Flora's Fury: How a Girl of Spirit and a Red Dog Confound Their Friends, Astound Their Enemies, and Learn the Impo

by Ysabeau S. Wilce

  “Udo?” I squinted up hopefully. Jack looked exactly like Udo, so the only way to tell them apart was by expression and words. The glint in Jack’s eye was no longer a cold, calculating stealie-boy glint. Now it was a crazy heroic glint. An Udo-glint.

  Udo said, “I’m sorry I was such a snapperhead earlier, Flora, really, I am. You should have told me what was going on. I promise, we’ll take care of this Birdie fellow.”

  “Udo, you can’t. The guy is a nahual. He’s a wer-jaguar. He’ll eat you up—”

  The elevator jolted to a halt. Udo said soothingly, “We are professionals. Don’t worry.”

  “You are not a professional, Udo!”

  The elevator doors opened.

  “Jack is. Hardhands is. Oh, look, howdy, Pig.”

  I peered around Udo and saw Pig sitting serenely in the hallway. He looked jaunty and ready to go. Udo pulled me into an embrace and I flung my arms around his neck. The kiss was brief, but much improved from our last one. Then Udo pushed me and Flynn out of the elevator. I turned around, lunging back, but the elevator doors were already closing. Octohands had jetted out and scooped up Pig, and taken him back to Udo. Udo waved to me jauntily, Pig cradled in his arms.

  “Udo! Wait!” I cried.

  The doors closed and then reopened. My boot came flying out and almost hit me in the head.

  “I’ll want more of those kisses later, duckie!” Jack cried jovially, and then the doors closed again. I hammered on the call button to no avail. Fike! Those monumental moronic snapperheads! They were going to get Udo killed! I took a fast moment to put my boot back on and lace both up, then ran toward the stairs.

  Fiking Udo, trying to play the hero. No doubt the Jack Boots could take care of themselves, but they didn’t have Udo’s best interest at heart. Udo could be killed, but the Jack Boots would live on. They’d find another host and resume their life of criminality. But Udo would be dead. True, they had Pig, which tipped the scales in their favor, but Pig was no guarantee of Udo’s safety. People get killed in the crossfire all the time. Octohands’s bite hadn’t even killed Madama Valdosta; I doubted it would have any impact upon a nahual at all.

  As I careened down the twisty staircase, Flynn bouncing along behind me, I let all my fear of the Birdie, my irritation at Udo, and my anger at Buck twist and roil and grow, until I felt the Gramatica begin to bubble and turn inside of me, my blood heating, my face flushing. Sieur Birdie was going to be in for a very hot moment when I caught up with him.

  As I came to the third-floor landing, I began to hear—above the noise of the rain and wind the clang of steel—shouting, cursing, random screams of fear and excitement. A man came around the corner below me. He was running up the stairs as fast as he could, which wasn’t very fast, as he was rather portly and the tails of his frock coat were long and draggy.

  “...down there...” He puffed. “Fight ... jaguar ... pig ... Jack—”

  He pushed by and disappeared around the next turn of the stairwell. I held on to the railing and tried to pick up my pace.

  On the second-floor landing, the noise of the ruckus was joined by the high-pitched yowling of a very large cat. Three risers down, I heard a loud bellow of pain, followed by a string of cutthroat curses that almost took the paint off the walls.

  Flynn reached the fire door and jumped at it, barking hysterically. I was two steps away when I heard a metallic grinding noise, louder than the storm’s howl. The walls seemed to ripple and twist. I lost my footing and fell down the last two stairs, landing at the bottom with a bright wrench of pain, my left leg twisted beneath me. Flynn let out a horrible wail. I staggered to my feet, ignoring the pain in my ankle, and hobbled to the fire door, then flung it open.

  The lobby was a mess of busted furniture, busted walls, and shouting, crying hotel guests. The front doors were gone, smashed into glittering glass shards. A cold wind gusted through the gaping hole, driving rain into the lobby, soaking the carpet. Pink coldfire dripped from the ceiling.

  In the middle of the wreckage, a figure lay facedown amid the splinters of a velvet sofa. I ran to him across the squelching carpet, kicking aside the dented spittoons, broken glass crunching beneath my feet. Udo’s hair was sopped with blood, sticky with sweat, and when I pulled on his shoulders, his head flopped back in a sickeningly dead way Distantly I heard someone screaming Udo’s name and distantly realized it was me.

