Blind Shrike

by Richard Kadrey

  “That can’t be natural,” he said.

  “I was cursed.”

  “The bastard lover you talked about?”

  She nodded. “It’s a story I don’t feel like telling right now. “ Shrike drank more wine and lay back on the bed. “I’ve answered enough questions for now. Tell me about you, Spyder Lee.”

  “I’m a Leo. I like wine and focaccia, Seventies Kraut-rock, and I dig chicks with their own swords.” Spyder lay down next to Shrike and kissed her hand. She let him, he noted, but a moment later she put her hand on his chest to keep him from going any further.

  “Slow down, pony boy.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “To answer something you asked earlier, I’m not Spider Clan. Or, Hell, maybe I am. My father loved cars and he loved James Dean. I’m named for the model of Porsche Dean raced. It’s also the car that killed him.”

  Shrike laughed. “You’re named for a dead man’s car?”

  “I think the saddest day of my father’s life was when I saw my first James Dean movie and only thought it was okay.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Nothing. We already had some problems, then he just sort of lost interest in me. He wasn’t mean or anything. We just didn’t ever talk much after that. I think I broke some kind of sacred bond I didn’t even know was supposed to be there. It was his own fault. He took me to see Journey Into Fear. The old man had James Dean, but on my planet, Orson Welles was the man to be.”

  “I’ve heard of him. Tell me more.”

  “Citizen Kane’s still the greatest movie ever made. People don’t even know that it’s a pure special effects flick. It all looks so real, so natural. You never stop believing you’re watching the rise and fall of the richest man in the world. And Journey into Fear. Most people haven’t even heard of that one. Welles directed it, but didn’t get a screen credit. He was just a little older than I am now and was already washed up in Hollywood. He plays a Turkish cop. He looked ten feet tall. I wanted him to be my father and I wanted to be him at the same time.” Spyder sat up and fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette. The wine had left him light-headed, but happily so. He found half a pack of American Spirits and lit one. Shrike held out two fingers in a V shape. Spyder placed the cigarette there. She took a drag and handed it back to him.

  “I always wanted to do something like Welles,” Spyder said.

  “Be washed up at an early age?”

  “No, dummy. Do something great. Something permanent. Even if it was just a new tattoo style. Something that would tag some little part of the universe that I could point to it from Heaven or Hell and say, ‘I did that.’ That’s mine.”

  “And here you are, huddled in a warehouse with a blind stranger surrounded by snoring winos.”

  Spyder brushed stray hairs from Shrike’s face. “I’m not complaining.”

  “What’s it been, two minutes?”

  “Thank you for pointing that out, princess. Okay, I told you my shameful film geek secret. Tell me yours.”

  “You already guessed it. I’m a princess.”

  “Like with a crown or did your daddy just dote on you?”

  “Both. I even had my own castle. Well, a wing of my father’s. Before it all came down around us.”

  “Let me guess: the bastard lover?”

  She nodded. “He was a general in my father’s army. Unfortunately, we were in a period of prolonged peace. Without anything to conquer, some generals can grow restless. When he wasn’t screwing the king’s daughter, he was studying magic with the most powerful wizards he could bribe or blackmail. He studied hard enough that he became a powerful wizard himself. Powerful enough to depose my father, throw my lands into chaos and make himself king.”

  “Damn. He’s still running things?”

  “No. He went completely mad. Some of his senior officers were still sane enough to see this. They banded together and killed him, burning his body and scattering his ashes in three different oceans.”

  “Why didn’t you go home?”

  Shrike frowned. “He still has potent allies in power. And I don’t even have a business partner, much less an army.” Shrike held out her hand and Spyder again placed the cigarette in her fingers. She smoked quietly. “I didn’t intend to tell you because I thought you’d laugh at a princess caught up in a nasty little fairy tale.”

  “How does the fairy tale come out?”

  “The princess dies,” said Shrike, handing the cigarette back to Spyder. “If the story goes on long enough, that’s how they all end. It’s what happens in between that matters.”

