Murder of Angels (42 page)

Light has begun to seep from the empty cocoon or chrysalis; a liquid light like careless drops of mercury, yet no color that Daria has ever seen before, some shade a little or a lot too far beyond one side or the other of the visible spectrum. But she’s
seeing
it now, anyway. It splashes across the high spines on the back of the black thing and trickles down its emaciated xylophone sides, though the creature doesn’t seem to notice. It doesn’t turn away from Archer Day, who suddenly looks more frightened than insane. She’s raised her gun again and is pointing it at the thing’s open mouth.

“Oh no, you little cunt.
I
get to go home.
That’s
the goddamn deal, and we’re playing by the rules.”

Daria silently begs herself to shut her eyes, shut them quick while there’s still time not to see what’s coming next, but she doesn’t close them, as though she’s forgotten how to work her lids.

The thing from the cocoon opens its spindle jaws wider still and sprays Archer Day with some viscous, oily fluid, a living stream like the purest, darkest night, like the aching, barren distance between stars, erupting from its throat. Her body shudders once before she sinks slowly to her knees, and the ball bearing rolls out of her hand towards the edge of the circle drawn in the earth. And the creature turns back towards Daria, cold night dribbling from its skull. Beyond it, the ball bearing glows, a tiny sun dropped in the dust.

Archer Day slumps back against the basement wall and lies still.

Daria manages to keep her eyes on the ball bearing, surely the lesser of three evils. The earth around it has begun to burn the same indescribable color as the stuff oozing out of the cocoon, and the fire spreads quickly.

Niki wonders how long there have been slivers shining through the soothing nothingness, how long there has been
something
to mar the exquisite absence of anything. The singularly when-where consciousness began again, and all these intruding thoughts take longer than she expected them to; before they’re done, the slivers have become radiant gashes and ugly strands and clots of existence are spilling through. If she had a needle and thread, or knew a little of the red witches’ magic, perhaps she could seal them up again. Then she could float nowhere for a trillion billion years until there are no universes left that want any part of her. But she doesn’t, never mind that she’s the Hierophant, she doubts she could pull a rabbit out of a hat, even if she’d put it there first. She clutches in vain at the shreds of nothing coming apart all around her.

“Time to get on with it,” Danny Boudreaux whispers from one of the clots or strands, and this is not the cruel spectre of Danny that haunted her in San Francisco. This is simply Danny, the boy who might have become the girl she could have spent her life with, if she hadn’t been so afraid. “If we could lie in bed all day,” he says, “if we could lie in bed all day listening to the people in the street. Remember that guy who used to wander up and down Ursulines shouting, ‘The monkeys are coming! Repent! The monkeys are coming!’?”

And she does, as the variegated waves of being wash over her, like frothy ocean waves around her knees. But she doesn’t answer him, and she doesn’t know why.

“You were always the strong one, Niki,” he says, and she imagines his smile. She wants to tell him that’s not true, that she isn’t strong, and she’s never
been
strong, no matter what’s happened or what people have expected of her. But there are strings now, as if she’s tumbled into a black room crisscrossed wall to wall and ceiling to floor with countless lengths of kite string dipped in glow-in-the-dark tempera paint or, no,
not
string, but fiber optic filaments in all the hues that roses grow—deep reds and pale pinks, snow and cream and vivid yellow fringed with vermeil—and if she moves, if she so much as
breathes,
she might sever a strand and bring it all down on her head.

“Mind you, this is only a representation,” Dr. Dalby tells her. “A rude cartoon, if you will.”

The filaments begin trading their colors, a game of musical chairs or a Halloween masquerade for the cast of the chaotic eternal inflation, carnival bulbs flashing first one delirious color and then another, and this is better than any acid or mushroom trip or schizoid hallucination, she thinks, even if it is only a representation.

Beyond the event horizon, the gashes have become gaping holes, drawing her ever nearer their rotting ivory teeth. The flashing strings part to let her pass, though she wishes that they wouldn’t.

“Wait,” Spyder calls out, and Niki looks back, and her heart breaks again, and again, and again, at the beauty of the white, white woman who had once been someone she loved. The filaments are winding themselves into Spyder’s gown and dreadlocks, and the red gem between her eyes devours them alive.

“You go so far with a thing, Niki, there’s no turning back. Do you know what I mean?”

“I think so. But maybe there
is
a turning back. I just turned my head to see you, didn’t I?”

“There’s no
direction
here,” Spyder mutters, annoyed, like Niki should have known that.

“But you know what I
mean,
” Niki insists. “I know you know. What they’ve told me, is it true? Is that why you brought me here?”

“My father was a serpent. My father was an old snake in a tree with apples and candy and razor-blade Bible pages to cut my hands.”

“He was only your father. And he’s dead now. He isn’t the Dragon. Not
this
dragon.”

“You’ve been listening to old Pikabo. I knew you had.”

And Niki realizes that she’s feeling
pulled,
caught in the competing, evenly matched gravities of Spyder and the reality holes.
They’ll rip me in half like a theater ticket,
she thinks and wonders if it will hurt as much as she imagines.

