The Spider Children (The Warren Brood Book 1)

by Bartholomew Lander

  As Mark helped Arthr to his feet, words escaped Spinneretta. Her mouth was dry, and all attempts to articulate her awe failed. She kept replaying the scene in her mind, and part of her wondered if this was all a dream, some manner of wish fulfillment her subconscious cooked up. At last she caught Mark’s eye and forced herself to speak the words hanging on her tongue. “You liar. You are a miracle worker.”

  Mark gave a half-hearted smile but immediately averted his gaze to the clouds rolling closer over the trees. “No. I’m really not.” After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he turned back to the siblings. “Well, shall we?”

  Spinneretta nodded energetically. Arthr, however, continued to look between the two of them, his eyes devoid of thought. Though the pain had seemed to depart him, he seemed barely more cognizant than he had been before the miracle; the shock of the damaged leg must have been too much.

  “Oh,” Mark said, grabbing Spinneretta’s attention. “What do you want to do about him?” He jerked his head toward the field, and her eyes followed to the tall weeds where Pat lay groaning and barely conscious.

  Spinneretta scowled. “Let the rain drown him.” She stormed past Mark and onto the old dirt path leading back to town. Mark followed with a confused Arthr in tow.

  The walk back was uneventful. Spinneretta finally managed to vocalize her gratitude to Mark for the miracle, but he merely shrugged and again denied the accusation. Beyond that, she was unable to find a voice to speak with. Now that the last remnants of the strange adrenaline had left her system, she was beginning to feel hopelessly embarrassed about how she’d thrown herself on him, and the growing shame bade her keep silent.

  Eventually, the trail came out of the untamed shrubbery, and the soft orange glow of the street lights on Alice Street came into view. After climbing over the rusted guardrail, they followed the street beyond the point where it crossed the main avenue. Their path cut through the commercial center of town and then branched away into the woods, where family residences dotted the wilderness. When they arrived in front of the Warren residence at just after eight thirty, Mark halted and turned to Arthr. “Well, I think you can make it the rest of the way.”

  Without a word, Arthr drifted toward the house, his steps even but unsure.

  Watching him walk that way was painful. Spinneretta could barely imagine how much pain he’d experienced, or how deep his relief must have been. She took a deep breath that smelled of the coming rain and made to follow him. But she stopped abruptly when she felt Mark’s warm hand on her shoulder.

  “Hold on.”

  Her heart thumped, and a trace of heat raced along her skin. “W-what?”

  He gave her a probing look, not removing his hand. “I believe we have something to discuss. But not here. Would you allow me to take you to dinner?”

  Chapter 17

  Not a Date

  It was just after 9:15, and the diner was all but deserted. Mark and Spinneretta chose a booth as far from the few other customers as they could, not waiting to be shown to a seat. As they sat down, the sole waitress, a young but curiously bird-shaped woman with blond hair, poked her head tiredly from her perch behind the counter. With an exasperated sigh, she pulled two menus from the depths of the counter and made her way toward them.

  “Good evening, folks,” she said, placing the thick, laminated menus upon the table. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Some coffee,” Mark said, “if you would be so kind.”

  “Same,” Spinneretta said, trying to be polite despite her nervousness.

  “Got it. Be right back with that for ya.” With that, the waitress retreated from the table at a brisk pace.

  Mark chuckled from across the table. “Coffee at this hour? Not planning on sleeping tonight?”

  “What else is new? I don’t think I’ve slept normally since you got here.” I wish that wasn’t as true as it is, Spinneretta thought. She leaned back, and the hard, sticky cushioning crunched against her. She stared off into space, trying to ignore the brewing cyclone in her gut. Her spider legs tingled beneath her jacket. What could he want to talk about? Her traitorous heart wouldn’t calm down, despite the logic injection from her brain. This was nothing like a date. A guy she likes finally asked her to dinner, and she couldn’t even enjoy it.

