Spider's Lullaby

by James R. Tuck

  Charlotte’s spider-lady face is almost expressionless. It’s one of the things that makes that form so damn creepy. Thick, painted lips quivered in that alien face, the only trace to show she was upset. That and the fact that her solid red eyes had begun to actually glow, throwing shadows over her brow and under cheekbones so sharp they could cut paper.

  Her voice had a mechanical buzz to it as it came out of her thorax, but her words were desperate. “We don’t have much time. I can feel the hatching coming on.”

  I gave her a sharp look. “Is this a wacky lycanthropy feeling, or a run-of-the-mill feeling?”

  “I am psychically connected to my eggs. It’s part of motherhood for a spider.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  She shook her head. “Not long, but I can’t give you a precise prediction.” Her head cocked to the side, lidless red eyes unblinking. “It feels like it will happen before dawn.”

  I looked at my watch. It was near 2 A.M. Dammit, that really wasn’t a lot of time with almost no information to go on. “What happens when time is up?”

  “Normally, they would hatch, feed on the meat I provided.” My mind flashed to the ripening half of a cow in the basement as she continued. “And then they would imprint on me as their mother and I could send them out into the world, grounded to me.”

  “What happens if you are not there?”

  “They will imprint on whomever is nearest after they feed; but if they are not a Were-spider, the imprinting may destroy that person’s mind.”

  “And if that happens or no one is there?”

  Charlotte’s fingers flew to her mouth in shock. “They will have no anchor. They will kill until they die.”

  That was bad. Really, really, epically bad.

  Charlotte had explained that she’d had an egg sac because nature chooses which form a lycanthrope pregnancy will take. She could have had a Were-spider baby that would have been like her, or she could have actual spiders. Nature had blessed her with actual spiders.

  But these would not be natural spiders. We had no idea what they would be. Not only was their momma a Were-spider who happened to possess flesh-dissolving venom, but their daddy was a man named Longinus, immortal holder of the Spear of Destiny, original sire of all vampires, cursed by God Almighty to walk the earth until Judgment Day.

  That was a potent supernatural DNA cocktail. Hell, it was the genetic equivalent of a Molotov cocktail, and now the fuse had been lit.

  Longinus and Charlotte had gotten together after we had all helped to defeat Appollonia. They had met while both were held captive by that crazy hell-bitch. Charlotte as an unwilling servant and Longinus as a tortured prisoner.

  The relationship hadn’t lasted long, just about long enough to create the pregnancy. Charlotte had explained that she was poly-amorous, taking lovers as she saw fit, not mating for a long period of time. It was part of her nature as a spider and part of her nature as a human. Longinus had gone back to the “walking the earth” part of his curse, and Charlotte had settled here in Georgia with most of the other Were-spiders that had been under Appollonia’s control.

  Tiff spoke up, “Do we need to call Longinus?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “He couldn’t get here in time and there would be nothing he could do anyways. We’ve talked about it. He understands that even though he is the father, he has no connection with the hatchlings. These are not children, they are spiders. Spiders don’t form emotional attachments. It’s more primal and instinctive.”

  I turned toward the hallway. “Okay, let me look at the bodies that weren’t shot and then we need to move. Ronnie is short of time.”

  I did not say out loud that I thought she had been taken to replace the cow lying in the basement.

  Ronnie was a dancer from Polecats, the sort of strip club I own that funds my war on monsters. A couple of years ago her brother got caught up in a Santeria gang war. She tried to get him out of it and got dragged in. I went in to rescue them, but only managed to save Ronnie. I hadn’t been able to pull them both literally from the fire. Her brother died in a voodoo inferno that ended the gang war by incinerating all the gangbangers.

  I barely managed to save Ronnie. To this day she still wears slick scars on both her palms from holding on to her brother too long, and if you stand too close to her, you get a whiff of hoodoo smoke.

  Veronica Maria Benedetta Bellini, or Ronnie to her friends. If my dad had met Ronnie before he left this shitty old world, he would have said she was “built like a brick shithouse,” which is a compliment somehow. At 5’6” in six-inch heels, her figure blew out like a cartoon pinup. With lush, cantaloupe-sized breasts and an ass that mimicked the curve of the earth with twice as much gravity, she was a big hit at the club.