“With the Nesmidians, we could have killed him. We could have killed him here, and none of this would have been necessary. She sees nothing but balance, Niki, balance at any cost.”

“You would set the Dragon loose in our world?”

“
This
is our world. What is there back there worth saving? Tell me that, why don’t you? Name just one thing.”

And Niki doesn’t have to think. “Daria,” she says immediately, and there are other things, more than she could list in a lifetime, but she can see from Spyder’s expression and the way the strings are winking out around her that there’s no point in continuing.

“She has betrayed you. You know she has. You know she doesn’t want you around anymore.”

“But that doesn’t mean that I don’t still love her,” Niki says, words that cut her tongue, her lips, the deepest parts of her soul, but they’re true words, and she clings to them. “It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t love me.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

“Let me go, Spyder. I won’t do this for you. I won’t fight the Dragon for you.”

Galaxies swirl in the irises of Spyder’s angry, pale eyes, supernovae and blue giants, and Niki knows that the holes, which have now become

a single

hole,

{horizon} (tidal gravity)

are winning the tug-of-war. And she wishes that Scarborough had hit her just a little harder.

“Without the Dragon, this world would be perfect,” Spyder says.

“There’s no dragon where we came from, and it’s not perfect,” Niki replies, and now the things in Spyder’s eyes are unrecognizable.

“There are dragons everywhere. There are serpents and dragons and devils.”

“I won’t do it,” Niki tells her again, and then she’s falling, which means there must be direction, after all, maybe direction that’s only just come into being. Not so very different than

the
fall
from
the bridge

and she watches Spyder

falling the
other
way, until she’s become only a bright

speck,

a particularly white star all but lost among the infinity of twinkling worldlines.

I’m near the edge now.

she thinks, but isn’t at all sure what she means.

And then Niki slips through the breach, dropped back into her body so hard that her teeth clack together and she bites her tongue. The salty, metallic taste of blood, iron molecules torn from hemoglobin and dissolving like Communion wafers on her tongue.

My mother was Catholic, my father was an old serpent,
but no, that last part was Spyder, not her, and she has to remember that if she’s to do this one last thing.

The temple at Nesmia Shar, that enormous, somber room of gray stone, flashes before her eyes like an epileptic slideshow. Images flickering lightspeed across her retinas, engulfed by her shrinking-swelling-shrinking-swelling pupils, and now oblivion seems very, very distant.

The red witches, assembled before the towering, graven image of Dezyin, their glowering griffin, gryphon,
gryphus, grypgryps
that isn’t, neither half lion nor half eagle. The air of the chamber clouded with incense and the vocal press of chanting. The idol’s eyes blaze almost as bright as Spyder’s did.

Pikabo Kenzia, solemn and fearful and beautiful in her sage-colored skullcap, and all her sisters and daughters spread out around her like fallen autumn leaves set afire, smoldering, bleeding the smothering fumes of herbs and dung and amber.

And there I am,
Niki thinks, spotting her naked self stretched out on the stone table set at Dezyin’s taloned feet. One of the women with a white bandana tied around her hair stands on the table near her, and the sight fills Niki with something worse than helplessness or sorrow. She would slither right back into the place of strings, if she knew the way.

“We ask nothing of you, daughter, that you have not already pledged,” Pikabo Kenzia says, and the woman standing beside Niki takes off her crimson robes, and they fall to the floor, revealing skin as white as bone. “You are brave, and you will shame us all with your forfeiture. By your sacrifice might worlds be saved.”

No!
Niki screams, but her lips are as still as the lips of the dead.
Not for me, goddamn it! Don’t let her die for me!

The flicker across her eyes, and she raises a hand to cover them, the hand that the Dragon opened and curled up inside so long ago now that it seems like lifetimes passed and passed again, and now she can see that there are things
growing
in there. Not maggots, but the things that maggots worship, and they are eating her, one tiny mouthful at a time.

And she can see
through
her hand, as well, as though it were only glass or plastic that no maggot-god would ever want to taste. The flat-world globe has been replaced by the fire pit, and the naked woman in the white bandana stands at the top of the long iron trough. An old woman is painting Niki’s skin with elaborate runes or ideograms, blood to ink, and for just a second, Niki thinks the characters might be Vietnamese.

Pikabo Kenzia draws a great, curved knife from her own robes, and the firelight glints brightly off its blade.

“The body of woman is like a flash of lightning,” she chants, “existing only to return to nothingness. Like the summer growth that shrivels in winter. Waste thee no thought on the process, for it has no purpose, coming and going like dew.”

Fuck this!
Niki screams at the red witch.
Fuck you all!
but even she can’t hear herself. The old woman has finished dabbing the runes across her breasts and stomach and thighs, and she lays the dried corpse of a small turquoise lizard across Niki’s forehead.

“Like a wall, a woman’s body constantly stands on the verge of collapse,” Pikabo continues, “and still, the world buzzes on like angry bees. Let it come and go, appear and vanish, for what have we to lose?”