"Butcher Bird" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kadrey Richard)

DOA

After dropping Lulu at home, Spyder took at cab to the Bardo Lounge. He'd always preferred the night, but now he was falling in love with it.

Spyder couldn't really deny the angels in the sky or the anacondas with the faces of crying children hiding in the palm trees along Dolores Street, but in the dark the smaller curiosities were swallowed by shadows, mostly invisible. Besides, night had always seemed a time of madness and possibility. The visions just felt more natural at night.

The neighborhood around the Bardo Lounge had taken on a heavy, wet jungle feel, as if the cab had stumbled into the abandoned set of some expensive dinosaur movie. There were always a lot of film crews in town and, for a moment, Spyder thought that they might have genuinely rolled onto a set. But sacrifice poles dotted the corners, animal heads and flowers dripping in the thick, humid air.

The Bardo Lounge was packed. Rubi was serving drinks. She gave Spyder a kiss on the cheek and brought him a tequila. He was relieved to see that she was entirely normal, with none of Lulu's mutilations.

The bar was alive with a happy, drunken weekend crowd. Leather-clad boys and girls with hair in cotton-candy colors and lips shining brighter than their vinyl skirts. Spyder wanted to wade out and dive into their beauty, and be baptized by their sweat and saliva. But for the first time since he was an awkward teenager, he couldn't think of anything to say to them. He felt as removed from the crowd as the monsters he'd been seeing in the streets all day. Spyder turned away and drank his tequila.

There was a demon sitting on the stool next to Spyder. It was a huge bare-chested olive-skinned man, his features lost beneath cascading rolls of glistening fat. White geometric designs covered his arms and chest, some kind of tribal markings. Considering everything, he didn't look too bad, Spyder thought. Pretty human, in fact. Not at all like the monsters in Jenny's mythology textbooks. The demon stole the beer of the girl sitting next to him and poured the whole thing into a wide, toothless mouth that split open in the middle of his chest.

Spyder sighed and the demon caught him looking. The demon leaned in close and said, "How do you get twelve humans to wear one hat?"

"How?" asked Spyder.

"You bite the heads off eleven."

Spyder turned back to his drink. "Sorry for not laughing, but I'm going to be over here ignoring you."

"I'm Bilal," said the demon, "You're the little prince, aren't you? The one Shrike killed for. What's your story?"

"There is no story. I'm just an inker who had to take a leak."

"That's beautiful. Maybe they'll carve that on your tombstone? You'll be an inspiration to future generations." A stoned couple stumbled by and Bilal delicately plucked the cigarette from the mouth of a cadaverous, lavender-lipped boy. The demon sniffed the cigarette once and dropped it into his chest-mouth. "Though I was really hoping you could justify your existence. Like maybe you were some minor deity on pilgrimage. Or a diplomat off to a secret rendezvous to stop a war."

Bilal blew out a long puff of smoke out through his regular mouth.

"What's it like being a demon here in a place like this?" asked Spyder.

"I don't know. What's it like being a human?"

Spyder looked in the mirror behind the bar, taking in the crowd. There were other demons, mostly talking to each other. A couple of guys playing pool were cut up in a way that looked like the work of the Black Clerks. "Weird and getting weirder," Spyder said. "Like Salvador Dali weird, all melting clocks and checkerboard deserts."

"Welcome to the world, boy. As for my personal complaints, you can add having to deal with idiot talking meat like you." Bilal pocketed a two-dollar tip someone had left for Rubi. "See, that demon who died last night was Nebiros. He was a friend of mine. In fact, my best friend in this sorry Sphere." Bilal put his hand on Spyder's arm. Each of the demon's fingers was tipped with a scaly lizard mouth lined with tiny needle teeth. The lizards bit into Spyder as Bilal squeezed his arm. "You owe Nebiros a life, and me, well, I miss my friend and that makes me mad. You know what I mean?"

The enormous mouth opened wetly in the demon's chest and he pulled Spyder closer. A leathery, black tongue darted out, licking Spyder's face. "Shit!" yelled Bilal, slurping the enormous tongue back into his chest. He turned Spyder's arm over, revealing the Black Clerk's mark.

"You must shit candy and piss champagne, son. Everyone wants a piece of you," said Bilal.

"You mean you can't hurt me because of this mark?"

"I didn't say that."

"It sure as hell looked like it."

"Smile while you still have lips. The Clerks have you penciled in. What they'll do to you is a hundred times worse than anything I'd do."

"I'm looking for Shrike," said Spyder.

"Just because I'm not eating you doesn't mean I'm your pal."

"Yeah, but if I find her and get her to help me, maybe she'll get in trouble with the Clerks, too. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Shrike's not that stupid," Bilal said. He took the last of Spyder's tequila and swallowed it, glass and all. "Still, she likes them pretty and dumb. You might drag her down to your level." Bilal spat broken glass onto the ground at Spyder's feet. "She's got a room at the Coma Gardens. It's a flophouse down by Pier 31."

"I've never heard of it."

"It's not for your kind."

"Right. Thanks."

"Go to Hell."

Rubi asked Spyder if he wanted another drink. He shook his head. "You okay?" she asked. "You've been here muttering to yourself all night."

"Just replaying that last fight with Jenny. I keep trying it different ways hoping it comes out right."

"You poor thing," said Rubi.

"I've seen you in here a hundred times before. I've stolen your drinks and I've spit in them. But you've never seen me," Bilal said to Spyder. "How does it feel to suddenly have to live in the real world?"

"It's the worst thing that ever happened to me."

