Butcher Bird (11 page)

"Why would a powerful demon need such a weapon?" asked Shrike. "What aren't you telling us?"

"Clever girl," said Madame Cinders. "You see far beyond your blindness."

"Answer the question, please."

"Apollyon is a general in Lucifer's army. He is part of a loyal faction that opposes Asmodai and the ambitious wizard. You see, Hell is in turmoil, Butcher Bird. The devil's throne is no longer secure. The wizard and his followers are sewing discontent among the other fallen angels. This mutiny has thrown the entire underworld into confusion. While it makes Hell a more dangerous place to dwell, it also makes it an easier place to enter and from which to escape. I'm asking you to be my thief in the land of the dead, but there should still be killing enough to satisfy even a Butcher Bird."

"Where is the book now?"

"Lucifer captured it and it now rests in his palace, Pandemonium."

Shrike slid the demon knife back into its scabbard. "If that book can save my father, I'll go," she said. "I accept your commission."

"Bring me back the book," said Madame Cinders. "The killing, I leave to your discretion. Slaughter armies or creep in and out like a church mouse. It doesn't matter to me. But remember this, Lucifer's ambitions are simple: He rules in Hell and wants vengeance on Heaven. There are revolutionaries in Hell whose ambitions are more like a man's, rooted in hunger and animal desire. Given the chance, they will use the book to overthrow Hell and then bring Hell to Earth. Fail to rescue the book, child, and we may all end up like your father."

"I won't fail," said Shrike. "I'll get your book and free my father. And keep Hell in its place."

"You leave tomorrow at dawn," said Madame Cinders, reversing in her wheelchair and leading them back to her quarters. "Primo will go with you. He knows your route to the Kasla Mountains, through whose highest peak Hell is accessible."

"There are things I need from the city," said Shrike.

"Go back, by all means. I've arranged a tuk-tuk for you. A more secure one, this time."

"Do you know who arranged the attack on our first ride?" asked Spyder.

"Wizards in league with the madman in Hell. Rebel angels, perhaps, knowing that I am coming for the book. I have a key forged by Lascaux imps, the greatest thieves on the mortal plane. It will open any lock, even in Hell. Come closer, child, so that I may give it to you."

Shrike went to the old woman, but instead of putting the key into her hand, Madam Cinders slid both her hand and the key into Shrike's chest. Shrike gasped and pulled away. Spyder held Shrike as she fell back. Madame Cinders' hand was empty.

"What have you done to me?" screamed Shrike, her sword up and at the old woman's throat.

"It's all right, girl. I've put the key somewhere no one can steal it. It will travel through you, with your blood. When you reach the cage where the book is housed, you will find the key again in your hand. Until then, it is safe."

"And unrecoverable, right?" spat Shrike. "This way, I can't betray you."

"Unless you fancy evisceration. And you can't live forever with that thing in your body. You must complete the task you have agreed to."

"Or she'll die," said Spyder.

"It's what we mortals do best," said Madame Cinders. "Don't fool yourself, boy. I haven't betrayed the girl. I'm merely holding her to our bargain. She's a woman and knows the difference between bargaining and treachery, something men never seem to understand."

"Fuck you, you twisted old bitch," said Spyder. Shrike laid a hand on his arm and stood up.

"She's right," Shrike said. "It's just part of bargaining and as fellow women we can, of course, trust each other." She gave Cinders a thin smile.

"You see?" said Madame Cinders. Though he couldn't see her face, Spyder knew she was smiling, showing black rotten teeth under her veil.

"And here is my last bargain," said Shrike, holding up Apollyon's knife. "When we've returned your book, if you don't deliver everything you've promised, I'll make sure this gets back to it's original owner with the name of the person who took it and where, precisely, to find her." Shrike bowed to Madame Cinders. "I promise this to you. As a woman."

Shrike turned and walked out, with Spyder following her. Primo trailed along behind, keeping his distance, clearly nervous.

Madame Cinders had been right about their transportation. A tuk-tuk, a loud, three-wheeled motorcycle that spewed black exhaust and rattled like a glorified lawnmower, was waiting for them in the tunnel. Spyder, Shrike and Primo rode in silence until they came to the wet crossroads where they'd paused earlier. Primo led them back on foot through the passages to Alcatraz. Shrike didn't say a word on the way back, but on the windy deck of the tourist boat back to San Francisco, she turned to Spyder and leaned against him. He put his arms around her and held her there. She sighed and relaxed into him.