  One of Cutaway’s minions pulled me off of him; she was saying something, but I couldn’t hear her through my screaming. She shook my shoulders and shouted, “He’s not dead, you stupid git!”

  I went slack in her hands, and she pulled me to my feet, drew me away Two more minions gently pulled Udo out of the wreckage and hoisted him between them. As they carried him away, his hair left a slick trail of blood on the ground. His hand dangled; there was something caught in his fingers—a scrap of pink plush.

  All that was left of Pig.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  An Unhappy Interview. Regrets. Desperation.

  THE MINION IGNORED my wails and frog-marched me out of the lobby, down a flight of stairs, and into a room where a voice said, “No, not there, she’ll get blood on my good white sofa.”

  I was pushed into a chair, and there I huddled, crying bitterly, until a hankie appeared before my face. “Here, take this and blow your nose.”

  I took the hankie that Cutaway dangled before me. My fingers left red splotches on the fine white fabric. I blew my nose.

  “Quit wailing,” Cutaway said. “Your friend is not dead.”

  “He might be soon,” I gasped.

  “We all might be dead soon,” Cutaway said. “But right now we are still alive. That’s the important thing.”

  “If he dies, it will be my fault.”

  “If he dies, he’ll be dead. It hardly matters then whose fault it is. Either way, he’ll be a hero. Springheel Jack versus the Nahual. Of such stuff are legends made. I think that boy will enjoy being a hero.”

  I sniveled, “He’s not really Springheel Jack. He’s just Udo Landaðon. He stole the Jack Boots from the real Springheel Jack.”

  “As did the Springheel Jack before him. And the one before him, as well. It’s how they all get started on their lives of crime, each Springheel Jack. Stealing the Jack Boots.”

  “Udo isn’t a criminal,” I protested.

  “He will be by the time the Jack Boots are done. Perhaps you could explain to me why Springheel Jack and the Duque de Espejo y Ahumado were fighting it out in my lobby, Lieutenant Fyrdraaca?”

  Somehow I was not surprised that Cutaway knew who I was.

  “Who is the Duque de Whatever?” I asked.

  “Espejo y Ahumado,” Cutaway said impatiently “Don’t try to snow me, girlie. He is the high priest of Tezcatlipoca, the Lord of the Smoked Mirror.”

  “I never saw him before today! He tried to kidnap me! Udo—Jack—was only trying to protect me!”

  “Kidnap you? Why would the Duque do that?”

  “I don’t know! He said he was going to offer me to his god, or something.”

  “That seems unlikely,” Cutaway said. “The priests of the Smoked Mirror choose their offerings very carefully They groom them, and tend them, and love them. They cry as they cut out their hearts. They don’t have a habit of grabbing the first girl they see. What makes you so special?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hmmmm ... Perhaps.” I could tell she didn’t believe me. “Lucky for you, I am not very curious. A famous criminal, assisted by a protection egregore, and a flying octopus have a knock-down drag-out ruckus in my lobby over a girl hiding behind a false name, who has arrived at my hotel in the company of a Pacifica express agent. Most people would be very curious. But I am not nosy by nature. All I care about is who is going to pay for the damages. And who will that be, I wonder? Should I send a bill to your mother, General Fyrdraaca?”

  I grimaced at the thought. “Send your bill to the Duque Whosit. He started everything!”


  “I would be happy to do just that. But he’s gone. After your egregore exploded, Espejo, in his jaguar form, dashed out into the storm. I sent searchers after him; they report that he boarded a ship and sailed away on the wind. I suspect, in fact, that this storm is his doing. The Lord of the Smoked Mirror likes bad weather. So that just leaves you and my wrecked lobby, which is going to cost a fortune to renovate. What do you suggest I do?”

  I had no suggestions. All I could think about was that Espejo was gone, gone after Tiny Doom. And he’d made sure that no one could immediately follow him.

  As we were talking, Cutaway had sat down behind her desk. Now she reached for a cigarillo box, opened it, offered it to me. I took one and accepted her light. The tobacco smoke was smooth and tasted like cloves. It made me cough a bit, but it also steadied my nerves.