"Good." All of the demon's mouths smiled. "I've been around and I can tell the ones who are going to make it once they get the Sight and you're not one of them. You'll be dead by Christmas. A bullet. Maybe you'll cut your wrists. I don't see you as the hanging type."

"I'm going to kill myself just because I see uglies like you? Not likely, princess."

"No, you're going to kill yourself because you can't stand the real world. Reality is a two-ton weight strapped to your balls. And they just keep getting heavier."

"I'm going back to ignoring you now."

"I've seen it a hundred times. You're changed and there's no going back. And everyone knows it. Look around. All those pretty girls who used to flirt with you, your friend behind the bar, they're all watching you having a nice chat with an empty barstool. They're already starting to wonder about you. Tomorrow they'll tell their friends. Maybe I can't hurt you, but I have friends who can influence mortal minds. Reinforce the doubt that's already there. By Monday, you're going to be Charles Manson to these people," said Bilal. "Yeah, you're going to kill yourself."

"Tell me something, when you jerk off, do those little lizards on your hands bite? I bet you like that."

"And then there are the Clerks. They've claimed you and you know what that means. They're going to pick you apart like a maggot-covered carcass. Could you feel them slicing you up with their eyes, deciding what piece they'll take first?"

Nick Cave's "Red Right Hand" came on the jukebox. A girl whooped drunkenly and Rubi turned the song up loud.

"I take it back. You won't make it till Christmas," said Bilal. "You won't even make it to Halloween."

"Get a costume and come on over. I'll put razor blades in some apples for you. Enough for all your mouths."

Bilal leaned over the bar and used the lizard mouths on his fingertips to spear some cherries from Rubi's drink set-ups. The demon popped the cherries into his face-mouth one at a time. "Give Shrike a big kiss from me. She'll be so happy to see you, little prince."

Spyder got up from his stool and started for the door. He couldn't help noticing that people were pointedly getting out of his way. At the door Spyder heard Bilal yell, "An OD! You're going to OD! How could I have missed that?"

Eleven

The Voice of the Sphinx

Spyder wondered what time it was. He was in another cab and doing his best to ignore the chatty driver. It pained Spyder that he hadn't ridden his bike that morning. Without the bike, he always felt tied up and weighed down.

Ever since he could ride, Spyder had always had a motorcycle of some kind. "You never know when you're going to need to get the hell out of Dodge," he told friends. "And you can only run so far in a cab." He told the driver to pull over.

"This ain't even near the piers," said the cabbie.

"I feel like walking." Spyder paid the man and got out. He checked out the landscape as the cab made a U turn and headed back the way they'd come. Spyder had lived in San Francisco for ten years and during a brief breaking-and-entering period in his early twenties, had prided himself on knowing every backstreet, alley and bypass in the city. Right now, however, he didn't know where the hell he was.

Ahead of him, where he was certain the waterfront warehouses should lead to the Fisherman's Wharf tourist traps, were well-trodden sand dunes sloped down to San Francisco Bay. A lot of the city had been built on reclaimed beach. This, he was certain, was what the waterfront probably looked like a couple of hundred years ago. Spyder's reflexes told him that ahead, past the dunes, was where the piers lay. But his eyes told him that there was nothing but shifting beach and black water. Then he saw a flicker-an orange light from the far side of the shifting sands. In that moment of illumination, Spyder could see a line of silhouettes moving along the edge of the dunes, heading over them. Some of the silhouettes carried burdens on their backs. Others were merely misshapen. It was enough. Spyder's started walking.

At the top of the last big dune Spyder looked down onto a maze of market stalls that sprawled down to the water's edge. As he got closer, sounds and smells hit him: the screams of hawkers, a dozen different musics pouring from out-of-tune instruments and cracked speakers, the heavy smell of roasting meat, spices and creosote. There were toys and piles of mismatched shoes, fresh vegetables, dried chameleons and flowers that sighed when you smelled them. There were orreries and telescopes, cracked eyeglasses and black eggs that hatched kittens who (according to their seller) spoke perfect ecclesiastical Latin. Sellers tugged at Spyder's arm and waved squirming things, glittering things and mechanical things at him.

By a stall selling decomposing medical books and sex toys made of black lacquer and amber (some with ominous-looking beetles sealed inside) Spyder bumped shoulders with a tall, handsome man.

"Sorry," said Spyder. "My fault."

"You should watch your step, little brother," said the big man. "Not everyone in the market is as reasonable as I. Some are downright belligerent." The man's voice sounded the way black velvet looked and felt. Spyder wondered if it might be some kind of magic trick. Not that he actually believed in magic, but he was beyond ruling out that much anymore.

Though they were physically the opposite, the tall man reminded Spyder of Shrike. He held himself with the kind of grace that Spyder had seen in the swordswoman. But the man was huge, more than a head taller than Spyder. His face, while classically handsome, was marked with deep scars that, at first, Spyder thought might be ritual, but then decided were some terrible accident. Chainmail covered the man's upper body and he wore pants that seemed to Spyder like modified motorcycle leathers. Metal plates and studs had been affixed along the legs, which were tucked into heavy steel-toed boots. At his side, the man wore a wide-bladed Kan Dao sword like ones Spyder had seen in maybe a thousand kung fu movies.

"Do I know you, little brother?" asked the big man.

"I don't think so," said Spyder. "I'm new here."

"Still, you seem familiar."

"I've got one of those faces."

"Perhaps that's it."

