“What if something goes wrong?” pressed Jasper.
Crimson’s eyes glinted behind the shaded lenses. “We can only hope.” His pocket buzzed again. He raised an eyebrow at Jasper. “I can’t waste any more time with you. Come with me, stay here, go back to the house. Whatever. Your choice. But I have to go. Now.”
Jasper had a hundred more questions, not the least of which was how many werespiders might be in there, but Crimson started across the cracked and faded pavement before he finished speaking. In a brief moment of fantasy, Jasper imagined just standing and watching him enter the building alone, then going back to the house and pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee. It was probably still hot. He would sit out this terrible plan, as he could have chosen to do thirty minutes ago before he’d insisted that he tag along. Crimson would either rescue his friend or he wouldn’t. If he lived, the mission would proceed unhampered. If he died, good riddance.
Except…
If he died, he would take everything he knew with him. If he lived, Jasper felt like he’d never hear the end of it. He pushed his fingers through his curls, twisting at the ends and glaring after the retreating shape of the werespider as heat waves baking off the pavement rippled his shrinking silhouette.
If he went and risked his life in aid of the werespider right now, Crimson would almost certainly have to trust him. If, that was, they both lived.
“Fuck.” Jasper sighed. He checked to make sure the safety on his gun was off and then started after him.
“This is a bad idea,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth when they were standing together in the long shadow at the foundry’s base. It was constructed of sun-bleached brick and positioned well back from the main drag, like the owner had just forgotten about it during the Great Depression, and no one else had bothered with it since. He didn’t see any movement in any of the windows, nor atop the towering roof; he felt the demons—dull and heavy in the middle, sharp and prickly on the outside of the sensation. Four, maybe. Or five. And at least one of them as strong as the demon beside him.
Yellow strips of caution tape stretched around the perimeter. Crimson plucked at one with a faint smile. “Al’s way of dissuading visitors.” He lifted it, gesturing him through, and Jasper ducked underneath, the demon letting the yellow tape fall behind them.
The entrance was nailed shut. Either of them could have torn it down, but not without making so much noise they would alert the whole building.
Keeping right up against the façade, they circled around to the loading bay on the opposite end and found one of the battered tin doors wedged permanently open. They stooped to peer inside.
Little could be seen beyond the end of the door’s outline—a sliver of yellow-white sunlight in a vast square of darkness. “The little blonde one’s name is Ivory,” whispered Crimson. “She’s the alpha. I’ll pay attention to her. You pay attention to everything else. Okay?”
Jasper nodded an affirmative. While this was a better plan than the absolute nothing of five minutes earlier, it still wasn’t great. It would have to suffice.
They slipped into the building together, with Crimson taking point since he could see clearly in the dark. The receiving floor was empty, but at the other end of it an unlocked door led to the assembly room. Here, broken skylights let in grayish beams of sunlight, revealing the shapes of large machines corroded beyond recognition. The scent of rot was set into the scattered pallets and forgotten crates, and it permeated the entire room. It reminded him a bit of Crimson’s house, overfull and cluttered in a way that seemed intentionally confusing.
There was so much to look at that he almost didn’t see the woman, except for the sensation he felt the moment she was in proximity.
She was straight as an arrow with long, fair legs and slender feet that tapered into sparkly silver polished toes. Her pale hair was straight and silky, brushing near her thighs as she watched her feet dangle from the railing of an overhead catwalk. A diamond anklet twinkled in the misty gray light.
She noticed them when they noticed her, and reclined on her hip with the banister casually held. “Oh, Crimson, darling, it’s not meant to be a date. You didn’t have to bring dinner.”
“Oh boy, here we go.” Crimson sighed. “Cut it with the ominous bullshit and just give me Alcander, okay?”
Ivory smiled coyly. “That’s not part of the game.”
“Ivory, darling.” He spoke through gritted teeth, a rumble underneath his words. “You’re the only person I know who can make eternity feel like forever. And not in a good way.” He was aiming one of his revolvers in her direction but hadn’t yet moved to fire. “I don’t wanna play. Go bother one of the others.”