  On the way over, awkward though it had been, she had managed to apologize about how she’d acted toward him earlier. I’m not sure what came over me, she had half-lied. He’d just smirked and said it’s alright in a disinterested tone. She got a feeling, though, that the discussion was not over. Before Spinneretta could further dread the coming interrogation, she was snapped from her thoughts by the returning waitress.

  “There ya go, two coffees,” the woman said in that same been-up-since-five tone, placing the cups at the center of the table. “Just holler if you want ’em topped off.” Her inflection made it clear she actually wanted no hollering to occur.

  Spinneretta nodded at her, taking one of the mugs in both hands and soaking her icy fingers in the heat.

  Across from her, Mark pushed his unopened menu to the edge of the table and, without adding anything to the drink, took a sip of coffee.

  “How is it?” she asked when the waitress was out of earshot.

  “Hmm. It would be generous to call this mediocre.”

  She smiled, pulled a pair of sugar packets from the table’s cache, and emptied their contents into her mug. “Maybe if you added something to it.” She stirred with one of the provided plastic sticks and took an exploratory sip of the brew. It was bitter, earthy in the worst possible way. It was as if the packets of sugar had vanished into a black hole. Cringing at the grainy taste, she reached for another pair of sugar packets. “I thought you were joking. That’s awful.”

  “At least it’s coffee, so it’s good for you if nothing else,” he said, clearly amused by her reaction.

  “This’d better be the coffee of everlasting life in that case.” She opened her bulky menu and ran her eyes through the bordered columns of italicized Comic Sans. Sandwiches, soup, breakfast, house burgers, salads. Everything sounded disgusting to her. Her fickle stomach, however, would probably have something curt to say about it later if she ordered nothing. Eating just seemed so troublesome. Well, there’s always the liquid-meal option, she thought, folding the menu and laying it at the edge of the table.

  It wasn’t long before the bird-shaped waitress swooped upon the table again, notepad in hand. “Are you folks ready to order?”

  “I believe we are,” Mark said, looking to Spinneretta for approval.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll have a cup of corn chowder,” Mark said.

  The woman scratched the order into her pad. “Corn chowder, yessir. And for the miss?”

  “Bring me a raw slab of beef,” Spinneretta said.

  The waitress hesitated. “I’m afraid we can’t do that, ma’am. We’re not allowed to serve uncooked meat. Health regulations.”

  “Then give it to me black and blue.”

  The waitress again fumbled over the request. “Black and blue?”

  “Pittsburgh rare. You know, charred on the outside, raw on the inside.”

  “We don’t serve that,” the waitress said, irritation flashing in her eyes. “Not here, and probably not anywhere.”

  Spinneretta sighed at the woman’s ignorance. “Then bring me a slab of beef that’s been cooked the absolute minimum amount of time your policy allows.” She thought a moment. “And a short stack of pancakes.”

  “Regular or blueberry?”

  “Regular.”

  “Got it.” The waitress didn’t bother confirming the order before heading back to the other side of the diner.

  “Ordering meat of your own volition?” Mark said. “That is unlike you.”

  She bit her lip. She’d hoped he wouldn’t catch on to her tenuous relationship with meat. “I’m surprised you noticed.”

  “For a while I thought you a closet vegetarian. Given how much
your sister adores meat, it strikes me as strange how dissatisfied you seem when it comes with dinner.”

  The warmth of the coffee in her hands dulled the edge of embarrassment. “It’s just that the taste makes me feel like I’m ten years old again. Kinda like drinking apple juice from a juice box.”

  “I see. Is there any particular reason you felt like eating it tonight?”

  The oddly pointed question startled her. Any particular reason? What was he getting at? “It’s just simple. Something about nostalgia or . . . I don’t know. It’s comfortable. I guess that’s what I want to say.”

  He rested his chin atop his steepled hands and stared at her in silence.

  Spinneretta glanced out the window, which faced a dim side street, hoping for something to distract her. There was nothing. Mark’s pale brown eyes made her feel out of place, helpless. And after a moment of enduring his gaze, she began growing impatient and frustrated. “If you have something to say,” she said through her teeth, “then why don’t you just come out with it?”