The tall man picked up a particularly elaborate sex toy from the stall and shook it. Six little legs sprang from the bottom and some kind of spring-wound plunger popped from the top and began pumping the air vigorously. The little legs kicked as if looking for something to grab on to. When the tall man laughed at the thing, Spyder noticed that color on his face was unnaturally intense. He realized that the man was wearing makeup, trying to cover his scars. The sudden insight made Spyder feel oddly more at home. Even here, down the rabbit hole or wherever the hell he'd ended up, people still had egos and still worried about how they looked.

"I'm looking for a place called the Coma Gardens. Do you know it?" Spyder asked the man.

"Very well," he replied. "Go down this aisle and turn toward the water at the Sphinx. Be sure not to speak to her. She will never let you go. Keep walking and when you see the Volt Eater, the Coma Gardens lie just beyond. You can't miss it."

"Thanks," said Spyder, desperately wanting to ask what the hell a Sphinx and a Volt Eater were, but thinking the better of it. He knew he'd find out soon enough.

He wasn't disappointed. Following the crowd in the direction the tall man had pointed, Spyder saw a Sphinx. A living, breathing Sphinx, like the sculptures in Golden Gate Park. The Sphinx sat up on its haunches, its lion body acorn brown, muscled and sleek as a cruise missile. Gathered around the Sphinx was a rapt crowd. They were clearly in awe, maybe hypnotized, thought Spyder. The Sphinx's face-the face of a human woman-was easily the most beautiful he had ever seen. Spyder looked away when he caught himself staring, but the Sphinx had already noticed him.

"Don't be shy, my friend. Come closer. I can answer all your questions and tell you your destiny."

Spyder half-turned in her direction. "Nope. Sorry. No thanks," he said.

The Sphinx's eyes narrowed with sudden interest and the crowd turned to see who she was looking at. "Yes, you should keep moving," she said to Spyder. "Don't let anything or anyone stop you from getting where you're going." Lowering her voice, the Sphinx spoke to her adoring crowd. Spyder slowed his gait, listening to her words. "See what passes, my children. A blind fool. A golden champion. What could he be seeking under Heaven's rough gaze? We have a mystery in our midst." When Spyder turned to sneak a last look at the Sphinx, she was staring him right in the eye. The beautiful beast gave him a smile and a wink. "It looks as if heroes are coming smaller this year."

Spyder's head spun. He turned away and hurried down the aisle. At the end, he found what he figured must be the Volt Eater. An exotic bare-breasted beauty, her skin oiled and gleaming, she was inhaling in long draughts from a wrist-thick cable attached to a gas-powered generator. After each breath, she spat lighting bolts, snaking and crackling, over the heads of the happily screaming crowd. People threw money at the Volt Eater's feet after each demonstration of her electric skills. It made Spyder a little sad to see her. On any other night, she would have been the hands-down highlight. He would have been in temporary love and dreamed about her as he went home with whomever he was with that night. Tonight, however, the Volt Eater was just a pretty girl spitting watts, no more or less miraculous than Bible-quoting kittens or the lion-woman who'd just pronounced him both a fool and a hero.

Just when Spyder thought he would never be surprised again, he came to the edge of the market and saw the Coma Gardens. Bathed in light the color of blood and pumpkins, the whole building was engulfed in a spectacular fire. Part of the roof collapsed and flames shot fifty feet into the night sky. The only thing more shocking than the fire was the fact that no one in the market was paying the slightest attention to it. They went on with their selling and haggling even as the whole structure cracked and caved in on itself.

Twelve

Cyanide Recall

The Coma Gardens kept on burning. The beams glowed as if they'd been injected with magma, shedding hot jets of flame and debris over the sales stalls. Spyder walked along the cement broadway between the market and burning hotel, unsure what to do.

If Jenny hadn't taken the cell phone, Spyder thought, he could call 911. Of course, he wasn't sure exactly where he was. Still, all he'd have to tell them is that there was a burning building on the pier. The fire trucks would be able to see it from all the way down at Fisherman's Wharf. In fact, someone had probably already called the fire in, which was both good and bad. It was good in that the fire department would put it out. It was bad in that it brought Spyder back to the fact that he had no idea what he would do if Shrike was inside the burning building. He didn't want to think about it. Spyder turned around one more time to see if anyone in the market was forming a bucket brigade. The market went on as it had all evening-oblivious, a world unto itself.

Then Spyder saw someone at the edge of the crowd. She was talking to a man wearing an enormous, jeweled bird mask, one that covered his entire head (or actually was his head, Spyder later thought). The woman wore her shades, and moved her white cane from one hand to the other so she could shake the birdman's feathered mitt. Spyder ran to her through the smoke of the smoldering Coma Gardens.

"Shrike!" he yelled. The woman turned her head toward him as the birdman walked away. Spyder ran up and grabbed her happily by the shoulders. "It's me, Spyder. You saved my life the other night."

The blind woman gave him a crooked smile. "Oh yes. The pretty pony boy. How are you?"

"I'm:" He started to answer, but realized he had no idea what to say. He felt giddy at having found her, but there was the accumulating wreckage of the rest of his life. "I'm fine," he said. "I can see things now. The real world. That's how I found the market. And you."

"Good for you," she said. "Maybe you're more clever than I thought. A trick pony. Me, I'm off to find new lodgings."

"I can see why," said Spyder.

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? Look! Your hotel is an in-fucking-ferno."

"No, it's not. I would be able to feel the heat."

"Of course it is. I can see it burning from here."

"Really? Because the Coma Gardens isn't going to be built for another fifty years," she said. "And it's not going to burn for another twenty after that."

"Then how were you staying in there?"

