Butcher Bird

  Of course, while the creatures of the outer Spheres no longer thought of humans as vermin, they didn’t really want to live next door to one, either.

  SEVENTEEN

  CANNIBAL ORCHIDS

  They emerged from the tunnel into what looked and felt like noon light. After the darkness and relative quiet of the subterranean passages, the city was overwhelming.

  The first thing that hit Spyder was the heat, then the din of car horns and the heavy reek of exhaust fumes. They had emerged from a storage room in the back of a small open-air café where bearded men in long white garments sipped mint tea and smoked unfiltered Winstons.

  Spyder had a hard time focusing on individual objects in the dazzling light. Shrike looped her arm through his and they followed Primo through narrow, unfamiliar back streets that smelled equally of raw sewage and cumin. Shielding his eyes with his free hand, Spyder was able to focus better and realized that the reason he couldn’t read the signs on the shops was that they weren’t in English, or even Roman letters.

  “Where are we?” he asked, knowing it violated his promise not to speak, but not caring.

  “Alexandria,” said Primo. “The Medina. The old city.”

  “How far are we from Madame Cinders’?” asked Shrike.

  “Very close. Just a few blocks, ma’am.”

  Spyder had always wanted to go to Egypt, though he’d always imagined going there by a more conventional means. Still, he told himself, he was there with a cute girl on his arm and a guide who knew his way around. For being utterly lost and nearly crazy from confusion and fear, it could have been worse.

  They turned a corner and were surrounded by the ruins of a burial and temple complex that looked as if it were left over from the time of the Pharaohs. Sandstone blocks the size of SUVs lay at odd angles amidst a litter of columns and statues of animal-headed gods. Silent children watched them from the tops of the shattered temples. Whole families were living in the necropolis, Spyder realized, though he couldn’t say if they were from his time, some antediluvian past or some weird future. The temple inhabitants wore stiff, bulky robes the colors of the stones they walked on. In their odd garments, they looked almost like living stones themselves. The men were butchering the carcass of some large buffalo-like animal and dragging bloody slabs of it off to their families.

  Just past the necropolis was an old walled fortress. Over the outer wall, Spyder could just see the top of a golden onion dome and a tall minaret. Primo picked up his pace, breaking into a stiff-legged trot that made him look like an oversize windup toy. Even though it hadn’t been more than an hour or so since the fight in the tunnel, Spyder was having a hard time picturing Primo as a killer. Which might have been the little man’s greatest strength, he thought. He looked at Shrike. She was lean and exuded confidence, but if he hadn’t seen her in action with her sword he wouldn’t have imagined her strength, either.

  As Primo worked the stiff lock on the gates of the fortress, Spyder shielded his eyes from the sun. Frowning to himself, he remembered his first tattoo: barbed wire around his neck. It was a traditional prison tat. Spyder had told people that the tat was a memorial to his friend Gus who had died in the San Luis Obispo county jail in a fight with a member of a rival bike gang. And that was half true. It had genuinely broken Spyder up when Gus died during what should have been nothing more than a weekend in the drunk tank. But Spyder knew enough about tattoos to know how people would back off when they saw what they thought was a symbol of his having survived serious jail time. Thinking about it now, in the company of two genuine killers who looked anything but dangerous, Spyder saw much of his early ink less as a tribute to the art and more to his own neuroses. He wore his fear on his skin for everyone to see.

  Spyder had avoided thoughts like these his whole life and, as Primo wrestled the gates of the fortress open, they came down on him hard. Fear and covering up fear had probably been his primary motivator since childhood. Oddly, now that he had real monsters to deal with and not just the neurotic shadows that he’d dragged with him from childhood, none of it was as bad as he’d imagined it would be. Maybe because he wasn’t alone. Shrike’s arm was solid against him. If he wasn’t really brave, maybe he could watch her and learn to act bravely. A line he used more than once to sell tattoos to uncertain customers popped into his head: “Sometimes changing the outside is the first step to changing the inside.”