“I remember when you used to be fun.” Ivory sighed. She slid off the banister, taking no care of the way her dress fluttered around her bare thighs, and bounced as she landed ballerina-like on the balls of her feet. She was standing very close to Crimson now, but he still didn’t fire. “Before you got all wrapped up in this… mortal nonsense.” She drew a step closer. “You can’t keep living out here alone like this. You’re losing touch with reality.” She delicately touched the muzzle of the revolver with one finger, steering it a bit to the side, out of her face. “And going soft.”
Jasper cleared his throat pointedly. “We’re actually roommates now, so he’s not really alone or anything.”
Ivory blinked at him like she’d forgotten he was there. Her nostrils flared again, and a curious smile spread across her face. She raised her eyebrows at Crimson. “Is this why you don’t want to play? Because you’re in the middle of another game with this half-blood mortal?”
“Ivory, listen to me very carefully.” With Crimson it was always hard to tell whether any emotion was genuine, so Jasper couldn’t be sure if his concern was feigned, but he seemed in some confused way like he was trying to help her. His voice was flat and firm and lacking its usual theatrics. “You’re out of balance. You’re acting psychotic. I’ve got too much going on to deal with you right now. So give me back Alcander and leave.”
Ivory grabbed hold of his lapel, leaning into him. “I like the new voice. You sound just like them.”
Crimson peeled her fingers away and pushed her hand firmly down to her side. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me.”
The female werespider’s smile faded. She turned away from him, sulking. “Maybe you’ve forgotten how this works, Crim. You don’t get to decide whether you want to participate or not.” Her opalescent blue eyes focused with renewed interest on Jasper. He was trying to follow the only instruction Crimson had given him, which was to ignore her and to watch for trouble. He could feel the other demons nearby but couldn’t pinpoint their locations; they stuck to the deep shadows, out of sight. Silent. “Neither do your friends.”
Ivory took a menacing step in his direction, and Jasper toggled the muzzle of the gun towards her. “Stay back.”
She stopped. “You smell strange.”
Jasper wondered if all werespiders were this rude, or if it was just this bloodline. She took another step closer and Jasper’s jaw clenched. His finger twitched. He held steady.
“I see why he’s drawn to you,” continued Ivory. “Ashy darkness all around—you glint through the shade. Shining. Faceted. Like a diamond.”
“Uh,” said Jasper. He looked awkwardly at Crimson, who only shrugged. “Thank you?”
“Distractions like you are no good for the game.” Her shape blurred. He heard the rapid patter of her footsteps and on impulse drew his silver short sword instead. She drew twin sharp sais, long thin blades with pointed, curved wings above the leather-wrapped handles. The wing of one sai hooked under his blade, stopping the point inches from his face. She was gone before he had time to aim to fire. For a second too short to measure, he tried to follow the white blur of movement with his gun but could never get enough of a lead on her to ensure a hit. Then she was back, striking at him with both blades as he scrambled to keep the sword between him and the sais.
> “You’re fast,” she commented. A flurry of movement, Jasper spun on his heel to keep her in his sights. The blades glanced off one another. Jasper stepped carefully, adjusting to defend a second time. There was no room to try for an opening.
The blades clashed again, this time locking at the hilts. She gave hers a twist, and his own sword was wrenched from his grip, clattering as it hit the cracked concrete floor.
She turned immediately from him, raising her blade as if she anticipated she would now have to defend. In truth, Jasper was expecting the same thing, wondering for the entire time why Crimson had not yet intervened.
The reason became apparent in the next moment as they both realized the same thing at the same time.
Crimson was no longer there.
“Fucking prick,” breathed Jasper.
“You snake,” hissed Ivory.
#
The game was as old as time. It had grown and it had changed both in scope and objective, the loose set of rules warping and morphing to let it evolve and adapt. To lose was to lose everything, and even victory often came bittersweet.