  To top it off, she was lovely. Thick ringlets of dark brown hair fell to her shoulders and framed a face with a pair of eyes the color of roasted almonds, a nose that testified to her Italian heritage, and a set of sinfully thick lips.

  And she was one of the sweetest people I have ever met.

  She was so nice she made me feel bad about myself.

  She had volunteered to egg-sac–sit for Charlotte while we went out. The dead Were-spiders had lived with Charlotte, part of her cluster, but apparently it was anathema for one spider to care for another’s offspring. Ronnie had signed up so Charlotte could have one last evening out before hatching. Now she had been taken along with the egg sac.

  The person who took her had no idea the wrath that I was going to rain down upon them if she was hurt in any way.

  Ronnie was my employee.

  Ronnie was my friend.

  Ronnie was mine.

  The people I let into my life are few and far between. If someone does make it inside, then I have a damn good reason for letting them. Ronnie was one of those people. I had claimed her the moment I had rescued her. She was mine. Mine to protect and, if need be, mine to avenge.

  Back to work.

  Stepping into the hallway, I looked at the body lying there. My eyes moved around, tracing and studying the blood spatter. It had begun to dry into a dark, forest green, gelatinous smear.

  Lycanthropes shift back to human upon death. Usually this includes all viscera, but for some reason Were-spiders seemed to be different. Maybe it was all non-mammal lycanthropes, I didn’t know. I made a mental note to find out later. Right now I had work to do.

  The blood arced up and around the ceiling, tracking down into a line that went down the wall. There was a heavy blot of it beside the doorframe. Looking at it, something caught my eye. Reaching up, my fingers slid over an irregularity. It was masked by the blood; if I hadn’t been studying the area, I wouldn’t have seen it. The wood was sliced. It was a smooth cut, the part in the wood as wide as a fingernail is thick and about four inches long.

  Hmmmmmmm.

  I filed it away in my mind.

  The lower half of the body was in front of me. My fingers closed on one of the legs that were sticking up in the air. The skin was cold, clammy to the touch, and felt like rubber. A sharp tug made the half body flip over. The legs stayed in position, one to the left and one to the right, the first signs of rigor holding them in place. The body was male and naked. My mind casually noticed that rigor held everything in place.

  I assumed he had been in full Were-spider form when he had died. If he had been half human, half spider like Charlotte, he would at least have some clothes on.

  In my mind’s eye, I could see him skittering along the cabinets and ceiling as the killer shot at him, then trying to dart into the hallway. It was the doorframe that slowed him enough for the killer to slice him in two.

  I knelt down, studying the open waist of the cadaver. Inside, everything was suspended in a green, translucent gel. All the organs and bones were encased in the stuff. It was another weird anomaly of Were-spider anatomy. The slice was completely across, from one side to another, about four inches above the hipbones. The top of the cut was smooth and even, look
ing like a special effect from a movie. I reached in, fingers seeking out the spine. The green belly jelly squelched as I probed. Cold and slick, it was like jam fresh out of the refrigerator.

  My fingers found the spine. Looking up at the white wall, I concentrated on my sense of touch, feeling along the surface of the cut. The bone was slick, surface sheared clean straight through the middle of the vertebrae. Standing up, my hand pulled free with a wet squelch! I held my hand out away from me so I wouldn’t get any of the goo on my clothes. I wanted to wipe my fingers off on my jeans but resisted.

  Only one sword cuts that smoothly. A katana. Any other sword going through that much flesh would shear it away, tearing as much as cutting. The edge would leave a pattern of jagged tears. A katana slices, the sweeping edge parting flesh and bone like water.

  A professional killer, who knows about lycanthropes, using a pair of silenced .45’s and a katana to kill. Maybe there was a chance of finding this bastard after all.

  After all, how many of those could be in my city?

  Don’t answer that.

