Page 31 of The Girl with a Thousand Faces
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?”
“Iwill 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 matflooring 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.