"This is nice," Spyder said. He felt her nod. "You warm enough?"

"Yes," she said.

"I'm not going with you," Spyder blurted. "I thought I could, but I can't. I drank tequila with a demon. I talked to a sphinx. I almost got hacked into fertilizer and fed to man-eating daisies. And now I'm supposed to go to Hell. Only I'm not going. Somewhere between the alligator men and the demon knives, I hopped off this train."

"It's all right to be afraid," Shrike said. She pulled away from him. "I'm afraid, too."

"You're a killer. You've trained for this. A couple days ago, my greatest fear was leaving a message for one girl on another girl's answering machine."

"This is funny. I'd planned on ditching you after Madame Cinders offered us the job. I didn't want you to get hurt. But I don't know anything about Hell and I need your help."

"Why? So demons can use your skin to shine their boots? This isn't sneaking into the drive-in with your fuck buddies. This is putting one over on the Prince of Darkness and an army of fallen pissed-at-God-and-the-universe angels."

"You know I have to go."

"You're a cute girl, Shrike. I can say that because your intestines are still on the inside."

"I have to save my father."

"I don't save fathers. I couldn't save mine from drinking himself to death and yours looked pretty far fucking gone, too."

"You don't have to enter Hell itself. It'll take days getting to the Kasla Mountains. Tutor me. Bring your friend's books and teach me so I won't get lost in the underworld."

"That thing in a wheelchair said that if I see Hell, I'll be stranded there forever."

"You won't see it, I promise. I know this isn't your problem. I know you fell into this. But I need you now."

Spyder leaned against the rail and closed his eyes, feeling the rocking of the ship as they docked at Fisherman's Wharf.

"If you're coming, meet me at dawn. Primo will be here with our transportation. You hear me, pony boy?"

Spyder kissed Shrike on the cheek. "Good luck, Alizarin. Come back safe. And thanks for trying to help me out." He turned and walked away.

Spyder grabbed a cab at Fisherman's Wharf and took it back to his warehouse.

When the driver tried to engage him in tourist chitchat, Spyder ignored him and stared out the window. It was dusk. The sky was midnight blue and shot through with glowing stripes of salmon. Lights were coming on as they drove through North Beach. Strip clubs, punk clubs, sports bars and Italian restaurants hissed by. On the corners were groups of tourists shivering as fog came down upon them in their Alcatraz Swim Team T-shirts. Fidgety clusters of students, street kids and sailors in dress whites ran through the traffic, eager to get on to the next good time.

And there were the mutilated, sipping cappuccinos at sidewalk cafés. The beautiful Volt Eater from the night market was being ferried down Broadway on a glittering sedan chair. Outside a twenty-four-hour sex shop at Broadway and Columbus, a blue-robed angel sat atop a sacrifice pole holding a pale, bloody angel in its arms and weeping.

Spyder dug the crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. He thought of something Lulu had said when he first discovered her awful secret: "After a while, no matter how messed up it is, everything becomes normal." There's a lot of truth in that, he thought, watching the animal-shaped airships drift through the evening sky. Nothing was bothering him at that moment. With a little practice and the right drugs, he was certain that nothing would ever bother him again.

At his place, Spyder handed the driver a wad of bills and got out of the cab without waiting for change. Inside, the warehouse was cold and not all that comforting. As much as Spyder loved to travel, he was always thrilled and relieved to be back in his own comfortable, messy rooms. As he flicked on the light, however, the familiar piles of books and DVDs, the scattered clothes, felt odd and alien. He grabbed a fresh pack of cigarettes from the kitchen counter and hit the button that rolled up the big garage door that took up most of the west wall of the warehouse. Dropping onto the seat of the Dead Man's Ducati was the first thing that felt right to Spyder since leaving the boat at Fisherman's Wharf. He hit the button to lower the door and popped the clutch. Ducking at the last possible moment, Spyder cleared the weather stripping on the bottom of the door by an inch. He roared onto the 101 Freeway.

Shooting off at the first exit, Spyder headed up to Haight Street with the throttle wide open, blowing red lights and double-parked trucks the whole way. He didn't let up on the gas until he was a block from the tattoo parlor. Fog was drifting in when he rolled the bike between an SUV and a battered El Camino with NUESTRA RAZA stenciled high on the windshield.

