Chapter 10 Red Bird #2
Mercy held a folded newspaper above her head as she darted down the street, cursing the lack of umbrella.
The newspaper did nothing except disintegrate steadily above her.
Street lights flickered and faltered. Flooding was often a problem in Kowloon in this sort of weather, making the electricity unreliable.
It was the last day before Hungry Ghost Festival, meaning street hawkers were frantically trying to sell the last of their fu talismans, lucky amulets, incense sticks, special fruit, and paper offerings to all and sundry, before their goods became obsolete again.
And before they all went in for the night, to stay safe.
The winds were strong, shaking the festival markets which clustered in streets and side alleys, rattling the hanging lanterns. The ghosts who always lurked in corners and shadows were bolder than usual, almost playful, and everyone gave them a wide berth.
From here, she could see the high-rise building which housed the Birdcage. The establishment occupied two floors, on the fourth and fifth level; beneath it was a butcher shop, which always seemed rather suspicious to Mercy.
The entrance to the Birdcage was an approximation of grandeur, though it fell short of the mark. Creaking double doors stood beneath a swinging sign, inviting entry. Red and gold paint flaked from the carved exterior, the handles patterned with the grime of many hands.
A pair of bouncers stood inside the enclosed porch; both were armed, with carved wards hanging round their necks. Even large, tough men did not wait outside at night in Kowloon, unless they absolutely had to.
“Not looking very quiet,” she muttered. “Do those big nephews ever sleep?”
“Probably not, but that’s okay,” Erika said, and tugged her arm. “This way. There’s a back entrance through the alley. I’ll show you.”
The “alley” had once been a gap between buildings, a few levels above the ground floor.
Since then, the gap had been filled with planks, cables, and pipes, layered up with metal sheeting and a thick layer of trash compacted down by the passage of feet.
It was somewhere between a garbage net and a ramshackle bridge.
Mercy stepped with light feet, conscious that any of it might give way in unexpected places.
No one else was down here. This was where the Birdcage liked to empty their trash, and the rubbish heap of an opium den and brothel was not a place that most folks enjoyed walking through.
On a good day, the ground was covered in discarded food and broken glass; on a bad day, one might find sacks of body parts.
Today was a good day, with only a few smashed bottles and the usual sacks of garbage strewn around.
She reached a sign, staring upward. It hung dejectedly over the back door. The door had no handle on this side, and was clearly locked. A little farther along, though, Mercy spotted a small, high window. Not ideal as an entrance, but certainly better than that door.
It was also heavily warded. Iron plates etched with anti-ghost fu talismans were nailed to either side of the little window, keeping out unwelcome visitors. Mercy chewed a thumbnail, then looked down at Bao.
“Wait here, on the border,” she instructed. “Don’t come after me, even if you see trouble. I wouldn’t want government exorcists to lock you away or banish— Hey, are you even listening?!”
He wasn’t. Bao had already found a discarded box to curl up on, and gone to sleep.
“Such loyalty,” Erika said, dryly. “Shall we go in?”
“I will go in. You, old lady, are going to stay out here.”
The retired spy looked at her, eyebrows raised. “Excuse me?”
“Bao cannot go through that window, because of the wards. And if you and I both go in and get stuck, there will be big problems. Let me go in through the side entrance. If I don’t come out in twenty minutes, go get help.”
“You need my help!”
“Please. I can’t have your death or injury on my conscience, and this isn’t your fight.” Mercy touched her shoulder. “You’ve already done so much for me. Besides, who will bail us out if we’re both caught?”
“Fine. Fine! But I don’t like this at all,” Erika muttered. “Do you have a weapon, at least?”
“I always carry a blade.”
“Fine, fine. Be careful and quick, Chan.”
“I’ll do my best,” Mercy said, and hoped that would be enough.
When Erika and Bao had retreated to a safer distance away, Mercy stacked a few decrepit crates together, held her breath against the stench, and clambered up to peer through the window. She had one of Erika’s knives tucked into her belt, for all the good it would do.
The sight of a public bathroom greeted her, stinking and fetid. But it was currently empty; it was early morning, and many of the occupants in the Birdcage would be going to sleep after a long night of drugs and work.
Lovely.
“Wish me luck,” she said to the ghost cat, over one shoulder.
Bao tilted his head, ears twitching.
She pressed her palms against the sill and hauled herself up through the window, landing lightly on the stained, foul-smelling floor. The scent hit like a sledgehammer. She wrinkled her nose, stepped round gross puddles, and gently eased into the main area.
The main room was a moderate-sized space plastered over in dark-crimson wallpaper, cheaply patterned and erratically peeling, which seemed to absorb all the light.
Guttering candles and a few electric bulbs fought the encroaching shade.
Bamboo mats covered the floor, easy to replace if stained or spilled on.
Lounge chairs were arranged in a semicircle around a cluster of tables, the once elegant cushions now stiff with grime.
The pipes, lamps, bowls, and dishes for opium littered the tabletops, a small fortune in drug paraphernalia.
Men and women sprawled unconscious on the lounge chairs, some asleep after a late night and some still in a haze of drugs. None of them paid any attention to Mercy, who flitted past unobtrusively. She hovered at the edge of that space, listening carefully.
What she needed, categorically, was proof of Kit Ling’s corruption. Something that not only demonstrated how this woman stood to gain from Kowloon’s demolition, but suggested—or better yet, offered proof—that she was involved in the ghost attacks in the district.
It was a lot to hope for.
A small sign on the wall indicated that Red Bird’s room was down the closest corridor, at the end. Since Red Bird was the chief tenant of this place, she might well have something Mercy could use. She began easing herself around the room, and down the corridor.
The scent of opium receded, overwhelmed by the pleasanter smell of candles, cosmetics, and fragrant tea. It was quieter down here, the bamboo mat flooring replaced with thick Shanghai rugs. There were little individual studio flats: one room, one phoenix, as the signs outside advertised.
At the far end of the hall, an intricate, solitary lamp rested atop a liquor cabinet, its doors ajar. The cabinet was large but conspicuously empty. Maybe the brothel was cutting back on costs.
Red Bird’s room was right at the end, next to the cabinet. A fenghuang was painted on the door arch, in reference to the mythical creature from whom Red Bird took her working name.
Piqued by a mix of instinct and nosiness, Mercy put her ear to the door, listening.
Nothing. No sound from within. Not even breathing, or the rustle of a sleeping body stirring.
Mercy was still wondering whether to wait or go in or come back, when she caught the slap of footsteps as someone approached from the other end of the curved hallway.
Any second and they’d come round, see her there; it would be difficult to explain why she was here, or who she was.
Damn. She mouthed it under her breath, not daring to say it aloud.
Before she could second-guess herself, Mercy swiftly opened the empty liquor cabinet and folded her frame inside, pulling it shut with her nails just as Cobra Lily came striding down the corridor.