Spyder relaxed on a silk-covered fainting couch, with Shrike curled up next to him.
“That’s pretty silly,” he said. “But it’s nice to be well thought of for a change.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Lulu said, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling.
The trip was calm and slow, which was just what they needed, Spyder thought. He and Shrike sneaked into the unoccupied rooms in their part of the ship and made love as often as they could. At other times, Shrike went up on deck and practiced with her sword, getting used to having her sight back.
By the time Bel deliver them to Alexandria, they were growing restless. Shrike had spotted angels flying near the ship one night. They couldn’t decided if that was a good sign or bad, but decided it was time to get off.
The Prince, who’d kept his distance during the flight, appeared in full royal drag on deck when it was time for them to disembark. He said a few words that Shrike nodded at, but didn’t even bother to translate. With a wave of his hand the cargo net lowered Cornelius to the ground, in an open area near Alexandria’s main port. Spyder, Shrike and Lulu were already on the spider’s back.
“It looks like Brighton,” Cornelius said. “I think…”
What first struck Spyder about being back in an Earthly city with cars and humans, pollution and fast food joints, was how completely unremarkable it felt to be riding on the back of a giant mechanical spider borrowed from a friend in Hell, moving unseen through streets alongside spirits, angels and mythical creatures that inhabited the other Spheres. Shrike directed Cornelius to the tangled streets of the Medina, and they retraced the route Primo had taken them just days before. Seems like a century, Spyder thought, as Madame Cinder’s compound came into view.
FIFTY NINE
At the End of the Day, Luck always Fails
“You lose my Gytrash and bring me back this useless deviant?” rasped Madame Cinders.
“One, we didn’t lose him. He was our friend and he was killed trying to get that damned book for you,” Spyder said. “Two, we didn’t bring Lulu back for you, lady. You don’t deserve her used panty shields, much less her. And three, if you think deviants are useless, we must know real different deviants.”
“Give me my book.”
“You’re very fucking welcome.”
They’d entered Madame Cinders’ fortress without bothering to wait for her servants to open up. Spyder had Cornelius kick his way through the front gates. The splintering wood and old iron hinges twisted and smashed with a very satisfying amount of noise. Ten of Cinders’ guards ran into the courtyard, but backed off immediately when they saw Spyder and the others climbing down from Cornelius’ back. They strolled straight through Cinders’ palace and up her tower with Cornelius guarding their rear. No one gave them any trouble.
It was a tight squeeze, getting Cornelius up to the top of Cinders’ tower. He had to turn his great mechanical body sideways and crab slowly up the stairs, his head scraping the top of the passage the whole way.
“Give me my book,” repeated Madame Cinders.
Spyder gestured for Cornelius to come forward and drop the book. As it hit the floor, the tower shook as if it had been hit by an earthquake. Cinders’ guards looked around anxiously as bones, dried herbs and potions tumbled from the shelves, but Madame Cinders showed no outward reaction. This wasn’t surprising, Spyder thought. She looked even worse, less human than when they’d left her.
“I’ve heard about your doings in the underworld. You think you have power now that you’ve defeated a few miscreant angels,” she said. “But you have no real power.”
Madame Cinders was no longer upright. Her gilded wheelchair had been replaced by a kind of mechanical gurney, on which she lay fully prone. Only her head was upright, propped on a pile of stained pillows. Spyder was sure she’d shrunk in size, too. Were her legs missing? The pump system that injected and drained whatever horrible fluids kept her feeble flesh moving, had doubled in size, and was now larger than Cinders and the gurney together. Still, trapped in that ruined body, she managed to project both intelligence and menace. Spyder didn’t like looking at her. She stank like an old abattoir. Spyder patted his pockets, found the last of the tobacco he’d acquired at Berenice and began rolling a cigarette.
“There’s no smoking in the presence of Madame,” said one of her guards. Spyder ignored him. He licked the paper lengthwise and rolled the cigarette closer.
Madame Cinders continued, “Any fool can stumble into luck once, twice, a hundred times, but at the end of the day, luck always fails. Then, skill and knowledge are required. You have neither. The Butcher Bird has some, but not enough to save you both.”
“I have plenty of skill. I’m a pretty good tattoo artist. And I know how to make a sour apple martini,” said Spyder.
“The last time you were here, the Butcher Bird was the one who spoke. Now, puffed up with yourself, you do all the talking. Or are you jabbering because she is planning some action against me?”
“I’m not speaking because I have nothing to say to you, witch,” said Shrike.
Cinders laughed her awful, gurgling laugh. “But you have you sight, child. And soon you will have your father. I should think you’d be grateful for these things.”
“We’re not smiling ’cause you lied to us about the book. It was never yours. You conned us into stealing it for you,” said Spyder.
“Did I? How wrong of me.” Cinders’ pumps kicked into action, hissing and cranking, filling the tower room with their noise. A thick green discharge was extracted from Cinders’ midsection while separate pink and clear fluids dripped through tubes embedded in her skull.
“Neither your feigned outrage nor your glibness can hide your fear, boy. You forget that your mind is as clear and open to me as the sky in mid-summer. I know you want to keep me from taking the book, but you cannot. You know my vengeance would be fearsome. And there’s the girl’s father.”
“How is he?” Shrike asked.
“Well. And quite himself. No longer mad. You saved him,” said Madame Cinders. “Now can you save yourself and your companions?”
Shrike was moving before the old woman had finished speaking, slashing one guard across the midsection before his sword was drawn, then slicing through another’s throat. Crouching, Shrike spun and slashed through the knees of two guards who rushed her from behind. As the men fell, she lunged and disemboweled a third. Launching herself into the air, she caught the last guard with a kick to the temple as he charged her.
An arrow shot past Shrike’s right ear. She whirled around and saw one of the now legless guards reloading a small crossbow attached to his left gauntlet. Shrike bought her sword down in a sharp arc, slicing off the guard’s arm below the elbow, then looped the blade back in a quick figure-eight to neatly remove his head. When she advanced on the second legless guard, he held his empty, trembling hands out before him in a gesture of terrified submission. Shrike turned and swung her blade towards Madame Cinders, but the old woman was ready. Later, Spyder thought that Cinders had thrown the guards at Shrike as a sacrifice, knowing that she’d tear them to pieces, partly as a game and partly as a distraction.
In the fraction of a second it took for Shrike to turn her attention to Cinders, the old woman had prepared herself. She pressed together the withered claws that were her hands. A screeching filled the air, like the metal wheels of a thousand subway trains slamming on their brakes at the same time. Shrike was lifted from the floor, surrounded by a quivering blue light. She began to tumble, head over feet, faster and faster. Enough to kill her, Spyder knew.