“Look, she’ll be back any minute and she’ll find us,” I said. “And how can we help her if she eats us? Nini will know what to do. We’ve got to get out of here, and Nini will help us. Didn’t she dispatch an entire crew of ghouls in Nini Mo vs. the Meat-packing Sausage Makers?”
Of course, Nini Mo had dispatched the ghouls by putting them through their own meat grinder, but I hoped that the Butcher was so freaked that she wouldn’t remember that detail.
“Bungalow baby dolls!”
The branches above us shook. We froze. The Butcher’s clutch became viselike. The stench of the grave was overwhelming—I gagged, clenching my teeth, feeling my blueberry buckle burn in the back of my throat. If I puked now, we’d be lost. Next to me, the Butcher gurgled; I slapped a hand over her mouth, pressing down hard. Then the air lifted, and the noise of breaking branches began to move off again.
Never before had I felt less like a ranger. No ranger would ever have allowed herself to be trapped like this, her back against the wall, unable to escape. A ranger would come up with a plan to escape, use what she had.
“Do you still have that Direction Sigil?” the Butcher hissed.
“Ayah, but it didn’t work before.”
“You didn’t do it right. You must have mispronounced the Word. Let me see the Sigil.”
I squirmed, loosening the Butcher’s grip enough to pull the Sigil out of my pocket. Its coldfire glow was dim, but it was there.
The Butcher squeezed me encouragingly. “Look, I’ll say the Word this time. You focus your fear.”
I didn’t need to focus my fear; my fear was already pretty darn focused on exactly what would happen if the Sigil went wrong. I’d rather take my chances with the ghoul than end up all the way inside a wall. “It’s too dangerous. Remember what happened to my hair!”
“We’re cool, Flora. The Key controls movement in Bilskinir. It won’t work without a door, but the Direction Sigil is a kind of door. Together, the Key and the Sigil will combine into a Translocation Sigil that will get us the fike out of here! There’s no chance it will go wrong!”
While we were whispering back and forth, the ghoulish noises had been getting closer again. Now that the stench of the grave was growing stronger, suddenly I felt as though maybe I would rather take my chances with the Sigil; surely if I ended up in the middle of a wall or floor or piece of furniture, I’d die instantly And that was better than being chewed to death.
“Get us out of here, then!”
“Focus your fear!”
The Butcher covered my hands with hers, so that the Sigil was tight within our combined grip. The Butcher’s hands were hot and sweaty, but then so, too, were mine. I didn’t need to use my imagination to conjure up visions of horrific monsters about to snatch me up and rend my flesh from my bones. Not when I could hear the horrific monster, crashing around me, crying out, “Oh sweetness, where have you gone?” As I focused all this panic and fear upon the Sigil, the familiar buzz began to spread through me, stronger than before. The Butcher’s hands ground into mine, cracking the bones. Pigface, she was strong, and her grip was hard, fierce, and galvanic.
The heat of the Sigil reached my head and again the world began to tilt and whirl. A great drumming filled my chest—my heartbeat and the Butcher’s, thrumming together. I could see the brilliant glow of her Anima—blue and gold, tinged with black—even through my closed eyelids. Then the Butcher’s grip loosened, pulled away, and she let out an almighty shriek. I opened my eyes to see her squirming and kicking in Georgiana’s grip.
“Oh, my bright-haired child of sunset,” Georgiana cackled. “How lovely you smell.”
With my free hand, I grabbed one of the Butcher’s kicking boots, trying to pull her away, but the ghoul was too strong. I needed both hands, yet I didn’t dare drop the Sigil; if it activated when I wasn’t touching it, it would go and leave me behind. And if the Sigil activated while Georgiana, the Butcher, and I were still linked, we’d all end up in the Cloakroom of the Abyss, which would be no escape at all. I pulled harder on the Butcher’s boot, but it was no use. The ghoul had the strength of a starving creature who knew her next meal was nigh. In my hand, the Sigil was crackling and spitting.
“FLORA!”
“Say the Word!” I screamed.
the Butcher shrieked.
I let go of her boot.
And she—
The ghoul—
I—
Gone.
Thirty-Seven
The Cloakroom of the Abyss. Azota. Tent City.