Shrike breathed deeply and nodded. "You can see things now. And it's all brand new and you don't know what to think of it, do you? Take a walk with me." Shrike reached out and took one of his hands and led him through the crowded market, swinging her white cane gently in front of her feet. The effect of that cane was less that of a blind person feeling her way along than her warning people that she was coming, Spyder thought. Everyone and everything got out of her way.

"People are afraid of you," said Spyder when they reached a less crowded part of the market.

"They're afraid of rumors and tall tales. And I let them be afraid. It makes my job easier."

"What is your job?"

Shrike sniffed the air as they passed a perfumer's stall. "Smell that? Raw ambergris. There's nothing else that smells like that. It's one of those magical substances that makes everyone-humans, demons, angels, ghosts and your little dog Toto-all swoon. There are merchants whose entire trade is delivering ambergris to the markets in Purgatory."

"A couple of days ago, I would have considered that a very odd thing to say."

Shrike nodded. "Yes. Your little vision problem," she said. "First of all, that burning hotel you saw: I'm sure by now you've noticed that the world is a much more flexible place than you're used to. Time isn't the same everywhere you go. And space can change depending on what time it is. Understand?"

"Hello. My name is Spyder and I'm five years old. Have you seen my mommy?"

Shrike smiled and looped her arm around his. Spyder liked how she felt. "Listen," she said, "the waterfront is one of the places where the edges of all the Spheres, the planes of existence in which we live, meet. It's why the market's here. I was able to stay at a hotel that hasn't been built yet in this Sphere of existence because it's already been built in another Sphere. Unfortunately, time being a slippery and relative thing here, the hotel has already burned down in another Sphere. That's what you saw. For me, though, it hadn't burned down. I was booted for an exorcism trade show."

"You went into the future, but you went into the wrong future?"

"Close enough. I was already in the future and the future I didn't want, the one with exorcists in party hats, drifted close enough to make my room reservation disappear. I have to find another place to sleep."

"You can crash at my place," Spyder said.

"No, thanks."

"I'm not coming on to you. My girlfriend's moved out. There's plenty of room."

Shrike removed her arm from his and leaned over to retie one of her boots. "I'm sorry about your girlfriend, but my client isn't expecting to find me in some cozy Victorian flat. Don't take it personally. This is a work-related rejection."

"What the hell is that?" said Spyder. They were at the back of the market, walking back in the direction Spyder had come earlier that night. San Francisco was white and chilly with fog. Looming out of the mist exactly where it shouldn't be was a gigantic stone archway sporting Roman columns. On top was a tarnished copper chariot being pulled by four enormous horses. Shrike sniffed the air, turning her head this way and that.

"It smells like Berlin," she said. "Near the Brandenburg Gate."

"Berlin? Like, the real Berlin?" asked Spyder. "I always wanted to go there."

"Here's another secret for your scrapbook. There is no difference between San Francisco and Berlin. In all the world, there is only one city. Because of how mortals perceive things, the one city appears as different cities, broken up and scattered all over the globe. But if you know the right doors to open, the right turns to make, the right tunnels and rocks to look behind, even mortals can find their way from one city to every other city. There are maps and trackers, ancient, hidden smuggling routes that only a few in the thieving guilds know."

"That's supposed to make me feel better? I almost had enough frequent flyer miles to take Jenny to Prague. Now, she's gone and we could have walked there all along." Spyder stood in the quiet beyond the market, looking up at the gate. When he looked down again, mist was beading on his jacket and he was growing cold. "I can't do this," he said. "I need help. Can you put me back the way I was?"

"I'm sorry. I can't."

"Can anyone?"

"Maybe."

It might have been better if that thing had gutted me at the club, Spyder thought. He said, "Why did you help me the other night?"

"I don't know. I just had to. You were so clueless."

"Why can't you help me now?"

"I'm on my way to meet a client."

"You didn't answer me when I asked you earlier. What exactly do you do?"

"You've seen what I do. I kill things," Shrike said. "People. Beasts. Demons. Whatever a client wants dead."

"The Black Clerks?"

"No one kills the Black Clerks. They're elemental forces. Killing them is like trying to kill wind or light. Why do you want to know?"

Spyder pushed up his jacket sleeve and put her hand on the scar on his arm.

"Damn," she said. "By the pike, you're a fool."

"There's nothing to be done about this?"

"Not by me. When they come for you, offer the Clerks a better deal."

"I could offer them you."

Shrike moved close to Spyder. She smelled of musk and jasmine. She whispered in his ear. "If I didn't know you were such a fool that remark could cost you your head."

"I'm sorry," said Spyder backing away from her. "I'm falling apart. I would never do something like that."

"I know that. I have a pretty good nose for treachery and dangerous folk."

"Where do I fit on the danger scale? Say that one is a pretty little butterfly and ten is the thing that beat me like a two-dollar drum the other night."

Shrike thought for a moment, then reached into the pocket of her coat. "I don't know exactly what you call one of these. It was a present from my niece." She held out a blue plastic rabbit that fit snuggly in the palm of her hand. Shrike wound the rabbit up with a silver key in its side and the toy started to vibrate while a little bell jangled inside. "I suppose this could get stuck in an enemy's throat and choke him, so it's a one. You're a bit bigger and a little smarter, though. I rate around a two." The toy wound down and Shrike dropped it back into her pocket.

"You're Death Valley. You know that? Beautiful, but harsh," said Spyder. He sat down on a sand dune and Shrike sat beside him. "I never got to ask, if you're blind how did you kill that demon?"

"I've trained for this all my life. My father taught me. Then a friend, before he turned out to be exactly the bastard I'd been told he was. Besides," she said, "there's blind and there's blind."

"What does that mean?"

"Just what I said."

