tured for Cornelius to come forward and drop the book. As it hit the floor, the tower shook as if it had been hit by an earthquake. Cinders guards looked around anxiously as bones, dried herbs and potions tumbled from the shelves, but Madame Cinders showed no outward reaction. This wasnt surprising, Spyder thought. She looked even worse, less human than when theyd left her.
"Ive heard about your doings in the underworld. You think you have power now that youve defeated a few miscreant angels," she said. "But you have no real power. "
Madame Cinders was no longer upright. Her gilded wheelchair had been replaced by a kind of mechanical gurney, on which she lay fully prone. Only her head was upright, propped on a pile of stained pillows. Spyder was sure shed shrunk in size, too. Were her legs missing? The pump system that injected and drained whatever horrible fluids kept her feeble flesh moving, had doubled in size, and was now larger than Cinders and the gurney together. Still, trapped in that ruined body, she managed to project both intelligence and menace. Spyder didnt like looking at her. She stank like an old abattoir. Spyder patted his pockets, found the last of the tobacco hed acquired at Berenice and began rolling a cigarette.
"Theres no smoking in the presence of Madame," said one of her guards. Spyder ignored him. He licked the paper lengthwise and rolled the cigarette closer.
Madame Cinders continued, "Any fool can stumble into luck once, twice, a hundred times, but at the end of the day, luck always fails. Then, skill and knowledge are required. You have neither. The Butcher Bird has some, but not enough to save you both. "
"I have plenty of skill. Im a pretty good tattoo artist. And I kn
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