  He sighed, and the steeple collapsed. “Very well. You showed me something very interesting this evening, and I have many questions about it. I would like to know what happened to you back there.”

  She was on guard at once. “What do you mean?”

  “I find it unlikely that a girl of your shape and stature could defeat a man of his in a physical altercation without a reason. Much less doing so whilst blinded by dirt.”

  Had it been that obvious? She averted her gaze. The reminder of the dirt made her eyes sting. “I think you’re out of your mind.”

  “You needn’t be so aloof,” he said in a firm but kind tone. “I don’t want to say anything as self-serving as you can trust me, but I should hope you know I’m not asking out of judgment. I’m merely curious.”

  She swallowed hard. She’d known the question was coming, but was still unprepared for it. “I figured that’s what this was all about.”

  “Just call it the first bullet on the agenda,” he said, giving her a gentle smile.

  Spinneretta stared at the black surface of her coffee, a mild relief coming over her empty, knotted stomach. While she was not eager to discuss the physiological aspects, nor implications, of what she thought of as the Instinct, somehow Mark being the one to ask was comforting. If there was anyone she could talk to about it, wasn’t it him? She turned her coffee mug, hypnotized by the minuscule ripples moving across the black mirror of its surface. She lifted the mug to her lips to take a sip. Even with the extra sugar it was like drinking mud. “I don’t really know where to begin.”

  “Start wherever you like.”

  “It’s like . . . I guess it’s an adrenal response of some kind. The first time it happened was when the man in the yellow coat jumped me and Will way back when. That was flight. Tonight was fight. And aside from that, it sometimes tries to happen when I’m really angry, or . . . ” She realized where that thought was going, and didn’t want to follow it aloud.

  “Hmm. And is this the same for Arthr and Kara as well?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve always been too embarrassed about it to ask.”

  He nodded, taking a sip from his mug of liquid torture. “So, what does this adrenaline of yours do, exactly?”

  “Well . . . It seems to sharpen all of my senses. I just get really alert, aware of everything, and . . . ” Another unwelcome thought followed on that one’s heels. “My reflexes get a lot faster, too, if you noticed,” she said, giving a proud smile to hide her embarrassment.

  “I did,” he said. “Though it does not answer how you were able to avoid his attacks without seeing them.”

  She took half-sip from her coffee. “Because I could smell it.”

  “Smell what?”

  “The blood?” When she saw the corner of his lip twitch, she knew at once she’d said too much. “Ahh, crap.”

  “Blood. Your adrenaline allows you to smell blood?”

  Nice going, Spins. Now he’s really going to think you’re a monster. Good luck painting that as some harmless eccentricity of being half-spider. After a moment of silence, Spinneretta spat the answer out before she could talk herself out of it. “Yeah. I mean, I can always smell it, but not quite like that.” She hoped it hadn’t sounded as bad as she suspected it did. “Super-sensitive legs and whatnot.” She ruffled her spider legs and took another gulp of the culinary blasphemy that this place was passing off as coffee. What a shitty place, she thought.

  “And, any idea why it seemed to make you drunk?” he asked.

  She swallowed hard and considered feigning ignorance. Drunk. Not entirely inappropriate. Though the feeling of the Instinct and its thrill were not unfamiliar, this was the first time she had become so intoxicated by it. Her spider legs twitched nervously. “I’m not entirely sure. It sort of built up slowly, but it was . . . I don’t know, I just started feeling really great. It was like this mist fell over me, and it just sort of entranced me, I guess. It was kind of like an endorphin rush, or a surge of dopamine, or something like that.”

  “I am a little rusty on my organic compounds, but I think I’m getting the picture.”

  Just remembering that feeling made her want to crawl in the proverbial hole and die. But worse than the embarrassment was the lingering question: if that was what happened when she resisted the strange adrenaline, what would happen if she embraced it? She finished the last gulp of the world’s worst coffee and pushed the mug to the edge of the table, looking up and failing to catch the waitress’s eye. World class service.