"My head is spinning. I have this magic juju sight and've seen such demented shit in the last twenty-four hours. I wouldn't mind being blind for a while."

"It's not really magic sight, you know," Shrike said.

"Then what is it?"

"Memory," she replied. "When that demon had you, some part of it-saliva, a fragment of tooth, a fingernail-infected your blood. Everything you're seeing now you've seen all your life only you've chosen to forget it an instant later. If you remembered anything of this part of the world, it was in your dreams and nightmares." Shrike pulled up Spyder and started walking. "Don't feel bad. Forgetting is the way it is with almost every living thing in this Sphere. But now you can't look away and you can't forget."

"Poisoned with memory. And you can't help me."

"That's right."

"Can you at least point the way back to civilization?"

Shrike pointed back at the market with her cane. "Follow the stalls to the right until you come to a cafe in an old railroad car. You'll see streetcar tracks just beyond. Follow them along the waterfront and they'll take you all the way to more familiar territory."

"Thanks," said Spyder. "Good luck with your client."

"Take care. You know, I forgot to ask you. Are you Spider Clan?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Which is probably the perfect way for us to say goodbye."

"Take care, pony boy."

Spyder walked slowly back to the market, following the route Shrike had described to him. He passed horse traders and what looked like a kind of sidewalk surgery, with a hand-lettered cardboard sign describing procedures, from amputations to nose jobs, along with prices. Spyder found the train car cafe a few minutes later. He was colder now. His body ached from his injuries and his shoulders were knotted with tension. Somewhere in the dim back of his brain he knew he should be worried about the Clerks and what he was going to do with Lulu and how he was going to open up the shop tomorrow, but none of it got through the fog of exhaustion that was narrowing the universe to thoughts of walking and sleep.

At the edge of the market, by the last big dune, some teenagers were juggling fire without moving their hands. They stared silently and the balls of flame moved through the air all by themselves. Spyder started walking up the dune, when he heard someone call his name.

"Spyder, are you there? It's me!"

He turned and saw Shrike running after him through the sand.

"I'm here," he said quietly, and she hurried toward his voice, to the base of the dune.

"I've been thinking about it and I have a proposition for you," Shrike said, a little out of breath. "This client I'm meeting, she's expecting me to have a partner. But my partner isn't here. Stand in for him and I'll pay you."

"My rent's covered. I want my life back."

"I can't give you that. But some of the people I work with have power. If this client is who I think it is, she might be able to help you."

"Might?"

"It's the best I can do."

"What would I be? Your bodyguard? Your windup rabbit?"

"Your job will be to stand next to me and say absolutely nothing," said Shrike. "I'll do all the talking."

"I'm a mute?"

"People interpret silence as strength. In your case, the less you say, the better you get. I need you to look more dangerous than you really are."

"And maybe she can help me."

"No guarantees."

Spyder walked down the dune to where Shrike was waiting. He stood a little above her in the sand. "I'll help you get your bags from the hotel," he said.

"That's not necessary," Shrike said. She removed a battered leather book from an inside pocket of her coat. "Everything I need is right here." She opened it and little paper shapes stood up from the pages. Horses. Swords. Things that might have been exotic fruits or vegetables. To Spyder, it looked like a kid's pop-up book.

Shrike put the book away and led Spyder over the dune in the opposite direction. "Jean-Philippe, the bird-man, told me about a lovely deserted warehouse where we can spend the night."

"Feel that fog? We'll be ice pops by morning," said Spyder.

"Don't worry. I'll read to you," said Shrike. "A good book will always keep you warm."

Thirteen

Journey into Fear

Shrike led Spyder over the dunes toward North Beach, the old Barbary Coast, for two hundred years the traditional haunt of pirates, thieves and the kind of regular citizens who want to vanish into oblivion or into newly invented lives.

Behind an abandoned furniture warehouse under the Bay Bridge, they ducked through a hole in the hurricane fence and stomped through weeds and smashed glass to the back of the building.

Spyder, who had broken into more than his share of warehouses, spotted a smashed window near a rusting fire escape on the second floor. "Looks like we can get in through an upstairs window," he said to Shrike.

Shrike was feeling her way along the back wall of the warehouse. When she came to a door, she jiggled the knob, but the door was locked.

"Hey, there's an open window," said Spyder.

Shrike kicked in the door with her big boots. Her cane had already flicked up and transformed into a sword. She held it in striking position as she strode into the warehouse. Spyder was impressed, but kept quiet.

"Stay behind me," she whispered.

"Hear anything?"

"Rats. People. Shh."

The interior of the warehouse was a black hole decorated with a few grimed windows inlaid with chicken wire and decorated with graffiti. Shrike moved cautiously, but quickly, seemingly sensing where the trash and broken furniture lay and avoiding it. Spyder stumbled along behind her trying to keep up.

"Is it all open down here or are there any rooms?" Shrike asked him.

Spyder tried to see as deeply as possible into the dark. "I can't see much, but it looks all open down here. I think I can see some offices upstairs."

"Show me."

Spyder led Shrike upstairs and she checked all the rooms until she found one that was still locked.

"Move back," she told Spyder.

Faster than his eye could register, Shrike brought her sword arcing down and sliced the padlock off the door. The lock clattered to the floor noisily. Half of it skipped way and rattled down the stairs. Spyder heard low voices as doors leading to some of the other rooms opened.

Shrike turned toward the darkness, holding her sword at waist-level. "You're all welcome to stay here, but anyone stupid enough to come through this door will end up like that lock."