  “I never kissed a princess before.”

  “You think you’re going to kiss one now?”

  “Pretend I’m a ten-foot tall Turkish cop. That’s your type, right?”

  Shrike laughed and when Spyder leaned down to her, she didn’t pull away. Spyder felt her hand in his hair and she kissed him back hard, as if she hadn’t kissed anyone in a long time and had missed it. She rolled on top of him, grinding her crotch into his as they tasted each other’s mouths. Spyder slipped his hands under her shirt, sliding over smooth skin and hard muscle, to cup her small breasts. Whatever cord or clasp was holding Shrike’s hair back came undone. Her hair fell in fat dreads and braids halfway down her back and brushed Spyder’s cheeks. Mostly black, her hair was streaked purple, crimson, yellow and grasshopper green. Spyder rolled Shrike onto her back and pinned her hands above her head. He kissed her and ran his tongue down the side of her throat. When he bit her shoulder, her legs wrapped around him and squeezed. Spyder felt her shudder.

  Shrike broke her hands free and took Spyder by the shoulders, telling him gravely, “I am a princess and I order you to take off every stitch of clothing at once.”

  Happy to play the diplomat, Spyder did exactly what he was told.

  Later, covered in sweat, focaccia crumbs and spilled wine, Spyder kissed Shrike on the neck and said, “Tell me more about the princess biz.” Shrike was curled against his side, her head tucked into his neck. “Is your kingdom somewhere I would have heard of?”

  “No. It’s not even in this Sphere. Where I’m from, magic runs the world. Your Sphere built the internal combustion engine. In mine, we transmuted gold into lead.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “I miss my home. And my father.”

  “Did he escape?”

  “He’s dead. I don’t even know where he’s buried.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “My mother died when I was born. I never knew her.”

  “Sorry. What’s the best and worst part about princessing?”

  Shrike thought for a moment, running a hand idly around Spyder’s nipple. “The best part was the shoes and learning to fight. The worst part was state dinners where you had to be charming with a full mouth.”

  “Did the princess have a horse named Princess?”

  She pinched his nipple. “I didn’t call my horse Princess because he wouldn’t have liked it. He was a hundred shades of gray and terribly sick when he was a colt. I nursed him and when he grew strong, I named him Thunder.”

  “Thunder is just the boy version of Princess.”

  Shrike bit his ear.

  “Why was your partner murdered?” asked Spyder.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was it for someone you two killed?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Does it have something to do with this new client?”

  “I honestly don’t know. But, yes, it could.”

  “Peachy,” said Spyder. “By the way, when this is all over, can I tattoo my name on your ass, princess?”

  “Kiss me and I’ll think about it.”

  FOURTEEN

  What Are Little Boys Made Of?

  In Spyder’s dreams, a man was flicking lit matches at him. The little flames arced out of the dark and hit him in the face, the arms, the chest. All around him was—machinery.

  Age-grimed engines the size of skyscrapers blasted flames and blue-bl
ack smoke into a dingy green sky. A forest of enormous furnaces lay ahead of him and wretched workers (twisted limbs and curved spines, as if their backs had all been broken and not allowed to heal properly) shoveled pale things into the flames. When his eyes adjusted to the light, Spyder saw that the slaves (there was no other word to describe their condition) were shoveling whole corpses into the fire pits. Where there were no corpses, there were piles of desiccated limbs or putrid mountains of human fat. The crippled workers shoveled each of these into the furnaces as diligently as the corpse stokers.

  The man was flicking matches again. “You’re a fool,” he said to Spyder. “A lost puppy. A sparrow with a broken wing, trapped on an ant hill. A little boy who’s fallen down a well. It’s enough to make a good man cry.”

  “Who are you?” asked Spyder.

  “The opposite of a good man,” said the stranger. Spyder could see him better now. He looked like one of the Black Clerks, but his movements were more fluid than theirs. “We have three brains, you know. A reptile brain wrapped in a mammal brain wrapped in a human brain. Really, we’re three people. Which would you like to answer your question?”