THE BRIEF SENSATION of falling surrounded me, and I landed hard, the impact shooting all the air out of my lungs and momentarily stunning me. I gurgled, lungs inflating, gasping. When the sparkly darkness lifted, I discovered I was lying on top of a man dressed in old-timey plate mail, the ridges of his armor digging painfully into my arms and legs. The man looked as though he were asleep, but he was not. The man was Albany Bilskinir, the husband of Georgiana Primera Haðraaða, and he’d been dead for years and years.
I was in the Cloakroom of the Abyss. The Translocation Sigil had worked, though it wasn’t going to work again. The Sigil had burned up, leaving behind a throbbing scorch mark in my palm. There was no sign of the Butcher or Georgiana Segunda.
Other families dispose of their dead decently, bodies carefully wrapped and placed into holes or burned up on funeral pyres and placed in large pots. But the Haðraaða Family is not so tidy The walls of the Cloakroom of the Abyss are lined with alcoves, stacked four levels high. Each alcove contains a catafalque, and upon each catafalque rests a Haðraaða corpse, perfectly preserved.
The Cloakroom is silent, except for the distant pulse of the sea, lit only by wavery greenish light that seems to be coming from the green marble itself. This light is dim and fluttery, and in it the corpses lie on their marvelously carved catafalques perfectly preserved. From my previous visit to Bilskinir, I knew this perfection was merely an illusion. Under the disguising Glamours, the bodies bear hideous marks of death: childbirth, dog bite, hanging, arrow to the throat.
I knew where I was, but when was I? When I climbed down from Albany Bilskinir’s bier, I beheld the answer: There, in the middle of the room, stood Hardhands’s shiplike catafalque, draped in sail-like red curtains. Hardhands was dead and I was home. I had no idea why the Sigil had taken me not only to the right place, but also to the right time, but I didn’t care. Don’t look a gift mule in the mouth, said Nini Mo.
Of the six alcoves at floor level, five contain Haðraaðas, but the sixth, I remembered from before, is empty. The mermaid figurehead at the prow of Hardhands’s catafalque seemed to be watching me as I staggered over to that empty alcove. As I approached, the inscription on the lintel lit up: CYRENACIA SIDONIA ROMNEY BRAKESPEARE OV HAÐRAAÐA. When Tiny Doom had told me her name, she had left out the most important bits—the parts I would have recognized: Cyrenacia Brakespeare. An ivory-handled whip lay on the plinth, its lash made from a long vivid red braid: Poppy’s hair, sheared as a sign of mourning. By the time the Birdies got done with her, there was nothing left to bury.
I stood there, looking at the whip. I knew Tiny Doom had survived the ghoulish Georgiana and had lived to die another day, but I still felt terrible for abandoning her, what seemed like only minutes ago. She’d come back for me, but I’d left her behind. Rangers never abandon a comrade.
I still could not reconcile Tiny Doom and the Butcher Brakespeare—the girl she’d been, the woman she’d become. But I couldn’t think of her as the Butcher anymore, only as Tiny Doom. Whatever monster she grew up to be, she hadn’t been a monster then. She’d been pretty darn cool, brave and faithful, clever and quick. And I’d lied to her and left her in the lurch.
“I’m sorry, Tiny Doom,” I said, the dead silence muting my voice and making my apology sound insignificant, which, of course, it was.
And I was sorry about something else, too: Now I would never meet Nini Mo. To have been so close and yet too far was extremely disappointin
g. On the other hand, Nini Mo probably would not have been impressed with the way I’d treated my comrade, so maybe it was just as well.
But I couldn’t waste any more time thinking about my failures. I had to get the Diario to Lord Axacaya. I had no idea how much time had passed since I had entered Bilskinir; perhaps it was already too late.
So I scarpered, quickly and quietly. As I had no intention of giving the Diario back, it seemed wise to leave before Paimon found me. But while making my way out of Bilskinir, no sign of Paimon did I see. The House felt strangely lifeless. Perhaps his power was fading at last, and the thought made me sad. Paimon deserved better.
Bilskinir’s front gate, small and wooden, was closed. A huge bulk loomed on the other side, and my heart surged with gladness when I saw the whiskery nose and the chocolate eyes. The tide must have dropped, allowing Sieur Caballo to climb to the top of the causeway and wait for me. I had succeeded in my goal, despite all—time mix-up, oubliette, ghouls, Tiny Doom’s foul cigarillos—and I should have felt triumphant. But I felt like hell, like every bone in my body had been pounded into mash, my blood replaced with thick gelatin and my sinews with rusty wire. If there hadn’t been a rock to climb upon, I doubt if I could have mounted Sieur Caballo. He could smell my urgency; as soon I was seated, he took off down the causeway, which, happily, was dry.