  Beyond the wall, the fortress was another world. Olive and orange trees lined the inside of the courtyard, providing shade and cooling the air to bearable levels. A fountain filled the air with the pleasant sound of running water and a tile walkway pointed the way into the main domed building. Primo ushered Shrike and Spyder inside to an opulent room of cushions and low, inlaid tables on a polished teakwood floor. Primo gestured for them to make themselves comfortable by a table piled high with fresh fruit and bottled water. When they were seated, Spyder put Shrike’s hand on the fruit and she eagerly took a fig from the pile. Spyder peeled an orange and said, “I could get used to this.”

  “It’s very nice,” replied Shrike. “It’s also for our benefit. Letting us know that she can take care of us.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “It’s very nice when you’re on good terms. It’s also a way of letting us know that her wealth and power can hurt us if things go badly.”

  “You’re getting a lot more from that fig than I’m getting from this orange.”

  “Keep quiet. There are people listening.”

  “Where?”

  Shrike inclined her head to a grating set into the wall. Spyder looked and saw numerous pairs of eyes staring at him through the wooden latticework. As soon as he focused on them, the eyes were gone. He crawled over the cushions and looked through. Beyond the wall was a large, formal room. Serving girls and white-clad boys were cleaning the place and taking great pains not to look in Spyder’s direction.

  “She’ll see you now.” It was Primo, down at the far end of the chamber. Spyder gave Shrike his arm and they followed the little man down a long, cool passageway past dozens of rooms, out the back and into a sprawling Victorian greenhouse. The glass walls and roof were white with steam. Inside, it was like a sauna. Spyder was immediately drenched in sweat. Primo led them deep into a thick internal jungle filled with tropical plants whose thorns and poison sap tugged at their clothes.

  They entered a wet crystal-walled room filled with orchids of every imaginable size and color. Servants were gently tending the flowers with potions and fertilizers. Using a silver scoop, a young boy tossed ground meat into the soil. The orchids bent gracefully and used their fleshy blossoms to gather up the bloody scraps. Those that couldn’t reach the meat ripped the petals from nearby flowers. The place smelled like a cross between a department store perfume counter and a slaughterhouse.

  Spyder felt Shrike stiffen and when he looked, Madame Cinders was being rolled into the greenhouse in a gilded wheelchair, as elaborately decorated as any Louis XIV throne. Attached to the wheelchair was an intricate pump system tied to an intravenous tube that slid under the rich folds of Madame Cinders’ sky blue hijab. The woman’s face was entirely hidden by the headdress. There was only an oval-shaped grid across her eyes, and through it, Spyder could see nothing but darkness.

  Primo walked into the center of the room and stood straight, striking an awkwardly formal pose. “This is the mistress of this house, the Last Daughter of the Moon, the protector and destroyer of Ail-Brasil, Madame Cinders. She will ask you a series of questions. You will answer these to the best of your ability. You are not permitted to question Madame Cinders at this time. If Madame decides to avail herself of your services, then questions may be asked in a less formal setting. Do you understand all these points?”

  Shrike stepped toward Primo’s voice. Spyder let her and stood where he was, nervous, but careful not to show any emotion. He simply frowned.

  “We understand,” said Shrike.

  Primo rubbed his hands nervo
usly and looked at Shrike and Spyder. “There is, um, one more stipulation,” he said, and reached behind an enormous elephant ear plant to pull a hidden lever set into the floor. Gears ground beneath their feet. Pistons hissed and pulleys clanked into action. From the ceiling, a gigantic metal flower lowered itself and opened slowly, like a blossom in the morning sun, to reveal dozens of serrated blades, each longer than Spyder was tall.

  “Because of the delicate nature of this commission, if your services are not needed you will not, um, be permitted to leave. Madame Cinders regrets any inconvenience this may cause you.”

  Spyder shifted his gaze to Shrike. She hadn’t moved, so he mimicked her indifference.

