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
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
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