Though, at the crux of the matter, there was no winning and no losing. That would have indicated an end; the game always continued.
The foreman’s office was above, lit like a beacon. A trap, obviously, but one that compelled him.
The maze of machinery on the floor below was silent and still. He could smell the others though, their unique scents intermingled with Alcander’s familiar one.
Crimson took two tentative steps across the catwalk. A barrage of poorly aimed gunfire erupted from his left and right, and he dipped quickly underneath the handrail, letting himself fall to the floor below.
Ivory’s angry voice echoed behind him. He thought fleetingly of the half-blood again. It was a shame he was going to lose him. All of Ivory’s nonsense about auras aside, he was interesting. A small curiosity in a world without mystery. A question without an answer. In many respects, the female werespider was right. Even on his worst days, the mortal was entertaining. Easy to rile up, but quick to cool, and sharp underneath his quiet exterior.
Crimson liked him.
But Alcander was part of his pack. The only one left. And thus, the only one who mattered.
There was a flicker of movement on his right. “There,” whispered the Spider, and for one bloody moment all other thought was discarded. He knew only feral rage.
The werespider’s name was Knox. Knox Ivory. Technically, he was his nephew, though he only considered this after he finished pulverizing his skull against the sharp corner of a circuit breaker box. There were little wisps of blue in his blood-matted black hair. The red soaked into the suede of his vest, turning it a deep, dark purple, like a fresh bruise. Crimson slammed his head once more into the box, then winged him over the conveyor belt.
Where Knox was, Tybalt was never far behind.
If the other half of Ivory’s brood ever learned how to master a gun, Crimson had a feeling he was going to be in big trouble. Luckily for him, Ty never took well to ranged weapons, and he had ample time to step out of the way of the heavy battle-axe as it came crashing down from an overhead swing. He fired at the opening under his arm, and then it was Ty’s turn to be lucky—lucky that gold-plated bullets were difficult to make and expensive to buy, and lucky also that Crimson was too lazy to bother with either scenario.
The lead still tore through him, striking both lungs and probably grazing his heart. He shuddered down to one knee with his fingers still wrapped around the axe. Crimson twirled the gun in his hand, catching it by the barrel, and brought the grip down on the back of the demon’s skull with a resounding CRUNCH. Blood splashed against the sandalwood. Tybalt’s grip relaxed. The axe clanged to the floor in the same moment its wielder did.
This wouldn’t stop them for long, but Crimson didn’t have the heart to put them down in a more permanent way. They could hardly be blamed for Ivory’s decisions.
“That any sorta way to be treatin’ your relatives, Crim?”
He looked up from the slumping form of Tybalt. The door to the foreman’s office was open. Yellow light spilled down the grated stairwell and glinted off the curved blades of the scimitars—one silver-plated, the other gold. Crimson knew these swords, and he knew the man who was holding them.
Time had changed Obsidian in the purely cosmetic ways it often changed their kind. His dark hair was woven back into a plaited braid, with a faded stars and stripes bandana covering his brow. His eyes were as dark as Crimson’s own, but smaller and meaner, his skin a slightly deeper shade of bronze. Two or three weeks of stubble cast a shadow down the sides of his face to his chin, where the facial hair grew longer and denser and forked into two short braids. He was dressed in a light denim vest held together by a patchwork of fabric squares and old band logos. Black fingerless gloves and dark blue jeans.
Crimson lowered the gun. “You look ridiculous.”
Sid’s mouth fell open. “Me, ridiculous? What’re you s’posed t’be? A fuckin’… gothic cowboy?”
“And what are you doing with your voice? You got peanut butter on the roof of your mouth or something?”
“Says the guy who sounds like Humphrey Bogart fucking James Cagney. Why don’tcha go ahead an’ call me a ‘wiseguy,’ Crims? I haven’t heard that one in a few decades.”
Crimson smiled despite himself. “Alright, that’s it. Get your big, square Frankenstein head down here so I can punch you in the face.”