  After taking a drag on her own cigarillo, Cutaway said, “Ah, now, another solution occurs to me. Like you, Sieur Wraathmyr is undercover, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  She smiled. “I think you do. You don’t come across wer-bears every day Right off the top of my head, I can think of two clients who would pay me well for him. One is always on the lookout for slaves to fight in his pits; the other supplies romance to open-minded people. I could easily get more than enough to pay for the damages to my hotel.”

  “Barbacoa is supposed to be a free port, madama. I would think that people would think twice about doing their business here if they had to worry about being kidnapped and sold into slavery.”

  “They only need worry if they don’t pay their bills, Lieutenant. And I want them to be worried about that.”

  A knock at the door interrupted us. Cutaway called out an answer and a minion came in. They had a brief conversation in a language I did not know, and then the minion left. Cutaway turned back to me. “The surgeon is done. Your friend is all sewn up. He’ll have a few scars—so dashing—but he’ll live.”

  For some reason, this news, good as it was, set me to crying again. Cutaway ignored my sobbing and said, “Lucky for you, I do not care for Birdies. I particularly do not care for Birdies who show up on my island and break all my rules, and then do a runner without paying their hotel bill. So I think I shall send my request for payment to Espejo after all. But as for you, Lieutenant, I want you off my island as soon as this storm clears, you and your wer-friend both.”

  I blew my nose again on the soggy hankie. “I wasn’t planning on sticking around. I’m going after Espejo.”

  “I would think that you would be pleased to see the last of him.”

  “I owe him for Udo,” I said, and I did, too.

  “Good luck with that. Happy travels, Lieutenant Fyrdraaca. Please do not come back to Barbacoa.”

  Cutaway gestured to the minion, who hauled me from my chair. We were almost out the door when Cutaway said, “He’s got a good head start and once he hits the mainland, he can travel very fast on four legs. Nahuals are nocturnal. He can only change at night, but when he is in his jaguar form, he can move very quickly. I find it hard to believe that you will be able to outpace him.”

  “I’m going to try.”

  “Well. You might ask Sieur Wraathmyr for his help, then. If they need to, express agents can get around very quickly Even more quickly than a jaguar. Goodbye, Lieutenant. My regards to your charming mother.”

  “Goodbye, madama,” I said, making a Courtesy. “And thank you for your kindness.”

  “One person’s kindness is another person’s cruelty,” Cutaway answered.

  Udo was still asleep when I went in to see him. The left side of his face was muffled in a large white bandage that extended up to his hairline. When I picked up his hand, it was limp but warm. I kissed his forehead, just above the bandage. When I touched his hair, my fingers brushed something cold and sticky: a severed tentacle. I picked it up, but the snarky voice did not chime in my head. The Jack Boots sat at the foot of Udo’s bed; the snake heads were lifeless, their eyes dull. Perhaps they had finally met their match.

  The minions escorted me to my room and told me to stay there until the storm lifted; then they’d put me on the first boat to the mainland. The remnants of the room-service breakfast were still on the table. I took a stale muffin from the basket and sat on the bed, chewing and listening to the wind thump and howl. The windows had been shuttered, so the room was dark. It fit my mood.

  Pig was gone; Octohands was gone. Hardhands was already dead, so he could hardly be killed again, but even a ghost can be destroyed, its Anima shredded, dissipated. Udo had almost been killed. And all because I was a moronic, snapperheaded idiot. I had been so prideful, so sure that I could make a difference, that I alone could save Califa by finding Tiny Doom. I had thought that Buck was powerless and cast-down, too weak to lift a hand against the Birdies, and here it turned out she was busy with a plan much better than mine. A plan she hadn’t trusted me to share—and with good reason. If I’d known before, Goddess knows what I would have done to mess everything up. Everyone has a talent, Nini Mo said, and mine was clearly fiking things up bigtime. Now Espejo was heading directly toward Tiny Doom, and here I was, trapped on Barbacoa, unable to do a thing to warn her. I got up to get another muffin and noticed Tharyn’s satchel laying on the bed. A new horror seized me.