  “We’re ready,” Shrike said.

  Primo went and stood beside Madame Cinders’ wheelchair. The old woman hadn’t budged since her entrance. When her voice came, it filled the room, surprisingly strong, deep and clear.

  “What is your name, child?” She was addressing Shrike. Spyder looked at her.

  “I am Alizarin Katya Ryu.” She gave the old woman the slightest of bows.

  “Is that your only name?”

  “I’m sometimes called Blind Shrike,” she said. “Sometimes Butcher Bird.”

  “Why do you carry the name of a harmless little hatchling?”

  “The shrike is a hunter, Madame, though a diminutive one. So am I. The shrike skewers its prey on thorns and continues to hunt. Like the shrike, I hunt until the hunt is over. The name was given to me by those who’ve seen my skill.”

  “You’re an assassin, child?”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “But you are also a thief.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Did you not eat my figs without asking? That’s thievery.”

  “We were led to food and drink by your servant. We assumed the fruit was for your guests,” said Shrike flatly.

  “Is it your habit to conduct your life and work based on assumptions?”

  “I use common sense. When food and drink are offered by someone asking for my service, I feel free to eat and drink. If I was wrong in this case, if I have offended you, I apologize. But do not forget, Madame Cinders, that it was you who sought out my help. If it is not wanted, then we’ll be on our way.”

  “You have a temper, child.”

  “Not temper. I simply dislike wasting time, yours or mine.”

  The old woman paused. Her head moved, ever so slightly. Spyder stared deeply into the blackness where he knew her eyes to be. “Your companion, does he speak?”

  “Only when he has something to say.”

  “Tell me, are you a traveler?”

  “If you are asking if I am willing to go where a patron needs me, the answer is yes.”

  “What if the destination is beyond this Sphere? Beyond every Sphere you know?”

  “I go where I’m paid to go.”

  “Will you go to Hell for me, Blind Shrike?”

  “I’m confused, Madame. I’m an assassin. What use would I be to you in a place of the dead?”

  “What indeed?” The little pump attached to Madame Cinders’ wheelchair chuffed into life. An inverted bottle of some thick purplish fluid bubbled on her IV stand. She sighed a little as the fluid drained into her. “As a traveler, what can you tell me of Hell?” Madame Cinders asked.

  “It’s very far. It is a city underground, or so surrounded by mountains that it appears to be underground. There are many entrances and exits, if one knows the way. Mostly, I know that you want to avoid the place, if possible.”

  “Is that all?”

  “As I said, Madame, my concern has largely been with living, breathing adversaries.”

  “You are not doing well, child. Not well at all. Do you wish to be fed to my little flowers?”

  “The question is insulting,” said Shrike.

  The old woman was silent for a moment. Then asked, “If you were to go to Hell on my behalf and you met the great beast called Asmodai, what would you say to him?”

  “Who, Madame?”

  “No questions, please,” said Primo.

  “What would you say upon meeting the beast Asmodai?” asked Madame Cinders.

  “Good day to you, sir beast?”

  Madame Cinders shook her head wearily and turned to Primo. The little man looked at the lever that controlled the metal flower hanging over their heads.

  “I would say his name,” said Spyder. He took a step forward so that he was standing next to Shrike. Her head snapped in his direction. “If I were wearing something on my head, I would remove it and I’d say Asmodai’s name three times, once to each of his heads. Once I’ve done this, he’ll kneel down and answer all my questions truthfully.”

  “And if you met Paimon?”

  “I would only speak to him facing the northwest and never, ever look into his eyes.”

  “Better,” said Madame Cinders. “Between the two of you, I see one good hunter and one good hunter is all I need.”

  The woman made a slight, almost invisible gesture. Primo jerked the lever that controlled the metal flower. Gears ground again and the blades began to retract. Spyder, his stomach knotted with tension, relaxed. Until he heard a click. The flower stopped retracting and the blades sprang open. The metal blossom shot down at them as if fired by a cannon. Spyder couldn’t move. There was nowhere to go and he was mesmerized by the gorgeous meat grinder falling toward their heads.

