Shrike stepped toward Primo's voice. Spyder let her and stood where he was, nervous, but careful not to show any emotion. He simply frowned.

"We understand," said Shrike.

Primo rubbed his hands nervously and looked at Shrike and Spyder. "There is, um, one more stipulation," he said, and reached behind an enormous elephant ear plant to pull a hidden lever set into the floor. Gears ground beneath their feet. Pistons hissed and pulleys clanked into action. From the ceiling, a gigantic metal flower lowered itself and opened slowly, like a blossom in the morning sun, to reveal dozens of serrated blades, each longer than Spyder was tall.

"Because of the delicate nature of this commission, if your services are not needed you will not, um, be permitted to leave. Madame Cinders regrets any inconvenience this may cause you."

Spyder shifted his gaze to Shrike. She hadn't moved, so he mimicked her indifference.

"We're ready," Shrike said.

Primo went and stood beside Madame Cinders' wheelchair. The old woman hadn't budged since her entrance. When her voice came, it filled the room, surprisingly strong, deep and clear.

"What is your name, child?" She was addressing Shrike. Spyder looked at her.

"I am Alizarin Katya Ryu." She gave the old woman the slightest of bows.

"Is that your only name?"

"I'm sometimes called Blind Shrike," she said. "Sometimes Butcher Bird."

"Why do you carry the name of a harmless little hatchling?"

"The shrike is a hunter, Madame, though a diminutive one. So am I. The shrike skewers its prey on thorns and continues to hunt. Like the shrike, I hunt until the hunt is over. The name was given to me by those who've seen my skill."

"You're an assassin, child?"

"Yes, Madame."

"But you are also a thief."

"No, ma'am."

"Did you not eat my figs without asking? That's thievery."

"We were led to food and drink by your servant. We assumed the fruit was for your guests," said Shrike flatly.

"Is it your habit to conduct your life and work based on assumptions?"

"I use common sense. When food and drink are offered by someone asking for my service, I feel free to eat and drink. If I was wrong in this case, if I have offended you, I apologize. But do not forget, Madame Cinders, that it was you who sought out my help. If it is not wanted, then we'll be on our way."

"You have a temper, child."

"Not temper. I simply dislike wasting time, yours or mine."

The old woman paused. Her head moved, ever so slightly. Spyder stared deeply into the blackness where he knew her eyes to be. "Your companion, does he speak?"

"Only when he has something to say."

"Tell me, are you a traveler?"

"If you are asking if I am I willing to go where a patron needs me, the answer is Yes."

"What if the destination is beyond this Sphere? Beyond every Sphere you know?"

"I go where I'm paid to go."

"Will you go to Hell for me, Blind Shrike?"

"I'm confused, Madame. I'm an assassin. What use would I be to you in a place of the dead?"

"What indeed?" The little pump attached to Madame Cinders' wheelchair chuffed into life. An inverted bottle of some thick purplish fluid bubbled on her IV stand. She sighed a little as the fluid drained into her. "As a traveler, what can you tell me of Hell?" Madame Cinders asked.

"It's very far. It is a city underground, or so surrounded by mountains that it appears to be underground. There are many entrances and exits, if one knows the way. Mostly, I know that you want to avoid the place, if -possible."

"Is that all?"

"As I said, Madame, my concern has largely been with living, breathing adversaries."

"You are not doing well, child. Not well at all. Do you wish to be fed to my little flowers?"

"The question is insulting," said Shrike.

The old woman was silent for a moment. Then asked, "If you were to go to Hell on my behalf and you met the great beast called Asmodai, what would you say to him?"

"Who, Madame?"

"No questions, please," said Primo.

"What would you say upon meeting the beast Asmodai?" asked Madame Cinders.

"Good day to you, sir beast?"

Madame Cinders shook her head wearily and turned to Primo. The little man looked at the lever that controlled the metal flower hanging over their heads.

"I would say his name," said Spyder. He took a step forward so that he was standing next Shrike. Her head snapped in his direction. "If I were wearing something on my head, I would remove it and I'd say Asmodai's name three times, once to each of his heads. Once I've done this, he'll kneel down and answer all my questions truthfully."

"And if you met Paimon?"

"I would only speak to him facing the northwest and never, ever look into his eyes."

"Better," said Madame Cinders. "Between the two of you, I see one good hunter and one good hunter is all I need."

The woman made a slight, almost invisible gesture. Primo jerked the lever that controlled the metal flower. Gears ground again and the blades began to retract. Spyder, his stomach knotted with tension, relaxed. Until he heard a click. The flower stopped retracting and the blades sprang open. The metal blossom shot down at them as if fired by a cannon. Spyder couldn't move. There was nowhere to go and he was mesmerized by the gorgeous meat grinder fall toward their heads.

Something blurred past his eye.

Shrike's blade was up and out. She hadn't struck the flower, but had wedged her sword into the central shaft around which the blades spun, jamming the mechanism. When he realized what had stopped, Spyder's brain he grabbed on to Shrike's sword, reinforcing her hold on the flower.

Madame Cinders' deep rasping laugh filled the room. "Better and better," she said. "You've earned the commission." Primo pushed the lever again and the flower retracted completely, disappearing into the ceiling. By then, the old woman had gone.

Primo took Spyder and Shrike from the greenhouse to Madame Cinders' private quarters, which was located at the top of the minaret they'd seen from outside the -compound.

They climbed a stone spiral staircase that had been worn smooth over centuries of use. Spyder had no idea how Madame Cinders got up and down the tower since it didn't seem big enough to house anything resembling an elevator. Shrike tugged on Spyder's arm, holding him back and letting Primo get ahead of them on the stairs.

"Since when are you an expert on demonology?" she asked. "You didn't even believe in demons until two days ago."

"My daddy used to say, `Just because T-bones are better eating, doesn't mean you shouldn't know the zip code of the brisket.'"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means, that even a useless tattooist can pick up a few facts that aren't about girls or ink," he said. "Jenny was an anthropology major. Studying medieval Christianity. I used to read her textbooks when she was finished. You'd be surprised how hot and bothered a little demon and saint talk gets Catholic girls. I still know Hell's floorplan, all seven Heavens and which angels rule each one."

"You saved us back there."

"That sword trick helped. Someday you're going to have to show me how that thing goes from a cane to a blade so fast."

"Stay useful and I will."

They entered Madame Cinders' private quarters. The room was dark, as the shutters, which were carved in traditional Muslim geometrics, were closed to keep out the heat. Enough light came through the skylights that the opulence of the room was unmistakable. The walls were hung with tapestries and dark purple velvets. The furniture, a mixture of low Middle Eastern style pillows and benches, was mixed with elegant European pieces and upholstered in rich brocades. Delicate lamps of brass and milky glass dotted the room. Above an Empire-style desk was an oil portrait of a young woman. Her skin was creamy and pale, like liquid pearls, and her hair long and dark. She wore a high-necked turquoise gown of a simple cut, but even in the painting it was obvious that it was of exquisite material and expertly made. In her hands, the girl held a book whose tattered cover and cracked spine indicated its great age and constant use. Spyder wondered if the girl in the picture was Madame Cinders in earlier, happier times. It was hard picturing the wheezing wreck in the wheelchair as a girl, much less a pretty one getting her portrait painted on her birthday.