The interior of the office was dusty and littered with paper and rat turds. It looked as if it might have been a records office. Old filing cabinets stood against one wall along with a tilting, three-legged desk. Spyder had stayed in worse places, but not recently. He described the scene to Shrike, who walked from wall to wall, pacing off the room.

"Would you push the old furniture into a corner?" she asked.

When he'd dragged the rusting junk out of the way, Spyder said, "There were some old sofa cushions and maybe a futon out there. I'll go get them."

"If you want to sleep on mildewed trash, feel free. I prefer something clean."

Shrike had her pop-up book open to a page that, in the dark, looked like a scene from The Thief of Bagdad. She whispered a few words and the storage room was flooded in light and warmth.

The light came from burning braziers set at each corner of the room. The floors were covered with Persian carpets and bright pillows. There was an enormous bed against one wall and storage vessels and cabinets against the opposite. The place smelled instantly of incense and spices.

"Welcome to my home away from home," Shrike said.

"When I was five, I had a metal folding cup that I thought was the coolest thing in the world," said Spyder. "But I was wrong."

"I'm glad you like it. You're my guest. Please sit down. Are you hungry?"

"Now that you ask, yes."

Shrike dropped her coat and sword onto the big bed and went to the cabinets without hesitation. Spyder sat down on the edge of the bed watching her sure movements. Even though it was occupying an alien space, he thought, this was clearly her room.

"I've been on the road for a while, so I'm not really Suzy Homemaker these days," said Shrike, opening and closing the cabinets. She came back to the bed with a couple of bundles. "All I have is some wine and focaccia."

"The breakfast of champions," Spyder said.

"My glasses are all broken, so we're going to have to share the bottle," Shrike said.

"That's okay. It'll give me a chance to look butch for once tonight."

Shrike smiled and sliced the wax and cork from the top of the bottle with the edge of her sword, then handed the wine to Spyder. It tasted like wind felt at the top of a hill on a summer night. He handed the bottle back to Shrike. "Wow," he said.

Shrike took a long drink. "Don't forget to eat, too. Give it a chance, and this wine will leave you half-naked, shoeless and wearing a dog collar, with only a vague memory of how you got that way."

"Does the wine have a sister?"

"You wish."

Between bites of spicy focaccia Spyder said, "You're not at the Coma Gardens. How is your client going to find you?"

"Magic."

"You're not much like most girls."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

"That's how it's meant."

"Slow down on the wine, pony boy. You don't want your mouth getting too far ahead of your brain."

"How long have you been living like this? Out of your little magic book?"

"A long time. Since: Almost half my life."

"You and your business partner, the one I'm standing in for."

"He'd be the one."

"What happened to him?"

Shrike chewed with great deliberation for some time. "He was killed by assassins. Hellspawn."

"You don't ever do anything halfway, do you? It's not enough that your friend got iced. He was done in by hell's hit men."

"I didn't ask for an exciting life, believe me. I crave boredom."

"I know the feeling."

"I don't remember what seeing is like," Shrike said.

"You used to be able to see?"

"Yes. After I went blind, I could still remember things. Colors. Moonlight. My father's face. It's all gone now, though."

"When you cut that lock, I thought you were playing me. A pretty girl just pretending to be blind to look less dangerous."

"You're not the first person to think that," she said, and took off her shades. "But I really am blind."

Spyder looked at her for a long time. He wanted to be sure that what he was seeing wasn't a trick of the firelight. Shrike's eyes were fractured, like cracked glass. The misshapen pupils were ants trapped in amber. Shrike's eyes were bright, but dead.

"That can't be natural," he said.

"I was cursed."

"The bastard lover you talked about?"

She nodded. "It's a story I don't feel like telling right now." Shrike drank more wine and lay back on the bed. "I've answered enough questions for now. Tell me about you, Spyder Lee."

"I'm a Leo. I like wine and focaccia, Seventies Kraut-rock, and I dig chicks with their own swords." Spyder lay down next to Shrike and kissed her hand. She let him, he noted, but a moment later she put her hand on his chest to keep him from going any further.

"Slow down, pony boy."

"Sorry," he said. "To answer something you asked earlier, I'm not Spider Clan. Or, hell, maybe I am. My father loved cars and he loved James Dean. I'm named for the model of Porsche Dean raced. It's also the car that killed him."

Shrike laughed. "You're named for a dead man's car?"

"I think the saddest day of my father's life was when I saw my first James Dean movie and only thought it was okay."

"What did he do?"

"Nothing. We already had some problems, then he just sort of lost interest in me. He wasn't mean or anything. We just didn't ever talk much after that. I think I broke some kind of sacred bond I didn't even know was supposed to be there. It was his own fault. He took me to see Journey into Fear. The old man had James Dean, but on my planet, Orson Welles was the man."

"I've heard of him. Tell me more."

" Citizen Kane 's still the greatest movie ever. People don't even know that it's a pure special effects flick. It all looks so real, so natural. But there's also Journey into Fear. Most people haven't even heard of that one. Welles directed it, but the studio fucked him and he didn't get credit. He plays a Turkish cop. He looked ten feet tall. I wanted him to be my father and I wanted to be him at the same time." Spyder sat up and fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette. The wine had left him lightheaded, but happily so. He found half a pack of American Spirits and lit one. Shrike held out two fingers in a V shape. Spyder placed the cigarette there. She took a drag and handed it back to him.

"He was just a little older than me and had already made the greatest movie ever, and was instantly washed up," Spyder said. "I always wanted to do something like Welles."

"Be washed up at an early age?"

"No, dummy. Do something great. Something permanent. Even if it was just a new tattoo style. Something that would tag some little part of the universe so that I could say, 'I did that.' That's mine."