  Tharyn! Where was Tharyn? When Espejo had left me alone in his room—when he had turned to a jaguar—had he gone back to get Tharyn? Cutaway had spoken as though Tharyn was still alive, but maybe she didn’t know. Maybe Tharyn was lying dead right now in some alley, shredded, clawed, rain falling on his empty face, his blank eyes. Maybe he was lying wounded in some ravine, the rain washing the blood out of his veins—these thoughts propelled me toward the door, which, when I opened it, was blocked by a minion.

  “Go inside,” she said.

  “Tharyn Wraathmyr! Have you seen him?”

  “Go inside.”

  “I have to look for him!”

  “Inside,” said the minion, and shut the door on me. When I tried the door again, it was locked. I pounded and shouted to no avail. The minion remained immovable and so did the door. I ran to the window; the rain was sheeting down, thunderously, an occasional flash of pink breaking through the darkness. At four floors up, it was too high to climb down, anyway.

  I couldn’t just do nothing, but there was nothing I could do. So I paced, and listened to the thunder and the rain, and chewed on my fingers, and cursed myself for being such an idiot as to drag everyone into this to begin with, and cried a bit at my own stupidity, and ate another muffin, and wished with all my heart I was back in Califa, sitting behind my desk, copying some ordnance return, blissfully ignorant, or changing Pow’s diaper, anything but in this mess I was in now, getting everyone I cared about killed. Sometimes waves of terror would rush over me as I remembered the feeling of Espejo’s serpent slithering through my brain, and then I would sit down on the bed and scream into my pillow until my jaw ached and my throat was raw. I was trapped, it was too late, it was over—

  The door opened and there was Tharyn.

  I jumped on him, sobbing hysterically He caught me, lifting me up, making soothing noises, and said, “Hush. It’s all right. It’s all right.”

  “I thought you were dead! That he got you, like he almost got Udo!” I sobbed. He was soaking wet and he smelled of salt, but even his soggy embrace felt solid. Flynn jumped and bobbed around our legs, pawing at Tharyn. He pushed Flynn down gently, then carried me over to the settee.

  “Stop crying, honey,” he said soothingly.

  “He almost got Udo! And he did get Pig and Octohands,” I sniveled.

  “Well, he didn’t get me. Whoever he is. Maybe you should tell me what happened,” Tharyn suggested.

  I nodded and gulped, then told him.

  When I was done, Tharyn said, “What an idiot I was! When we were on the road, I smelled cat but I didn’t think anything of it. I should have been more on guard. I should have been more careful. But I was—well—I
was distracted.”

  “Not as distracted as I was,” I said bitterly

  He cursed again. “Fike it all! I left the Envoy’s and needed a bit of a breather, so I went for a run...”

  That explained the twigs in his hair. I blew my nose again on the now very soggy hankie. “It’s just as well, Tharyn. He might have killed you. He almost killed Udo.”

  “He could have tried,” Tharyn said. “I think I could have handled him. I am not a popinjay.”

  “Udo’s not a popinjay, either! Well, he is, but he had help—pretty good help, too.”

  “Udo. I thought he dumped you,” Tharyn said. “And you were very angry at him.”

  “He did. I mean, he kinda did. It was complicated.”

  “Yet you are upset that he was almost killed.”

  “We’ve been friends for years. Of course I am upset, and it was all my fault, too. But listen, Tharyn, Espejo knows about my mother, my real mother. He knows where she is. He’s gone after her. But I’m stuck on this fiking island until the storm clears. He’s got a big head start. He’ll get there before me, and kill her. And it will be all my fault. I have to go after him. As quickly as possible. I have to get there first, warn her. Cutaway told me that express agents have a way to travel very quickly What did she mean?”

  “She said that, did she?” Tharyn said. He said something else in a language I didn’t know. Kulani, perhaps, or maybe Varanger. It sounded like a curse.

  “What did she mean?” I repeated. “I have to catch up with Espejo. I can’t fly nor can I translocate. It’s way too far, and I’m not that good of a magician. I have to get there first and warn her! If you know a way to do it, a way I can beat Espejo, tell me, for Choronzon’s sake, tell me!”

  He didn’t answer, just rocked back and forth, chewing his lip. Finally when I was about to scream with impatience, he said, “I do know another way. But it’s risky Very risky.”

  “I don’t care. I have to try. You have to try You owe me three times. I have saved your life. And you owe me.”