  “Now, here’s another question,” Mark said, staring off into space. “What triggered it?”

  “The adrenaline or the drunk?”

  “I’m open to theories about either. Although I’m especially curious as to why you were giggling like a little girl.”

  The statement shook Spinneretta to the core. Her cheeks and forehead began to swelter. “I think you’re exaggerating.”

  “Exaggeration or not, I’d like you to think about it. Drunk or not, adrenaline or not, whatever you showed me tonight was, excuse the phrase, not normal.” His expression was kind. It wasn’t judgment he was expressing, but concern. “And I think that whatever it was could be very important.”

  Though she thought she knew the answer, she did not want to speak it aloud. Doing so was confirmation, and no amount of analytical acrobatics would disprove that foregone conclusion. She was about to open her mouth to reply, but the waitress’s wraith-like reappearance made her bite her tongue.

  “Refill?”

  Spinneretta hesitated. “Yeah.”

  The waitress filled the mug almost to the brim with the steaming blend. After refilling Mark’s mug, she disappeared without a word. Mark thanked her as she left, and took a sip as he gestured for Spinneretta to continue.

  “The strongest part of it began when I cut his arm,” she said, ashamed to admit the connection. But that connection was becoming more definite, more familiar by the second. “The trigger had to have been the scent of his blood.”

  He gazed at her intently. “His blood?”

  She nodded, feeling sick to her stomach. “I remember that after I cut him, the smell, or feel, or whatever of his blood became really strong in the air. I could taste it and . . . ”

  Mark nodded in contemplation, apparently far less disturbed by the revelation than Spinneretta had expected. Perhaps he was just too used to things like blood-drinkers and evil rites to be bothered by something like this.

  You would be used to things like that, wouldn’t you? Another snowflake speech incoming? I don’t want it. Spinneretta made to take a gulp of her scalding coffee, not bothering to go through the hollow gesture of adding sugar.

  “So, what you are saying is that you get blood-horny.”

  Spinneretta almost choked on that sip of coffee, her cheeks flaring with a greater heat than before. “Y-you don’t have to say it like that! And no, it’s nothing like that! It’s just . . . ” Her disarmed mind searched f
or words of contradiction and fumbled. “It’s just nothing like that, okay? Jesus.” Although, looking back on the way she’d gravitated toward Mark at the height of that trance-like high, she wasn’t so sure.

  Mark made a conciliatory gesture with his palms. “Forgive me. I did not intend to upset you with my choice of words. Although I think I’m beginning to understand.”

  “You seem awfully comfortable, considering you’re sitting across from a blood-drinker,” Spinneretta said, trying to hide her lingering embarrassment.

  “You’re not drinking my blood right now, are you?”

  “I think I’d rather be drinking your blood than this coffee.” She was relieved to hear Mark laugh at her stale and somewhat macabre joke. “Well, are you satisfied? Is my terrible secret all you thought it would be?”

  “Impossible to say.” He folded his arms and glanced out the window into the night. “I at least feel like I have a rudimentary understanding. I am done for now.”

  She blinked at him. “You’re done? That’s really it?”

  “Unless you have anything else to add.”

  Spinneretta pushed the coffee to the edge of the table once more. “You’re not going to freak out about it, or come up with any theories about why it happens?”

  “Any theories at this point would be pure conjecture. There’s no point in worrying any more about it now. Besides, based on what I’ve seen, I don’t think I have to worry too much about you when you’re out for blood.”

  Spinneretta dropped her gaze. “I’m really sorry about that, by the way.”

  “You needn’t be. It simply surprised me.”

  It seemed as though Mark was willing to end the discussion, and so she let him. If that was really going to be the end of it, then maybe she would be able to relax a little. If he wasn’t worried about it, then why should she be? A temporary reprieve was still a reprieve. She leaned back in the booth, a tangible weight lifting from her. If there was a bright side, it was that Mark was with her when reality reared its head. In a way, it made it seem less ugly.