Read Online Butcher Bird by Richard Kadrey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Richard Kadrey
Tags: Science-Fiction
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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 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,
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 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,
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