satisfying me on the first round, it would be you. Angel, go and relieve the Cleaver at guard in front of my office."

Yes. Going.

Without a verbal word, but with the rasp of stone on stone, the angel stretched its wings and moved off up the stairwell. Solomon tilted his head at Doe. "Now, I have an important question, John. Can you drive?"

He even managed to say it without a trace of the bitterness that momentarily tightened his gut. Solomon couldn't, and wouldn't ever again. Ravel just couldn't, period. China could, but didn't like to. Dexter, Solomon imagined, could, but they were likely going to need two cars by the end of all this. Unless, of course, they rang Fletcher Renn, but that was just lazy.

For a brief moment Solomon missed his shadow-walking skill, and then consoled himself with remembering Erskine's curses every time he was ground into the side of the bumper-car rink.

"Yes, sir?" Doe answered cautiously.

"Good. We'll sign out two of the Sanctuary's cars, then. There's no need to be packed into one like sardines."