  4

  The chain-link steering wheel gleamed as it spun through Tiff ’s fingers. The rosary hanging from the rearview mirror swayed with the rocking of the motor. She wheeled the Comet around and backed into a parking space like she had done it her whole life.

  Driving the Comet is not easy. She’s a big hunk of American iron powered by a souped-up 351 Windsor motor that runs like a bat out of hell. There is no power steering, no antilock brakes, and the damn car is as wide as a boat. She’s dressed in badass black and the barest amount of chrome that is acceptable. I love her, but she is not easy to drive.

  Tiff pulled it off with grace.

  She was behind the wheel since I had been drinking earlier. The alcohol had burned clean from my system by the combo of an inhuman metabolism and adrenaline rush. But as my dad used to say before he left this shitty old world, better safe than being a dumbass with a DUI. My dad was one for specific colloquialisms. Besides, it gave me time to change my shoulder rig and add some weapons.

  The shoulder harness I had on now still held my Desert Eagle .357 under my left arm. It hung, a nice, solid, comforting weight. I’ll admit it, I bought the gun originally because I thought it looked badass. And it does indeed look badass, but using it I had discovered that the Israelis really know how to make a nice gun. I have never once had a problem out of it. I might one day, but so far the gun was aces in my book.

  Under my right arm was a row of clips. Four clips of nine bullets each. The ammo was an Orion Outfitters special. Silver hollow points with a drop of silver nitrate wax sealed in the tip. They were hot-loaded and frangible, meaning they had a lot of gunpowder and the bullet would break apart on impact, giving a bigger wound channel. The damn things would drop almost anything, from a vampire to a hobgoblin.

  On the same rig was a holster that held a wicked gravity knife. It was six inches long when closed, but one push of the release and a five-inch blade dropped out, locking in place. It was razor sharp on both edges and silver plated. Under the spare clips was a small two-shot derringer. Made by Bond Arms, the Snake Slayer held two .410 shotgun shells full of silver shot.

  I also had my normal backup gun in a lower back holster. It was a .44 caliber Taurus Bulldog snub-nosed revolver. I love my semiautomatics, but they can jam. I want my backup gun to be dead reliable. That’s a revolver. Pull the trigger and a bullet comes out every time. You can bet your life on it.

  Trust me, I have.

  More than once.

  Charlotte was in the backseat. She leaned up as Tiff killed the engine. She had changed, both her form and her clothes. Now she was once again a nice-looking conservative lady in her early thirties. Her dress had been ruined by her transformation earlier, so now she had changed into a pair of dark slacks with an unstructured sweater in a light taupe color that swathed around her slender torso. It folded and curved, looking elegant and expensive. The back was open, but she didn’t have a jacket despite the fact that it was cold as hell out. Lycanthropes have a metabolic rate somewhere in the thermonuclear range, so they rarely feel the cold, unless they are a reptile or some other cold-blooded animal.

  Her hand pointed at the building we were parked outside. “What is this place?”

  The building was low, squatting close to the ground. It was stuccoed in a pale sage green and surrounded by nice landscaping. The parking lot we were in was full of cars that were all on the high end of the market. The Comet wasn’t the only restored muscle car, but she was one of only a few. Above the door was sign, a simple cross-hair traced out in red neon. The harsh glare of it cut into the night.

  I turned to the Were-spider. “This is a place where we will be maintaining our cool. It’s a club called Cordite, and someone I know will be inside. I know it looks like a normal nightclub, but trust me, there aren’t many places in this town more dangerous than this one.”

  Her lycanthropy spiked, skittering across my power. A shiver tripped and fell down my spine. Her human eyes were cold, staring hard across the lot at the building. I could feel the tension whirring around inside her. The words she spoke were normal, but there was a lilt to them that scraped along my nerves. “The stealer of my offspring is inside?” It was odd phrasing, not the way Charlotte normally talked.

  “Are you all right?” I turned to look at her over the seat back. “If you can’t hold it together, tell me now and I will leave you in the car.”

