“Since the time of the Great Divide, when all the Spheres of the world broke each away from the other, my family has guarded a book. The first book. It contains the true names of all things. Someone with the understanding to use the book could blot out the sun. Turn the oceans to blood. Or close forever the doors of existence.
“The book was stolen from this very room and spirited to Hell by a demon. The same Asmodai I asked you about earlier. Asmodai is known to possess vast and arcane knowledge, so I assumed he had stolen the book for himself. After years of trying, I managed to pursue him into Hell to retrieve the book that was my responsibility to guard.
“In Hell, I learned that Asmodai was now in the employ of a powerful wizard who now makes his home in that dank and depraved realm. It was he who transfigured me from the young girl in the painting to the half-alive thing you see now. All of my strength and knowledge goes into keeping myself alive. I haven’t the power to fight for the book anymore.”
The pump stopped and Madame Cinders seemed to sag for a moment, then sat up straight in her chair, renewed by whatever potion or tincture had entered her dying blood stream.
“I was arrogant,” she said. “Full of pride in my magic and fury at losing the book. I forgot a fundamental law of the universe: that no mortal may look upon Heaven or Hell and walk again among the living. What power the enemy wizard didn’t bleed from me, I used up weaving a spell to escape that horrid place.”
“That’s why you sent for me,” said Shrike. “Not because I’m the best assassin, but because I’m blind.”
“Because you are both, Butcher Bird.”
“I’m not blind. What about me?” asked Spyder.
“You keep her on course, it’s easy to see. She’s a burning fuse. You keep her from burning out. And you can be made blind temporarily, with a simple spell.”
“No way.”
“Then blindfold yourself and hope for gentle winds in the underworld.”
“Excuse me, Madame Cinders,” said Shrike, “I don’t want to be crass, but what will be our payment for performing this service for you?”
“Why, child, I’ll give you back your eyes.”
“Can you fix mine? Make me the way I was before, able to forget all this?”
“It is an odd request and I will not be so rude as to ask why, but, yes, with the book I could do that for you.”
“It’s not enough,” said Shrike. Spyder looked at her. “You’re asking us to go to the most awful place imaginable and face both the legions of Hell and the wizard who almost killed you, a sorceress with more magic than I could ever hope to summon. And our payment is to be nothing more than becoming who we used to be? Madame, there must be something more you can offer us or, despite whatever threats you might care to make, we will have to refuse your offer.” Spyder was surprised by Shrike’s tone, but could tell that she was in full-on haggling mode. The traders in Tangiers had been the same way. It wasn’t the easy-going bargaining of Nepal or Mexico, but a verbal fistfight. Spyder looked at Madame Cinders, waiting for her counter.
“What would be enough, Butcher Bird? Your kingdom back? Revenge on your enemies? Your father?”
“I barely recall my kingdom and my enemies will be damned in time. But to taunt me with my father’s death, I didn’t expect such low behavior from a lady of your standing, Madame.”
Madame Cinders laughed and it sounded like bubbling sludge. “But your father isn’t dead, Butcher Bird. He’s merely mad. Would you like to see him? He’s here, not two rooms away from us.”
NINETEEN
WHAT MEN NEVER UNDERSTAND
Whirring ahead in her wheelchair, Madame Cinders led Spyder and Shrike to a padlocked room where the walls were padded with thick, stained silk.
Primo unlocked the door. In the darkest corner of the room, away from the light cast by the lone window, a man lay in a fetal position. His gray hair was greasy and wild. With dirty, bandaged fingers he mindlessly picked at the white padding that spilled out from a rip in the wall. The man’s eyes were unfocussed, wide and wild.
From the door, Shrike said, “Father?” She stepped into the padded room, but Madame Cinders put up an arm to bar her. Shrike grabbed Spyder’s shoulder. “What does he look like?” she asked.
“He’s a mess,” said Spyder. “Like those homeless guys you see eating out of dumpsters. I’m sorry.”
“He is not in his right mind, child. He is quiet now, but can be quite dangerous.”
Shrike pushed past Madame Cinders and felt along the wall until she found the huddled man. Spyder moved into the doorway, but hung back. He heard Madame Cinders muttering, “Brave girl. Stupid girl. She has to see everything for herself.”
Shrike knelt by the old man and put her hand on his bony chest. “Father? It’s Alizarin…”
The old man screamed and his hands flailed out, knocking Shrike back. Spyder darted across the room and pulled her back to the door. The old man kept on screaming, batting at invisible attackers, kicking at the empty air. Deep scars lined his cheeks where he’d clawed his skin away. He was reaching for something and if he hadn’t been chained to the wall, he looked like he would be clawing past Spyder and Shrike and anything else he could get hold of. What is he trying to grab? wondered Spyder. He described all this to Shrike.
“What’s wrong with him?” Shrike asked Madame Cinders.
“We found him in an asylum in Persia,” she said. “He’s been made mad by a curse, just as you were blinded by one. Only what your father is suffering is much, much worse.”
“What is he fighting? What does he see?”
“He is seeing Hell, child, dwelling in two Spheres at once. His body is here, but his mind is chained below in some abyssal dungeon. What he is fighting off are the demons that torment him.”
Shrike stood facing her father, though Spyder knew she couldn’t see him. Still, he could feel her body shaking almost imperceptibly. She was trying to see him, trying to will his face into her mind.
“There is only one way to restore your father. And that is to free him from the diabolical shackles that keep him bound below. Otherwise, this is his fate until his heart or his mind finally crack forever.”
“I understand,” said Shrike, cutting off the other woman. “But I have to ask you again—and I don’t ask this arrogantly, but out of fear that I can’t truly help my father—how do I assassinate spirits? I fight the living.”
“You kill the dead with the weapons of the dead,” said Madame Cinders. “Give it to her,” she told Primo. The little man came forward and pulled a long-bladed knife from an inner pocket of his jacket. He pressed the knife into Shrike’s hand and stepped courteously back. Spyder could see by the way Shrike held the weapon that it was heavier than it looked. The hilt was some kind of black horn inlaid with fine silverwork and a blood-red ruby on each side. Shrike slowly pulled the blade from its scabbard, getting the feel of the thing.
“A hellspawn stole from me, so before I left that cursed place I returned the favor,” Madame Cinders wheezed before lapsing into a coughing fit. “That is the knife of Apollyon, also called Abbadon. Do you know of him?”
“His name means ‘The Destroyer,’” said Spyder.
“The Destroyer,” repeated Madame Cinders. “The blade will kill anything in this world or the next.”
“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.
TWENTY
BADLANDS
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.