Butcher Bird

by Richard Kadrey

  “I’ve been thinking about it and I have a proposition for you,” Shrike said, a little out of breath. “This client I’m meeting, she’s expecting me to have a partner. But my partner isn’t here. Stand in for him and I’ll pay you.”

  “My rent’s covered. I want my life back.”

  “I can’t give you that. But some of the people I work with have power. If this client is who I think it is, she might be able to help you.”

  “Might?”

  “It’s the best I can do.”

  “What would I be? Your bodyguard? Your windup rabbit?”

  “Your job will be to stand next to me and say absolutely nothing,” said Shrike. “I’ll do all the talking.”

  “I’m a mute?”

  “People interpret silence as strength. In your case, the less you say, the better you get. I need you to look more dangerous than you really are.”

  “And maybe she can help me.”

  “No guarantees.”

  Spyder walked down the dune to where Shrike was waiting. He stood a little above her in the sand. “I’ll help you get your bags from the hotel,” he said.

  “That’s not necessary,” Shrike said. She removed a battered leather book from an inside pocket of her coat. “Everything I need is right here.” She opened it and little paper shapes stood up from the pages. Horses. Swords. Things that might have been exotic fruits or vegetables. To Spyder, it looked like a kid’s pop-up book.

  Shrike put the book away and led Spyder over the dune in the opposite direction. “Jean-Philippe, the bird-man, told me about a lovely deserted warehouse where we can spend the night.”

  “Feel that fog? We’ll be ice pops by morning,” said Spyder.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll read to you,” said Shrike. “A good book will always keep you warm.”

  THIRTEEN

  JOURNEY INTO FEAR

  Shrike led Spyder over the dunes toward North Beach, the old Barbary Coast, for two hundred years the traditional haunt of pirates, thieves and the kind of regular citizens who want to vanish into oblivion or into newly invented lives.

  Behind an abandoned furniture warehouse under the Bay Bridge, they ducked through a hole in the hurricane fence and stomped through weeds and smashed glass to the back of the building.

  Spyder, who had broken into more than his share of warehouses, spotted a smashed window near a rusting fire escape on the second floor. “Looks like we can get in through an upstairs window,” he said to Shrike.

  Shrike was feeling her way along the back wall of the warehouse. When she came to a door, she jiggled the knob, but the door was locked.

  “Hey, there’s an open window,” said Spyder.

  Shrike kicked in the door with her big boots. Her cane had already flicked up and transformed into a sword. She held it in striking position as she strode into the warehouse. Spyder was impressed, but kept quiet.

  “Stay behind me,” she whispered.

  “Hear anything?”

  “Rats. People. Shh.”

  The interior of the warehouse was a black hole decorated with a few grimed windows inlaid with chicken wire and decorated with graffiti. Shrike moved cautiously, but quickly, seemingly sensing where the trash and broken furniture lay and avoiding it. Spyder stumbled along behind her trying to keep up.

  “Is it all open down here or are there any rooms?” Shrike asked him.

  Spyder tried to see as deeply as possible into the dark. “I can’t see much, but it looks all open down here. I think I can see some offices upstairs.”

  “Show me.”

  Spyder led Shrike upstairs and she checked all the rooms until she found one that was still locked.

  “Move back,” she told Spyder.

  Faster than his eye could register, Shrike brought her sword arcing down and sliced the padlock off the door. The lock clattered to the floor noisily. Half of it skipped way and rattled down the stairs. Spyder heard low voices as doors leading to some of the other rooms opened.

  Shrike turned toward the darkness, holding her sword at waist-level. “You’re all welcome to stay here, but anyone stupid enough to come through this door will end up like that lock.”

  The interior of the office was dusty and littered with paper and rat turds. It looked as if it might have been a records office. Old filing cabinets stood against one wall along with a tilting, three-legged desk. Spyder had stayed in worse places, but not recently. He described the scene to Shrike, who walked from wall to wall, pacing off the room.

  “Would you push the old furniture into a corner?” she asked.

  When he’d dragged the rusting junk out of the way, Spyder said, “There were some old sofa cushions and maybe a futon out there. I’ll go get them.”

  “If you want to sleep on mildewed trash, feel free. I prefer something clean.”

