outh. "
"Did the princess have a horse named Princess?"
She pinched his nipple. "I didnt call my horse Princess because he wouldnt 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 dont know. "
"Was it for someone you two killed?"
"Maybe. "
"Does it have something to do with this new client?"
"I honestly dont 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 Ill think about it. "
Fourteen
What Are Little Boys Made Of?
In Spyders 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, 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 furnac
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