"And here you are, huddled in a warehouse with a blind stranger surrounded by snoring winos."

Spyder brushed stray hairs from Shrike's face. "I'm not complaining."

"What's it been, two minutes?"

"Thank you for pointing that out, princess. Okay, I told you my shameful film-geek secret. Tell me yours."

"You already guessed it. I'm a princess."

"Like with a crown or did your daddy just dote on you?"

"Both. I even had my own castle. Well, a wing of my father's. Before it all came down around us."

"Let me guess: the bastard lover?"

She nodded. "He was a general in my father's army. Unfortunately, we were in a period of prolonged peace. Without anything to conquer, some generals can grow restless. When he wasn't screwing the king's daughter, he was studying magic with the most powerful wizards he could bribe or blackmail. He studied hard enough that he became a powerful wizard himself. Powerful enough to depose my father, throw my lands into chaos and make himself king."

"Damn. He's still running things?"

"No. He went completely mad. Some of his senior officers were still sane enough to see this. They banded together and killed him, burning his body and scattering his ashes in three different oceans."

"Why didn't you go home?"

Shrike frowned. "He still has potent allies in power. And I don't even have a business partner, much less an army." Shrike held out her hand and Spyder again placed the cigarette in her fingers. She smoked quietly. "I didn't intend to tell you because I thought you'd laugh at a princess caught up in a nasty little fairy tale."

"How does the fairy tale come out?"

"The princess dies," said Shrike, handing the cigarette back to Spyder. "If the story goes on long enough, that's how they all end. It's what happens in between that matters."

"I never kissed a princess before."

"You think you're going to kiss one now?"

"Pretend I'm a ten-foot-tall Turkish cop. That's your type, right?"

Shrike laughed and when Spyder leaned down to her, she didn't pull away. Spyder felt her hand in his hair and she kissed him back hard, as if she hadn't kissed anyone in a long time and had missed it. She rolled on top of him, grinding her crotch into his as they tasted each other's mouths. Spyder slipped his hands under her shirt, sliding over smooth skin and hard muscle, to cup her small breasts. Whatever cord or clasp was holding Shrike's hair back came undone. Her hair fell in fat dreads and braids halfway down her back and brushed Spyder's cheeks. Mostly black, her hair was streaked purple, crimson, yellow and grasshopper green. Spyder rolled Shrike onto her back and pinned her hands above her head. He kissed her and ran his tongue down the side of her throat. When he bit her shoulder, her legs wrapped around him and squeezed. Spyder felt her shudder.

Shrike broke her hands free and took Spyder by the shoulders, telling him gravely, "I am a princess and I order you to take off every stitch of clothing at once."

Happy to play the diplomat, Spyder did exactly what he was told.

Later, covered in sweat, focaccia crumbs and spilled wine, Spyder kissed Shrike on the neck and said, "Tell me more about the princess biz." Shrike was curled against his side, her head tucked into his neck. "Is your kingdom somewhere I would have heard of?"

"No. It's not even in this Sphere. Where I'm from, magic runs the world. Your Sphere built the internal combustion engine. In mine, we transmuted gold into lead."

"Do you miss it?"

"I miss my home. And my father."

"Did he escape?"

"He's dead. I don't even know where he's buried."

"What about your mother?"

"My mother died when I was born. I never knew her."

"Sorry. What's the best and worst part about princessing?"

Shrike thought for a moment, running a hand idly around Spyder's nipple. "The best part was the shoes and learning to fight. The worst part was state dinners where you had to be charming with a full mouth."

"Did the princess have a horse named Princess?"

She pinched his nipple. "I didn't call my horse Princess because he wouldn't have liked it. He was a hundred shades of gray and terribly sick when he was a colt. I nursed him and when he grew strong, I named him Thunder."

"Thunder is just the boy version of Princess."

Shrike bit his ear.

"Why was your partner murdered?" asked Spyder.

"I don't know."

"Was it for someone you two killed?"

"Maybe."

"Does it have something to do with this new client?"

"I honestly don't know. But, yes, it could."

"Peachy," said Spyder. "By the way, when this is all over, can I tattoo my name on your ass, princess?"

"Kiss me and I'll think about it."

Fourteen

What Are Little Boys Made Of?

In Spyder's dreams, a man was flicking lit matches at him. The little flames arced out of the dark and hit him in the face, the arms and the chest. All around him was machinery.

Age-grimed engines the size of skyscrapers blasted flames and blue-black smoke into a dingy green sky. A forest of enormous furnaces lay ahead of him and wretched workers (twisted limbs and curved spines, as if their backs had all been broken and not allowed to heal properly) shoveled pale things into the flames. When his eyes adjusted to the light, Spyder saw that the slaves (there was no other word to describe their condition) were shoveling whole corpses into the fire pits. Where there were no corpses, there were piles of desiccated limbs or putrid mountains of human fat. The crippled workers shoveled each of these into the furnaces as diligently as the corpse stokers.

The man was flicking matches again. "You're a fool," he said to Spyder. "A lost puppy. A sparrow with a broken wing, trapped on an anthill. A little boy who's fallen down a well. It's enough to make a good man cry."

"Who are you?" asked Spyder.

"What's the opposite of a good man?" asked the stranger. Spyder could see him better now. He looked like one of the Black Clerks, but his movements were more fluid. "We have three brains, you know. A reptile brain wrapped in a mammal brain wrapped in a human brain. We're all three people in one body. Which do you want to answer your question?"

"Where am I?"

"The dark side of the moon. Over the rainbow. Under the hill." The next match struck Spyder in the eye and he flinched. "But it's never too late to go back home."