  Shrike had her pop-up book open to a page that, in the dark, looked like a scene from The Thief of Bagdad. She whispered a few words and the storage room was flooded in light and warmth.

  The light came from burning braziers set at each corner of the room. The floors were covered with Persian carpets and bright pillows. There was an enormous bed against one wall and storage vessels and cabinets against the opposite. The place smelled instantly of incense and spices.

  “Welcome to my home away from home,” Shrike said.

  “When I was five, I had a metal folding cup that I thought was the coolest thing in the world,” said Spyder. “But I was wrong.”

  “I’m glad you like it. You’re my guest. Please sit down. Are you hungry?”

  “Now that you ask, yes.”

  Shrike dropped her coat and sword onto the big bed and went to the cabinets without hesitation. Spyder sat down on the edge of the bed watching her sure movements. Even though it was occupying an alien space, he thought, this was clearly her room.

  “I’ve been on the road for a while, so I’m not really Suzy Homemaker these days,” said Shrike, opening and closing the cabinets. She came back to the bed with a couple of bundles. “All I have is some wine and focaccia.”

  “The breakfast of champions,” Spyder said.

  “My glasses are all broken, so we’re going to have to share the bottle,” Shrike said.

  “That’s okay. It’ll give me a chance to look butch for once tonight.”

  Shrike smiled and sliced the wax and cork from the top of the bottle with the edge of her sword, then handed the wine to Spyder. It tasted like wind felt at the top of a hill on a summer night. He handed the bottle back to Shrike. “Wow,” he said.

  Shrike took a long drink. “Don’t forget to eat, too. Give it a chance, and this wine will leave you half-naked, shoeless and wearing a dog collar, with only a vague memory of how you got that way.”

  “Does the wine have a sister?”

  “You wish.”

  Between bites of spicy focaccia Spyder said, “You’re not at the Coma Gardens. How is your client going to find you?”

  “Magic.”

  “You’re not much like most girls.”

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  “That’s how it’s meant.”

  “Slow down on the wine, pony boy. You don’t want your mouth getting too far ahead of your brain.”

  “How long have you been living like this? Out of your little magic book?”

  “A long time. Since… Almost half my life.”

  “You and your business partner, the one I’m standing in for.”

  “He’d be the one.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Shrike chewed with great deliberation for some time. “He was killed by assassins. Hellspawn.”

  “You don’t ever do anything halfway, do you? It’s not enough that your friend got iced. He was done in by hell’s hit men.”

  “I didn’t ask for an exciting life, believe me. I crave boredom.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “I don’t remember what seeing is like,” Shrike said.


  “You used to be able to see?”

  “Yes. After I went blind, I could still remember things. Colors. Moonlight. My father’s face. It’s all gone now, though.”

  “When you cut that lock, I thought you were playing me. A pretty girl just pretending to be blind to look less dangerous.”

  “You’re not the first person to think that,” she said, and took off her shades. “But I really am blind.”

  Spyder looked at her for a long time. He wanted to be sure that what he was seeing wasn’t a trick of the firelight. Shrike’s eyes were fractured, like cracked glass. The misshapen pupils were ants trapped in amber. Shrike’s eyes were bright, but dead.

  “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.”

  “I’ve heard of him. Tell me more.”

  “Citizen Kane’s still the greatest movie ever. People don’t even know that it’s a pure special effects flick. It all looks so real, so natural. But there’s also Journey into Fear. Most people haven’t even heard of that one. Welles directed it, but the studio fucked him and he didn’t get credit. 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 lightheaded, 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.

  “He was just a little older than me and had already made the greatest movie ever, and was instantly washed up,” Spyder said. “I always wanted to do something like Welles.”

  “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 so that I could 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.”

  “Do
es 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 and the chest. All around him was machinery.

  Age-grimed engines the size of skyscrapers blasted flames and blue-black 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 anthill. A little boy who’s fallen down a well. It’s enough to make a good man cry.”

  “Who are you?” asked Spyder.

  “What’s the opposite of a good man?” asked the stranger. Spyder could see him better now. He looked like one of the Black Clerks, but his movements were more fluid. “We have three brains, you know. A reptile brain wrapped in a mammal brain wrapped in a human brain. We’re all three people in one body. Which do you want to answer your question?”

  “Where am I?”

  “The dark side of the moon. Over the rainbow. 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.”

  “Liar,” 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.