Below us, the Pacifica Playa was now scattered with tents and shebangs. My heart thudded. Were these just refugees paranoid about future earth shakings, or all who were left after the Final Upheaval? My heart thudded faster: Thin tendrils of black smoke were trailing above the Loma Linda hills. Maybe I was too late—maybe the Loliga’s labor had already begun and the City had succumbed to her convulsions.
Hope is free, said Nini Mo.
I hoped, hoped, hoped, that I was not too late.
People were straggling down the Lobos Road, some on foot, carrying baskets, babies, dogs. Others pushed wheelbarrows piled high with household goods. A dogcart carrying two small children, one holding a chicken whose plumage reminded me unaccountably of Alfonzo the merman. Two mules pulling a wagon full of turnips. Two black-and-white collies herding a small huddle of sheep.
Everyone was coming from the City. I seemed to be the only one heading toward it.
Please, Califa, do not let me be too late.
I urged Sieur Caballo into a trot. We crossed the Great Sandy Bank, also scattered with shebangs, and turned onto the City Road. We passed the Bella Union Saloon, which was doing a rip-roaring business; I guess people think it’s better to face disaster drunk than sober. A man staggered out from behind a wagon, the front of his kilt falling open, and tried to grab at Sieur Caballo’s head, but he shied away and took off at a full gallop.
By the time we approached the Portal Pass, I was lathered in sweaty fear. At the top of the pass, you can see all the way across the City, across the blue sweep of the Bay, to the distant hazy hills of Alameda. What would that vista show now? Smoking ruins? A hurricane of fire? I clenched the reins and bit my lip, feeling as though I might, at any moment, puke that chocolate and buckle I had eaten so many years ago.
Halfway up the grade, a squad of soldiers roared up from behind and passed us. The guidon proclaimed them to be from the Dandies. They looked tough and purposeful, and I felt a surge of relief—no matter what else, the Army was standing firm. I put heels to Sieur Caballo, and we followed in their dusty wake. As we crested the pass, my dread grew so strong that I felt as though I might faint.
But there, spread out before me, was the City intact. Smudgy with smoke, but intact. I was not too late. I pulled Sieur Caballo to a stop. If I squinted, I could pick out the second-tallest hill in the City: Crackpot Hill. If I squinted even more, I could see the very tippy-top of Poppy’s Eyrie, and then, higher than that, a flutter—so small that I had to supply its color with my imagination: purple. Mamma’s colors. Crackpot Hall was fine.
I was not too late.
Giddy with happiness, I leaned over and kissed the spot between Sieur Caballo’s ears. “Remind me, when I see him next, to give Valefor a big wet one, too,” I said. His ears flickered, and he tossed his head, pawing at the ground.
Thirty-Eight
Tortillas. The Diario. Nap Time.
CASA MARIPOSA, Lord Axacaya’s house, is built in the Birdie style, which means that from the street it looks unassuming, its front facade a long white expanse of windowless whitewashed walls. I left Sieur Caballo at the public water trough outside and made my way through Mariposa’s open gate and into the main courtyard, which I had seen before only by moonlight, when I had come to Mariposa to ask Lord Axacaya’s help in curing my Anima Enervation. In the daylight, the Courtyard was even more splendid, awash in flowers: violently purple bougainvilleas, yolk-colored marigolds, crimson rosebushes. Iridescent blue-green parrots darted over my head, and the air was flecked with butterflies: green and gold, white and red, some as small as gnats, others nearly as big as the parrots.
Casa Mariposa has no Butler, but Lord Axacaya does have a praterhuman steward called Sitri, who was now coming toward me. Sitri has the head of a camel and a human body, but this combination is not as weirdly horrible as the eagle-human Quetzals, maybe because his camel eyes looked so sad.
“Ave, Madama Fyrdraaca.” Sitri bowed deeply. “Welcome to Casa Mariposa.”
He offered me a stirrup cup, and after brushing away the butterflies swarming around it, I drank: deliciously cold hibiscus lemonade. “Thank you. My horse is outside,” I said, handing him back the glass. “Could someone bring him in, brush him down, and feed him? He hasn’t eaten in a while. And check his hooves for stones?”
Sitri nodded morosely. “It shall be done. Come. Lord Axacaya awaits you.”