  “Where am I?”

  “Over the rainbow. At escape velocity. Under the hill.” The next match struck Spyder in the eye and he flinched. “But it’s never too late to go back home.”

  “I want to. I want to go home.”

  “No, you don’t,” said the man. “You want to play.” He rushed at Spyder, his broken black teeth bared in fury. He was one of the Black Clerks. Or what Spyder would look like if he were a Black Clerk. The man’s skin was held loosely in place by hooks, leather straps and brass clasps. He pulled off his face to reveal some pitiful thing beneath, a blackened stick figure that smelled of roses and shit, leaking an oily yellow dew from every orifice.

  “Let’s see what’s under your mask, little boy,” said the Black Clerk to Spyder and he dug his spiky, broken nails into Spyder’s face and began pulling away chunks of flesh. “What are little boys made of? Meat and tears and bones and fear, that’s what little boys are made of!”

  Spyder awoke with a stifled scream.

  Sitting on a small, child-size chair that looked like it was intended more as a decoration than a functional piece of furniture, was a pale, small man in a brown suit at least two sizes too small for him.

  “Who are you?” asked Spyder, hoping he wasn’t about to start the whole dream over again.

  The man stood up and made a small, stiff bow. “I am Primo Kosinski. I have been sent to fetch the Butcher Bird to Madame Cinders’ home.”

  Spyder shook Shrike, then realized she was already awake and playing possum. “I heard him come in,” she said. “I just wanted a little more sleep.”

  “I am to bring you to Madame Cinders at your earliest convenience.” The words rushed out of the little man’s mouth in a high, breathy voice.

  “We heard you the first time,” Shrike said. She snuggled closer to Spyder. “I’m not a morning person.”

  “It’s afternoon, ma’am.”

  “Damn,” she said. “All right.”

  The little man remained standing as Spyder crawled out of bed and began to look for his clothes. Primo’s attention was anxious and unnerving. Like what a herd dog must make a sheep feel like, Spyder thought. “Would you sit the hell down and relax?” asked Spyder.

  “Certainly.” Primo sat, but it didn’t help much. He perched on the edge of the little chair, his attention as keen as ever. “And close your eyes while she dresses,” Spyder added. The little man closed his eyes and covered them with his hands.

  “I don’t care,” said Shrike. “It’s not like there’s anything here worth lusting after right now.” Spyder knew how she felt. Whatever kind of wine they’d been drinking, it left him light-headed, clumsy and oddly forgetful. Even when he found his clothes, it took him a few minutes to decide that they were his. It was some small consolation that Shrike, too, was moving slowly and painfully. The wine had kicked her ass, too. Good, he thought. At least we’re starting out the day even.

  “How far is it to Madame’s?” Shrike asked.

  “From here, perhaps three hours,” said Primo, his voice muffled by his hands. “There is a boat and then the Blegeld Passage.”

  “You’ve arranged transport through the Passage?”

  “Yes, ma’am. A very agreeable tuk-tuk. Very luxurious.”

  “There’s no such thing as a luxurious tuk-tuk,” said Shrike, pulling on her boots.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The day was starting slow, but all right, thought Spyder. He remembered that Shrike had not wanted him to speak much. That request was working out fine since, once again, he didn’t know what she and Primo were talking about other than they were all going somewhere and, happily, using a boat for part of the journey. He’d been on boats before, so at least he would recognize something.

  When they’d dressed, Shrike ordered both Primo and Spyder out of the room. She stood in the doorway with the little book open flat on her hands and said a few words. As Shrike slapped the book closed, the bed and carpets were gone and room was back to its original dingy state. Even the dust hadn’t been disturbed. Shrike tucked her cane under her elbow and took Spyder’s arm. “Lead us to the boat, Primo.”

  “This way, please, ma’am.” He hurried down the steps ahead of them as Spyder walked down with Shrike. Spyder couldn’t tell if she was walking slowly because of the hangover or because she wanted to appear relaxed and indifferent to their voyage. In any case, it was pleasant to have her on his arm again. Though all through the walk, Spyder felt as if he were floating beside his body watching himself. He was so out of it, in fact, that Primo was handing them the boat tickets before he realized where they were.