"I want to. I want to go home."

"Liar," said the man. "You want to play." He rushed at Spyder, his broken black teeth bared in fury. He was one of the Black Clerks. Or what Spyder would look like if he were a Black Clerk. The man's skin was held loosely in place by hooks, leather straps and brass clasps. He pulled off his face to reveal some pitiful thing beneath, a blackened stick figure that smelled of roses and shit, leaking an oily yellow dew from every orifice.

"Let's see what's under your mask, little boy," said the Clerk Spyder and he dug his spiky, broken nails into Spyder's face, ripping away chunks of flesh and muscle. "What are little boys made of? Meat and tears and bones and fear, that's what little boys are made of!"

Spyder awoke with a stifled scream.

Sitting on a small, child-size chair that looked like it was intended more as a decoration than a functional piece of furniture was a pale, small man in a brown suit at least two sizes too small for him.

"Who are you?" asked Spyder, hoping he wasn't about to start the whole dream over again.

The man stood up and made a small, stiff bow. "I am Primo Kosinski. I have been sent to fetch the Butcher Bird to Madame Cinders' home."

Spyder shook Shrike, then realized she was already awake and playing possum. "I heard him come in," she said. "I just wanted a little more sleep."

"I am to bring you to Madame Cinders at your earliest convenience." The words rushed out of the little man's mouth in a high, breathy voice.

"We heard you the first time," Shrike said. She snuggled closer to Spyder. "I'm not a morning person."

"It's afternoon, ma'am."

"Damn," she said. "All right."

The little man remained standing as Spyder crawled out of bed and began to look for his clothes. Primo's attention was anxious and unnerving. Like what a herd dog must make a sheep feel like, Spyder thought. "Would you sit the hell down and relax?" asked Spyder.

"Certainly." Primo sat, but it didn't help much. He perched on the edge of the little chair, his attention as keen as ever. "And close your eyes while she dresses," Spyder added. The little man closed his eyes and covered them with his hands.

"I don't care," said Shrike. "It's not like there's anything here worth lusting after right now." Spyder knew how she felt. Whatever kind of wine they'd been drinking, it left him lightheaded, clumsy and oddly forgetful. Even when he found his clothes, it took him a few minutes to decide that they were his. It was some small consolation that Shrike, too, was moving slowly and painfully. The wine had kicked her ass, too. Good, he thought. At least we're starting out the day even.

"How far is it to Madame's?" Shrike asked.

"From here, perhaps three hours," said Primo, his voice muffled by his hands. "There is a boat and then the Blegeld Passage."

"You've arranged transport through the passage?"

"Yes, ma'am. A very agreeable tuk-tuk. Very luxurious."

"There's no such thing as a luxurious tuk-tuk," said Shrike, pulling on her boots.

"Yes, ma'am."

The day was starting slow, but all right, thought Spyder. He remembered that Shrike had not wanted him to speak much. That request was working out fine since, once again, he didn't know what she and Primo were talking about other than they were all going somewhere and, happily, using a boat for part of the journey. At least he'd recognize something.

When they'd dressed, Shrike ordered both Primo and Spyder out of the room. She stood in the doorway with the little book open flat on her hands and said a few words. As Shrike slapped the book closed, the bed and carpets were gone and the room was back to its original dingy state. Even the dust hadn't been disturbed. Shrike tucked her cane under her elbow and took Spyder's arm. "Lead us to the boat, Primo."

"This way, please, ma'am." He hurried down the steps ahead of them as Spyder walked down with Shrike. Spyder couldn't tell if she was walking slowly because of the hangover or because she wanted to appear relaxed and indifferent to their journey. In any case, it was pleasant to have her on his arm again. Though all through the walk, Spyder felt as if he were floating beside his body watching himself. He was so out of it, in fact, that Primo was handing them the boat tickets before he realized they were back at the ocean, on the edge of Fisherman's Wharf.

"These are tickets for the tour boat to Alcatraz," said Spyder.

"Yes, sir. You're very observant," said Primo brightly.

Spyder let it go since another thought had popped into his mind. "We're going to get in line for the boat. Please give us a moment alone, Primo."

"What the hell are you doing?" asked Shrike as Spyder pulled her away from the little man and toward their gate on the dock. "It's dangerous for us to be alone like this. He might think we're plotting against Madame Cinders."

"That wine we had last night. What was in it?" asked Spyder.

"Grapes. Spices. I don't know all the ingredients."

"Was it some kind of magic wine?"

"No. Not magic."

"Then chemical. My mind keeps floating and my memory feels like it's been pissed all over. And don't tell me this is normal for a hangover because I've had about a million, none like this."

"It's a special wine," said Shrike. "I didn't know you well last night. If it had gone badly I would have let you drink a little more. I would have had more, too. Then we would have both forgotten. That's all. It's just something I keep around for passing situations that might turn sour. No one needs that kind of thing cluttering up their head. You understand, don't you, pony boy?"

"Passing and sour, you know how to make morning-after sweet talk, don't you?"

"I didn't let you forget it all. I didn't forget, either. And it turned out to be better than passing. Kind of nice. If you could remember, you'd know that I stopped you from drinking too much."

"If I could remember," said Spyder.

"Don't worry," said Shrike. "When we do it again, I'll make sure it's memorable."

"When we do it again? You've got it all figured out."

"I'm a girl with her own sword. That's your type." Then she added quickly. "Don't kiss me now. Primo will be watching. Wave him over. Be careful from here on. No smiles and no talking. You're the quiet, deadly type."

"Easy for you to say. You don't have a hard-on."

"Shh!"

Fifteen