  Slowly, her head turned toward me. Scarlet began to boil into her eyes, washing over the hazel emerald color her pupils normally were. The planes of her face began to shift, carving into the alien planes of her spider-lady form. Depressions formed on the edges of her forehead where six more unblinking eyes would be. Her lycanthropy filled the car, making it hard to breath, like the air was made of soup.

  The Desert Eagle was in my hand, pointed at her through the seat. My finger pulled all the slack out of the trigger as the air grew thicker.

  Her eyes clamped shut and a shudder ran through her whole body, quick but violent. A deep breath was dragged into her lungs, held captive for a long moment and then slowly released. Her lycanthropy cut off like a switch had been thrown. It left me feeling like I had been doused in cold water. She took several deep, slow breaths as she sat there. When her eyes opened, they were human again.

  “Sorry.” She shook her head again. “I can feel the hatching coming on. The connection gets more primal the closer it gets. Everything becomes instinct and genetic memory.”

  “Will you be able to keep it together?”

  Her mouth hardened into a line. “Yes.”

  I turned back toward the front of the car, accepting it. After all we had been through, I did trust Charlotte. “Okay, we are here for information, but everybody inside that building is dangerous, so everyone be cool and follow my lead.”

  My finger punched the button on the glove compartment. It popped open and I reached inside. There was a CZ-75 9mm pistol and two spare clips for it. I handed them over to Tiff. She took them, checking to make sure the gun was loaded and ready to rock. Satisfied, she slipped the compact pistol into her coat pocket and the clips in the other side. I picked my coat up off the seat between us.

  Her hand fell gently on my arm. It was warm against my skin. A small spark of... something chased through me. My heart sped up. Just a little. Her eyes looked at me under perfectly sculpted brows that pulled together in concern. Her voice was low as she spoke. “Are you okay?”

  I knew what she was asking. The scene back at Charlotte’s was similar to what had happened to my family all those years ago. Similar, but not the same. My family had been ritualistically slaughtered, tortured to death. Their blood used to paint arcane symbols on the walls as sacrifice for some dark magick bullshit. They had been tormented before their deaths. Someone had called me while it was happening and I’d had to listen, helplessly, as they screamed and cried out for me to save them. I was too far away, I couldn’t get there
in time, and I had listened as each of them prayed and begged for mercy.

  They had all died calling my name. Every one of them. My wife. My daughter. My son.

  I heard their last cries for me to save them as their lives were taken.

  I had ...

  STOP!

  Just.

  Fucking.

  Stop.

  Deep breath, let it go ...

  The scene with my family had been worse. Tiff didn’t know that because it still hurt too much for me to think about it, much less talk about it.

  Thinking about it starts me down the road to a dark, dark place. A place where memory turns to barbed wire and gut-hooks me, ripping up my insides.

  “I’m fine, little girl. Thanks for asking.”

  Her hand stayed on my arm. “Are you sure?”

  I smiled, pushing away the darkness. “Yes. Besides, we have work to do.”

  She stared at me for another long moment and then nodded, dark magenta bangs sliding over her eyes.

  We got out of the car together.

  A cute girl, a pissed off Were-spider, and an occult bounty hunter carrying a small arsenal walk into a bar...

  I bet this joke was gonna have one helluva punch line.

  5

  “You can’t come in here, sir.”

  We stood in an alcove inside the door. It was small and close, barely enough room for the three of us to squeeze in. The walls were decorated with artwork. It wasn’t to my taste, but it looked expensive. I noticed that beside each piece of artwork was a dark spot. Focusing, I made out that they were depressions, holes, in the wall. The modern-day version of arrow slits. A gun barrel could be pushed out of them and the entire room sprayed down with bullets.

  It was a death box.

  It made my scalp itch, standing there.

  I looked back at the human bouncer in front of me. He was young, with a smooth lantern jaw and short-cropped blond hair. He was dressed in an off-the-rack tuxedo and worked out enough that it didn’t look bad on him. The jacket was unbuttoned. A blocky plastic semiautomatic stuck out over the top of his black cummerbund. It looked like a Glock from where I stood. His hand jutted out toward me in a “Stop!” gesture. Brown, beady eyes were narrowed, focusing on me.