Into the Tiger's Hour

Chapter Seven

The Last Page was tucked away in an alley, just inside the Waterfront District. People often found it by

accident, but visiting once was a sure indicator that they'd return. And Iris had spent many enjoyable hours there, sitting in Spider's Goth chic bookstore with an almond or coconut milk in hand, paging through the books that Spider held back for her.

It felt slightly different now, following Tyler Kincaid down the alleyway, as if her question had caused a shift in the air. Or it was the coffee. Iris had sipped a few caffeinated drinks in her life and felt jittery afterwards; this was not like that feeling. The coffee was, however, a handy scapegoat and she muttered under her breath about it the whole walk to the descending stairs that took them the half-floor to the Last Page's front door.

It was a good indication as to what lay beyond, that door. Iris had been there the day Ax had installed it for Spider, and the bookseller had even risked a momentary excursion aboveground to see it from the outside. A heavy steel frame had been molded to look like shelves; Ax had painstakingly engraved the titles of over forty books onto the ones he'd carved into the metal. A single black widow spider, enameled and glossy, hung from the top right hand corner. Tyler reached up to touch it automatically, a habit all of those who knew Spider well developed, before he dragged it open and pushed the inner mahogany door inward.

Fafnir, the red ceramic dragon's head mounted above the door, gave off his mechanical roar and Iris inhaled the scent of dragon's blood and sandalwood incense. Tyler set their motorcycle helmets onto the long, black counter that ran to the right of the door and tiptoed, looking over the antique cash register towards the doorway beyond. Nothing ruffled the strings of beads; the skull they depicted remained flawless as Tyler pushed the door shut behind Iris.

"Spider? You here, babe?"

Iris didn't follow him forward across the black carpet as he ducked around the first of the seven foot high, black oak bookshelves that filled and partitioned the store. She lingered by the counter, rubbing her fingertips across the highly polished wood, and breathed in deeply, tasting the incense on the air, enjoying the scent of oiled leather, pages and coffee that always lingered beneath whatever exotic incense Spider was burning that day. She stepped sideways and found the old bar stool, the red leather on top cracking and dull, that was left at the far end for whoever was lingering to chat while Spider worked on the day's accounts.

It was a high enough perch to let Iris see the neat stack of ledgers beneath the counter and over the edge of the curio cabinet that hung on the back wall, out of customers' reach. Spider never explained the contents and few asked, finding the sight of squat glass bottles filled with strange, active liquids to be unnerving. One looked like lava, gleaming with the colors of molten rock, and burbled occasionally, sending droplets of glistening orange upwards. The one beside it glowed even in the store's dim light, a violent, angry electric blue, and sparked often, crackling audibly. A third held a dull green fluid that continually, sluggishly swirled, showing hints of oily black.

Iris's favorite was the one that looked like it held dull mercury, continually giving off a faint, wispy fog that never escaped the tight cork. She'd been able to take it down once, but it was frightening because holding the bottle, she'd been unable to remember even her own name. Jonas had taken it from her and put it hastily back, but even Iris had been reluctant to ask what it was. Every time she was left in Spider's store to wait for one of her caretakers, Iris gravitated back to the counter and looked at those bottles.

She wanted the mercury-esque bottle again, rather wanted that sense of being unable to remember who she was. A headache was settling behind her eyes and Iris could only blame the coffee for so long. There wasn't even thrash or death metal to say caused it; today's music was Type O Negative and Peter Steele's low voice was far from aggravating.