  Something blurred past his eye.

  Shrike’s blade was up and out. She hadn’t struck the flower, but had wedged her sword into the central shaft around which the blades spun, jamming the mechanism. When he realized it had stopped, Spyder grabbed on to Shrike’s sword, reinforcing her hold on the flower.

  Madame Cinders’ deep rasping laugh filled the room. “Better and better,” she said. “You’ve earned the commission.” Primo pushed the lever again and the flower retracted completely, disappearing into the ceiling. By then, the old woman had gone.

  EIGHTEEN

  A WEAPON FOR OTHERS

  Primo took Spyder and Shrike from the greenhouse to Madame Cinders’ private quarters, which was located at the top of the minaret they’d seen from outside the compound.

  They climbed a stone spiral staircase that had been worn smooth over centuries of use. Spyder had no idea how Madame Cinders got up and down the tower since it didn’t seem big enough to house anything resembling an elevator. Shrike tugged on Spyder’s arm, holding him back and letting Primo get ahead of them on the stairs.

  “Since when are you an expert on demonology?” she asked. “You didn’t even believe in demons until two days ago.”

  “My daddy used to say, ‘Just because T-bones are better eating, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t know the zip code of the brisket.’”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means, that even a useless tattooist can pick up a few facts that aren’t about girls or ink,” he said. “Jenny was an anthropology major. Studying medieval Christianity. I used to read her textbooks when she was finished. You’d be surprised how hot and bothered a little demon and saint talk gets Catholic girls. I still know Hell’s floor plan, all seven Heavens and which angels rule each one.”

  “You saved us back there.”

  “That sword trick helped. Someday you’re going to have to show me how that thing goes from a cane to a blade so fast.”

  “Stay useful and I will.”

  They entered Madame Cinders’ private quarters. The room was dark, as the shutters, which were carved in traditional Muslim geometrics, were closed to keep out the heat. Enough light came through the skylights that the opulence of the room was unmistakable. The walls were hung with tapestries and dark purple velvets. The furniture, a mixture of low Middle Eastern-style pillows and benches, was mixed with elegant European pieces and upholstered in rich brocades. Delicate lamps of brass and milky glass dotted the room. Above an Empire-style desk was an oil portrait of a young woman. Her skin was creamy and pale, like liquid pearls, and
her hair long and dark. She wore a high-necked turquoise gown of a simple cut, but even in the painting it was obvious that it was of exquisite material and expertly made. In her hands, the girl held a book whose tattered cover and cracked spine indicated its great age and constant use. Spyder wondered if the girl in the picture was Madame Cinders in earlier, happier times. It was hard picturing the wheezing wreck in the wheelchair as a girl, much less a pretty one getting her portrait painted on her birthday.

  “Yes, young man,” said Madame Cinders. “A book. That is what I’ve brought you here for.”

  “You want us to steal a book, Madame?” asked Shrike.

  “The one in this painting?” Spyder asked.

  Madame Cinders shook her head, moving the fabric of her hijab slightly. Spyder realized that the awful stench back at the greenhouse wasn’t the exotic plants, but Madame Cinders herself. The heavy incense in the tower couldn’t disguise the stink of her flesh.

  “You’re right, I am rotting.”

  Spyder looked at the woman. He realized that she could read his thoughts. Or was she just picking it up from body language? He resolved to stand completely still and look directly at her.

  “Do that, if it comforts you.” Madame Cinders nodded toward Shrike. “She has no such worries, you see. Her world is black and full of secrets buried in darkness and deeper darkness. That’s why she’s so valuable to me. What’s an affliction to some, is a weapon for others.” Madame Cinders paused as her pump started up again. “I know you both have questions, but let me tell you how the girl in that portrait became the creature you see before you.