As we passed down the long passage, I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror. I didn’t look too bad. Tiny Doom’s stays fit so much better than my old ones, and her frock coat was splendid—so old-fashioned it was almost stylish. Sure, my hair was a mess, and my eyeliner had blurred into black shadows, but I looked rather rough and sexy, like someone who was too busy to worry about how she looked, but always looked pretty good naturally.
Axila Aguila coalesced out of the shadows and joined us. She nodded at Sitri, who vanished.
“You took a long time,” she said. “At Bilskinir.”
“Longer than you might think.” Little sparkles of anticipation were twinkling in my tum as I followed her down the hallway and across another courtyard. Now that I knew that Crackpot Hall still stood, and I had accomplished my mission, and everything was going to be cool—I felt pretty good, actually. A monkey chattered in a jacaranda tree, and jewel-colored birds clustered on the edge of an elaborate cactus-shaped fountain. But there was a long jagged crack in the plaster of one of the walls, plaster chunks on the sidewalk, and the ground under the citrus trees was littered with fallen oranges and lemons, filling the air with the pungent scent of rotting fruit. Don’t count your money until you have left the gambling hell, said Nini Mo. We weren’t safe yet.
“Lord Axacaya was concerned. He feared that perhaps you had gotten lost. Or that Paimon had not been welcoming.”
“Well, I had a few difficulties, but overall, a piece of cake.”
The Quetzal swiveled her head toward me, even as she continued to walk. The golden eyes gleamed. “I am glad to hear that, Flora.”
“Flora!” Before I could respond to Lord Axacaya’s call, I was enfolded in a burning hot embrace. He squeezed me until I was breathless, and briefly swung me up off the ground. Then, laughing, he released me. “I’m sorry pequeña! But I am so glad to see you. I was extremely worried.” Today he was dressed plainly in a white kilt. No features or ornaments other than his brilliant blue tattoos. But still, he was beautiful and his smile was like the sun.
“No problem at all,” I said, laughing with him.
“Come—you must be starving. Let us eat, and then you shall tell me everything.” He led me through a long gallery, its walls vividly painted with a mura
l depicting a Birdie sacrifice: a jade-masked priest brandishing an obsidian knife, four eagle-headed priests restraining a screaming figure. In the sunshine slanting through the slatted latilla ceiling, the mural was garishly lifelike. Lord Axacaya brought me to a small round room beyond the gallery, with whitewashed walls that were perfectly plain. The only furniture was a low wooden table, surrounded by brightly colored pillows.
A delicious warmth wafted from the brazier in the center of the table. A griddle stone had been placed on the brazier, and a bubbling pot sat at one end, whistling the most delicious spicy smell. We sat across from each other, and Sitri, who had silently followed us, placed an earthenware bowl and horn spoon before each of us. While Sitri ladled the pozole, Lord Axacaya began to pat our tortillas. Making tortillas without a press isn’t easy; believe me, the grade I got in Elementary Cookery is proof of that. But Lord Axacaya seemed to have the trick down, and the tortillas were delicious, tasting of dusty corn and charred lime and the warmth of the fire.
Sitri had filled my bowl, and now a rich spicy fragrance drifted up, wonderfully steamy The pozole was fat with swollen hominy and chunks of tender pork. Its warmth—heat and spice—spilled down my throat, into my vast empty tum, and then pulsated into my collapsed veins, filling them with goodness and light.
Lord Axacaya kept passing down the tortillas, and whenever my bowl was empty, Sitri filled it again, and again, and again. The hole in my tummy was not as deep as I had thought; it took a while of slurping and chewing, but eventually it was full. I did manage to drink the xocholatte that Sitri finally set in front of me, but then I felt both sleepy and in need to loosen my (Tiny Doom’s) stays.
“Now, tell me everything,” Lord Axacaya said, and so I lay back upon the pillows and told him everything. He listened, occasionally sipping from his own xocholatte. Midway through my recitation, I felt a waft of cool air on my back, and though I didn’t turn to look, I knew that the Quetzal had joined us. Lord Axacaya seemed pleased with my story; though he looked suitably concerned during the dark and scary parts of my tale, toward the end, his smile grew large and proud.
Flora's Dare: How a Girl of Spirit Gambles All to Expand Her Vocabulary, Confront a Bouncing Boy Terror, and Try to Save Califa from a Shaky Doom (Despite Being Confined to Her Room) Page 25