Sid pointed with the tip of the gold-plated blade. “I ain’t comin’ down there. You c’mon and bring yerself up here.”
Crimson sighed. He remembered he had liked this game once, back when the others were still alive. Maybe he even still would if circumstances were different, but involving Alcander was no fair.
Somewhere behind him, there was a loud, angry screech and the crackling crunch of sprouting legs. Their more beastly forms had voices as distinct from one another as their human shapes, albeit with much less exact forms of communication. Crimson recognized Ivory’s and knew it meant his time was now up.
“Alright, man. If you insist.” He fired twice at Obsidian.
The scimitars flashed and glinted with the clang and spark of whizzing lead meeting enchanted steel.
Stop playing around.
The voice was right, as usual. As the deflected bullets pinged away, Crimson drew the other revolver and unloaded in Sid’s direction as he ran towards him. One of the shots ricocheted and caught him in the thigh with a hot sting.
The spider surged to the forefront of his mind. He tasted venom and felt a low rattling at the center of his being. Mild irritation blotted into fury.
Crimson turned and leapt upwards, grabbing hold of the metal scaffolding with one hand and pulling himself on top of it, putting himself halfway up to the foreman’s office. The space only allowed for two steps back, and he took them before running forward to throw himself upwards, twisting in midair to get an extra little arc of height. The tip of one blade passed close to his eye with a searing blaze of pain that crossed his eyelid and skewered upward in a blinding gush of black blood, but his feet still found their way underneath him. As the tips of his boots touched the concrete, he lined up his shot, and as the heels settled down, he fired.
Obsidian’s blade swiped a diagonal path in front of him, but this time the bullet outpaced the blade. It struck him in the gullet, where his supernaturally reinforced bones were thinnest. The round passed through in a spray of blood, and for a split second, Crimson imagined it must have struck his brain stem.
The swords slipped out of Sid’s hands. He stumbled a step back and Crimson fired again, this time at his stomach. He heard him thumping backward down the stairs, and ran for the lighted office before he could decide whether the other spider would be getting back up.
“Alcander?” His scent was everywhere, most prominently in the thick, dark-reddish splotches splashed underneath a chair in the center of the room. It was vacant now, but the he
avy iron cuffs still attached to its arms said more than he liked. Crimson called his name again, this time before he could stop himself.
A door at the back of the office, near but not quite behind the abandoned desk, was slightly cracked.
Crimson strode towards it and jerked it open, almost ripping it from its rusted hinges.
He sighed, relieved. “There you are.” He stooped down to pick up the shape huddled on the floor.
Somewhere (behind him, maybe below him) Crimson heard a very soft click and smelt a very brief wisp of smoke.
Careless, murmured the Spider.
Then came the explosion.
#
That fucking prick.
In that moment, Jasper was almost as mad at himself as he was at the werespider. He should have known better than to trust him even a little.
Ivory came at him again, and Jasper felt the burn of her blade slicing the back of his hand. He moved fast enough to avoid losing any digits but not fast enough for his liking. He fired off another shot, which Ivory twisted to dodge; in the same motion he drew a knife from beneath his coat and threw it, seeing with satisfaction as the blade—unfortunately only silver-plated—sank into her shoulder. His satisfaction was short lived. She ripped the blade out with a shout and looked at him with blood-red eyes.
Fuck this. Jasper was not going to get himself killed for the werespider, especially not after he’d abandoned him in a warehouse full of demons. Keeping the female in his sights, Jasper started to inch his way back towards the entrance. Two large rooms were between him and the outside, and after that a long stretch of parking lot between him and the car. Ivory was fast, but there was only one of her, and if he could hold her off (or better yet, kill her), he was sure he could make it.
Even as the options for escape began to form in his mind, the sound of gunfire from the room beyond reminded him they had come here to find someone who was in trouble. Very real trouble, if this female werespider was anything to judge by. Crimson deserved whatever happened to him, but did the person he’d come here to save deserve it as well?
Strangers in the Night Page 7