  “These are tickets for the Alcatraz tour. We’re at Fisherman’s Wharf,” said Spyder.

  “Yes, sir. You’re very observant,” said Primo brightly.

  Spyder let it go since another thought had popped into his mind. “We’re going to get in line for the boat. Please give us a moment alone, Primo.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” asked Shrike as Spyder pulled her away from the little man and toward their gate on the dock. “It’s dangerous for us to be alone like this. He might think we’re plotting against him or Madame Cinders.”

  “That wine we had last night. What was in it?” asked Spyder.

  “Grapes. Spices. I don’t know all the ingredients.”

  “Was it some kind of magic wine?”

  “No. Not magic.”

  “Then chemical. My mind keeps floating and my memory feels like it’s been pissed all over. And don’t tell me this is normal for a hangover because I’ve had about a million, none like this.”

  “It’s a special wine,” said Shrike. “I didn’t know you well last night. If it had gone badly I would have let you drink a little more. I would have had more, too. Then we would have both forgotten. That’s all. It’s just something I keep around for passing situations that might turn sour. No one needs that kind of thing cluttering up their head. You understand, don’t you, pony boy?”

  “Passing and sour, you know how to make morning-after sweet talk, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t let you forget it all. I didn’t forget, either. And it turned out to be better than passing. Kind of nice. If you could remember, you’d know that I stopped you from drinking too much.”

  “If I could remember,” said Spyder.

  “Don’t worry,” said Shrike. “When we do it again, I’ll make sure it’s memorable.”

  “Think you’re going to get to kiss a commoner again?”

  “I’m a girl with her own sword. That’s your type, right?” Then she added quickly. “Don’t kiss me now. Primo will be watching. Wave him over. Be careful from here on. No smiles and no talking. You’re the quiet, deadly type.”

  “Easy for you to say. You don’t have a hard-on.”

  “Shh!”

  FIFTEEN

  I
LUV LA

  They crossed San Francisco Bay to Alcatraz with a hundred other tourists and their children. Spyder hadn’t been to the island in a couple of years. He’d always regarded the place as a bore and used the foggy crossing and general gloom that surrounded Alcatraz’s abandoned maximum security prison as compelling seduction tools. It usually worked, too.

  Jenny had been the last woman he’d taken there and it felt odd to be going back again. He looked at Shrike. She was at the bow of the boat, looking fierce in the bay wind, and clearly enjoying the feel of it on her face. Primo stood a few steps behind her and from where Spyder stood on the opposite side of the deck, the little man looked even more ragged than he’d first thought. Not only was Primo’s suit too small, but the seams and the fabric itself looked frayed and was clearly torn in places. Spyder wondered, if this Madame Cinders is such a big deal, can’t she dress her help in something that doesn’t look like it was copped from a dumpster behind the Salvation Army?

  When they moored at Alcatraz, Spyder and his companions waited until most of the families had gone ashore before exiting the boat. A park ranger was giving the group a canned orientation lecture, explaining that they shouldn’t damage the facilities and that donations were always welcome. From his previous visits, Spyder remembered that the place had originally been a military prison during the Civil War. He’d hated being there just a few hours. He couldn’t imagine what being locked for years in that frigid, wind-beaten rock would be like. Alcatraz made him think of a nasty monster-movie castle looming over a doomed village. He wondered what Shrike’s castle had been like. Nothing like this, he hoped. If, of course, she were telling the truth and there was a castle. It occurred to Spyder that she might have been telling him a tall tale. She’d slipped him a Mickey Finn because he didn’t matter. Why should she bother telling him the truth about herself? She was beautiful, but he resolved to be more careful around her, then smiled to himself knowing how unlikely that was. He was into something whose depths he couldn’t begin to guess. This was pretty much a hang-on-and-hope-you-get-to-wear-your-skin-home situation and that didn’t leave much room for being aloof.