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Thirty-Three

Inari sat bolt upright, shaking. She took a deep breath, inhaling the once familiar scent of Hell: old incense, and hatred, and blood, overlaid with the more fragrant odors of tea and the perfume of the night-lilies, which drifted in from the garden. She had been dreaming a dream in which Dao Yi had snatched her back to the underworld, and was mauling her with putrefying hands . . .It was a moment before she realized that this was memory, not dream; another moment still before the knowledge dawned upon her that it was not this recollection that had awakened her. There was something in the room.

Zhu Irzh, she thought. Carefully and quietly, she lay back down on the bed. Her hands, resting gently on the covers, flexed their long talons and she could feel the prickle of her incisors as they lengthened. Here in Hell, her own world, she was becoming more demonic by the minute, and she did not like it. She did not want to be this fierce, fearful thing longing for the taste of blood in her mouth, yet repulsed by her own nature and those around her. She wanted to be back on the houseboat, pottering about with the cooking, and the badger weaving in and out between her feet. Sunlight and salt, and fresh clear air. . .remember who you have become, not who you once were. . . But now she had to remember both. She could hear footsteps moving stealthily about the room. She turned over, sighing as she did so in the pretence of deep sleep, then rolled silently onto her back once more. There was a heavy rustle of silk as the curtains were pulled aside. Inari stirred, murmured, peered through half-closed eyes.

A little pair of hands protruded through the curtain. They were delicate hands, with long golden talons shaped into fashionable spirals, and even in the darkness Inari's night-eyes could see that the hands were as red as blood. Long fingers rippled and flexed in obscene anticipation and then, as if by magic, a length of black silk was conjured from the depths of a sleeve. The owner of the hands gave a small, breathy gasp, almost a giggle, and reached out with the garrote. Inari struck: rearing up from the bed and lashing out with a taloned hand. Silk curtains tore and something fell wetly to the bed: a long strip of decaying flesh attached to something bony, which sizzled into ash as soon as it touched the covers. Freeing herself from the bedclothes, Inari sprang to the floor. The figure wore an ornate ceremonial robe. Long hair cascaded down its back. Its eyes were huge and dark above the ruin of its jaw, and now Inari could see what it was that she had torn away: a strip of the creature's face and rotting jawbone. The creature's tongue lolled loosely from the back of its throat and it reached up a red hand and stuffed the tongue awkwardly back in. Then it came forwards in a crouching rush. Inari kicked out and hooked a foot behind its bony ankle, bringing it crashing to the floor. It struck out with a flailing arm and she grasped its wrist and twisted. The arm came out of its socket like a ripe plum falling from a tree. Gasping, Inari threw it to one side. She kicked the creature in the ribs and felt something cave rottenly inwards. The creature gave a whistling cry. Its ribcage began to expand outwards, each bone unpeeling itself from the sternum, dangling petals of flesh. The ribs arched back until they reached the floor, where they began to scrabble and thrash like the legs of some monstrous arachnid. Inari fled into the tiny kitchenette and dumped one of the cabinet drawers onto the floor. Seizing a long knife, she ran back into the main room in time to see that the creature had managed to turn itself right way up. It had now divested itself of all spare flesh except the legs, which remained entangled in the robe and trailed across the floor like long and empty bags. As Inari stumbled to a halt, its legs finally fell away, leaving the creature's spine free to arch upwards over its head. Its tongue, attached only by a thin and elastic strip of skin, finally fell off. The foremost ribs, now legs, clicked as the creature ran forwards. A sharp, dark thing like the thorn of a rose protruded from the end of the spine, glistening with venom. Inari dived over the couch just as it lashed forwards. The venomous spine shot through the back of the divan, where it stuck. Scrambling to her feet, Inari struck down with the knife, hacking frantically at bone and sinew until the spine was completely severed. The thing scuttled forwards, only to be knocked flying as the door surged open and Zhu Irzh leaped through, sword in hand.

"What the fuck?" he shouted, wide-eyed.

Loosened by the draught, the French windows had come open and now slammed to and fro in the rising wind from the garden. Glancing towards the verandah, Inari saw that the lock had been punched out, presumably as the thing had gained entrance into the room. She did not stay to find out what might happen to the spiny thing, nor to her erstwhile host. Instead, she sprinted out into the garden.

"Leilei!" Zhu Irzh cried, behind her. She heard the rattle of bones on the floor, but she did not stop. Thrusting the night-lilies aside, she bolted through the garden and scrambled over the fence into the alley. And then, clad in yet another dressing gown but with the knife clutched firmly in one hand, Inari ran until she could run no more.

 

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Framed