Spyder was standing in the street before he realized that Route 666 Tattoos was gone. The area where the parlor once stood was a charred ruin cordoned off with yellow caution tape.

Spyder's mind was a complete blank as he ducked under the tape and stood where his customers had scanned the walls, looking over the flash designs. What he felt eventually was surprise. He'd only been gone a day, yet the place had burned and all the debris had been hauled away. Street people had already started a little colony of shopping carts where the back of the shop had stood. A couple of them (Men? Women? He couldn't tell in their layers of bulky coats.) stared at him while passing a bottle of Four Roses back and forth. Spyder kicked at the garbage that had begun to accumulate on the site. In the trash, he found the fried remains of one of his tattoo guns. He picked it up and weighed the thing in his hand. Dead metal. Worthless. Spyder stood up and let the tattoo gun fall back into the debris.

Jogging back to the Ducati, he gunned it to life and tore across Haight Street, up onto the sidewalk and through the caution tape into the shop, scattering trash and splinters of blackened wood. Revving the throttle, Spyder turned donuts in the debris, smoking his rear tire and scaring the winos enough to huddle together in the back. As a foot patrol cop came running into the burned shop, Spyder slammed back onto the street and away.

The light was on in Lulu's Mission District apartment. Spyder rang her bell and, when there was no answer, yelled up at her window. When that didn't work, he climbed the fence into her backyard and went across a neighbor's roof until, with a jump, he could reach the bottom of the fire escape. Spyder hauled himself up to the bottom landing and climbed the stairs to Lulu's apartment on the fourth floor.

Through the half-open window, he could see Lulu in her old orange robe, passed out on the couch. Pushing open the window the rest of the way, Spyder stepped inside. There were little packets of foil on the coffee table, along with burnt spoons, medical tubing and a syringe with a white, crusted tip. Spyder shouted angrily at Lulu.

"Wake up, asshole. Move. Look at me."

Lulu was limp, but she made a feeble attempt to push him away. Spyder knew that was a good sign. "Look at me, girl. It's Spyder. Open your eyes." He stopped shaking her for a moment when he remembered that she didn't have eyes to open. It didn't matter, she was rousing herself by then, holding on to his sleeve and pulling herself up.

"Spyder? That you?"

"Yeah, it's me. What the hell've you been doing?"

Lulu was sitting up shakily, staring in his direction with the little pieces of paper over her hollow eyes. She began to cry quietly and punched him hard in the chest. "Where you been? I thought you'd gone. Run off 'cause I'm a monster."

"You're no monster, Lulu. And I was only gone a day."

"A week!" yelled Lulu. "You've been gone a goddam week and no word at all!"

"Oh, baby." Lulu grabbed him and cried against him, holding onto his jacket like a child. "I went away to get help for us," Spyder said. "It didn't seem like a week, but we went some funny places where the clocks run different."

"They burned down the shop, Spyder."

"Who did?"

"A bunch of people. Friends!" Lulu wiped her nose on the sleeve of her robe. Spyder handed her a bloody Kleenex from the table where her works were scattered. "They were crazy. Neighbors from Haight Street. People from the Bardo Lounge. They came in saying all kinds of insane shit. You're a murderer or some shit. And, like, we kidnap kids and do things to 'em in the back. They started tearing the place up and someone had a gas can. I thought they were going to burn me, too." She was crying again. When Lulu blew her nose, Spyder saw fresh scars on her wrists. Deep and running along the inner length of her arm, the scars were dry, like ruts dug into hard-packed sand. Spyder touched the scars and Lulu laughed.

"Funny, huh? I can't even off myself. There ain't enough of me left to suicide."

While he'd been gone, Lulu had done other things to herself. She'd inserted slivers of glass and rusty nails through her skin, like parodies of her piercing jewelry. Spyder opened her robe and Lulu didn't resist. Her bare body was decorated with stingray quills and surgical needles. She'd pulled the rubber insulation off wire and laced the bare copper through her skin, ringing the shark's teeth she'd set above her bare pussy. It was mad. But Spyder had seen it before. It was anger mixed with ritual—Lulu's fury at her body and an attempt to reclaim her desiccated flesh through pain and action. Spyder closed Lulu's robe and said, "You're coming with me."