And flapped hard, surprised to find himself lifting off the ground. He flew the two feet to Marion’s shoulder, landed awkwardly, facing the wrong way, and banged her in the eye with his wing. At least he had the sense to turn carefully, keeping the needle-tipped gaffs pointed away from her thin-skinned throat. He crouched on his heels, trying not to prick her with his claws, the alien body’s balance far better than his own.
Only if he thought about it did he realize that the warm shoulder he nestled to Marion’s warm cheek was feathered, that it was peculiar to be able to feel the beats of her heart through his feet like the footfalls of an approaching predator, that the colors he saw were abruptly so bright and saturated—so discriminate—that he had no names for them. That he balanced on her moving shoulder as easily as he would have roosted on a swaying branch, and that that was peculiar.
“Wow,” he said. And heard a soft contemplative cluck. And laughed at himself, which came out a rising, tossing crow.
Marion flinched and put a hand up on his wing. “Matthew, please. My ears.”
He ducked his head between his shoulders, abashed, and clucked sorry. Maybe she would understand.
His body stood stolidly, restrained, inside a wet circle of chalk and rum. The cockerel wearing it was quieted by the hood and the handcuffs, and Matthew turned his head right and left to center himself in his vision. He failed—he had the peripheral view, and only by turning to see it first with one eye and then the other could he reliably guess how far away it was. Almost no binocular vision, of course. But with a shock, he realized that he could see clearly around to the back of his head.
That was pretty tremendously weird. He’d have to practice that. And think about his small sharp body and its instincts, because the enemy could be along any moment.
Marion was pulling back, stepping into the shadows, an alcove near the gate concealing them. Matthew pressed against her warmth, feeling her heart beating faster. He clucked in her ear.
“Shh.”
He hoped the cockatrice would come quickly. This could be very, very awkward to explain if something happened to the glamours. Still, they had brought alcohol, talent, and innocence—symbolically speaking—and left them, special delivery, in the thing’s front yard. Wherever it was nesting, it should come to investigate before too long.
He was still thinking that when he heard the singing.
The three of them had been following for a long time, it seemed, when Doctor S. and the woman gave one another a conspiratorial glance and stepped through an archway, past a rusted gate. Gina drew up short, stepping out of the traffic flow into the shelter of a doorway. A moment later, Katie heard glass breaking and something kicked or thrown.
Katie ducked in behind Gina, rubbing her elbow nervously. This wasn’t the best neighborhood at all. “That’s a dead end, I bet,” Gina said, when Melissa came up beside them. “Either they’re going inside, or that’s where they’re going.”
“Here?”
Gina winked. “Want to sneak up and peek through the gate?”
Katie and Melissa exchanged a glance, and Melissa angled her head and said, “What the heck.” Side by side, the three stepped back out onto the sidewalk, picking their way over chewing gum spots and oily, indeterminate stains. Katie somehow found herself in the lead, as Gina and Melissa fell in single file behind her. She had to glance over her shoulder to make sure they were still with her.
She stopped two feet shy of the broken gate and tried to still her hammering heart. No luck, and so she clenched her hands at her sides and edged forward.
She could see through plainly if she kept her back to the wall and turned her head sideways. She saw Doctor S. and the cop sketch the diagram, saw them pull a black rooster from the box and do something to its head and feet. She flinched, expecting some bloody and melodramatic beheading, but instead Doctor S. went to the center of the star and began chaining himself up, which made her feel distinctly funny inside. And then he blindfolded himself with a hood, and the woman did some more sketching with the chalk and walked around the circle pouring something in between its lines from a flask.
A moment later, the rooster began to struggle, while Doctor S. stood perfectly still. The woman crouched down and unhooded it, and a moment later it flapped onto her shoulder and settled itself.
“This,” Melissa whispered, a warm pressure against Katie’s side, “is freaking weird.”
“Gosh,” Gina said, very loudly, “would you listen to that?”
Katie turned to shush her, and heard it herself. She took a deep breath, chest expanding against her shirt, as if she could inhale the music too. It seemed to swell in her lungs and belly, to buoy her. She felt Melissa cringe, and then fingers caught at her shoulder. “Fuck,” Melissa said. “What is that?”
“Beautiful.” Katie stepped forward, moving out of Melissa’s grasp. Into the courtyard, toward the woman and the chicken and the blindfolded English professor. Katie lifted her arms and twirled, her feet light as if she walked on flowers. She strode through a pile of garbage that the magicians had piled up when they cleared the center of the courtyard and her airy foot came down on glass.
A cracked bottle broke further under her foot, shattering and crunching. The soft sole of Katie’s tennis sneaker clung to broken glass; she picked it up again and stepped forward, to another crunch.
The noise was almost lost under the music. Rising chorales, crystalline voices.
“It sounds like a rat being shaken to death in a bag of hammers,” Melissa groaned, and then sucked in a squeak. “Oh, fuck, Katie, your foot … ”
There was something slick between her sole and the bottom of the shoe. She must have stepped in a mud puddle. She looked down. Or a puddle of blood.
Well, her foot was already wet. And the singers were over there somewhere. She took one more step, Melissa’s fingers brushing her wrist as her friend missed her grab. Behind her, Melissa made funny sobbing noises, as if she’d been running and couldn’t get a breath.
Somehow, Gina had gotten ahead of her, and was walking too, kicking rubbish out of the way with her sandaled feet, crunching through more glass, leaving red footsteps. The courtyard was filthy, the buildings moldy-looking, scrofulous: brick black with soot and flaking mortar.
Something moved against the wall. A gleam of brightness, like sun through torn cloth. And then—so beautiful, so bright, oh—a spill of jadevioletandazure, a trailing cloak of feathers, a sort of peacock or bird of paradise emerging like an image reflected in a suddenly lit mirror. Its crested head was thrown back, its long neck swollen with song. Its wings mantled and rays of light cracked from between its feathers.
Gina was still ahead of her, between her and the bird. Katie reached out to push her, but then suddenly she was gone, fallen down, and Katie stepped over her. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever heard.
And oh, it was blind, the poor thing was blind. Somebody had gouged out its eyes, she saw now. The old wounds were scarred gray, sightless.
And still it sang.