Spider-Touched g-2

by Jory Strong

  They possessed a chameleon’s ability to blend and could survive a wide range of temperatures. During the years of war and plague, they’d thrived on humans, feasting on corpses as well as live prey, until now the fear of them seemed genetically encoded in mankind.

  Eventually order grew out of chaos and the creatures were systematically slaughtered. But it was too late by then to completely eradicate them.

  Once the heavy tarp was rolled into place against the ceiling, Raoul slung the corpse over his shoulder. He climbed the metal ladder welded to the front of the cage, its rungs far enough away for him to avoid being bitten.

  The dragon lizards grew more animated, their tails thrashing as they backed up, their eyes never leaving Raoul. They were capable of climbing trees, though the heavier they grew, the less they chose to do it. They were also capable of bursts of speed. But their true deadliness came from the venom and bacteria in their mouth. A single bite killed a man of the same weight within twenty-four hours. And if their prey escaped, their keen sense of smell allowed them to follow until they found the dying or dead.

  At the top of the cage Raoul opened a hatch. He shrugged, and for a second time sent Rudy’s corpse to the floor. The dragon lizards were on it as soon as it struck the concrete, savage jaws ripping flesh and clothing, crunching bone.

  The trapper grunted and turned his attention to Tir, though Tir could see the man watched Raoul out of the corner of his eyes. “I’ve got a little evening entertainment planned for you,” Hyde said.

  Tir offered no response, verbal or physical. He remained on the straw bed and waited for events to unfold.

  After centuries of being at the mercy of humans, he no longer had the capacity for curiosity when it came to what his captors planned for him. He endured. He survived. He dreamed of freedom and vengeance.

  Raoul dropped from the ladder, his gaze going to the woman and growing heated, hungry, then flaring with anger when Hyde said, “Open the cage, bitch, and get in there with him.”

  Disgust came to Tir with understanding. Over the centuries hundreds of women had been put in his cage for him to breed. Many had been killed in front of him the next morning when his jailers arrived to find them untouched.

  “No, Hyde—”

  A slap silenced her.

  “Get in there and service him. I’m not likely to get my hands on something like him again.”

  “No—”

  This time she was interrupted by Raoul’s lunge.

  A long, agonized scream followed as the trapper shot a taser round into the Were.

  The scream gave way to whimpering and thrashing as electricity continued to surge into the boy’s body.

  Urine wet the front of his pants in a growing stain. Material shredded as Raoul convulsed, skin and bone contorting as black hair covered flesh until a wolf lay panting, insensate on the floor.

  “Get the silver wire the witch in Sacramento warded,” Hyde said, jerking the keys from his pocket and handing them to his wife before sliding the gun from its holster and leveling it on her.

  She obeyed, remaining cowed even in proximity to the weapons stored in the cabinet. He holstered the gun when she returned with a spool. The charmed silver was spun like thread and mixed with another metal to give it physical strength.

  Hyde took the offered wire and removed a tool from his belt. He knelt beside the wolf and sent a jolt of electricity into it to ensure the unconsciousness wasn’t a ploy.

  The body twitched and jumped, but Raoul’s eyes remained closed while his breathing grew more erratic. It was enough confirmation for the trapper to set the taser down and wrap a thin band of silver thread tightly around Raoul’s neck, trapping him in the wolf form.

  Until now, Tir’s time around shapeshifters had been limited to hearing their screams echoing through pitch-black catacombs in centuries past, as torturers tried to extract the names of others like them before war and plague brought the existence of supernaturals out into the open.

  Given the band around his own neck, he was surprised at how little it apparently took to keep a Were confined to the furred form. Whatever the sigil-inscribed collar was that stole his history and his power, it was like no metal he’d ever encountered, nor was it the work of a human, of that he was certain.

  Across from him the wereman was trembling, his misshapen body pressed tightly into a corner, his face hidden as Hyde dragged Raoul into the cell next to Tir’s and left him there, lying in the stink of the dead human’s body fluids.

  The trapper retreated to the doorway then gave a savage jerk to free the taser barb before closing the cell and locking it. A few steps and he was once again in front of Tir’s cage. It took only a glance at his wife for her to shuffle forward.

  “The next time I see you, you better look good and fucked, bitch,” Hyde said, unlocking the cage then slamming the door after she entered.

  The hyenas cackled as if they approved. The wolf convulsed as if consciousness struggled to return.

  Hyde put the taser and the spool of silver in the cabinet then left the building, locking and barring the door behind him. The woman remained cowered against the front of Tir’s cage, her image overlaid onto hundreds of others in his memory.

  For the most part they’d all been terrified. Afraid of eternal damnation if they lay with him. Equally frightened of the death waiting for them at the hands of his captors if they didn’t. But some of them had been willing, and paid well, to seduce him.

  None had succeeded. None stirred either desire or pity enough for him to take them.

  Even when he’d been bound so he couldn’t prevent them from putting their hands and mouths on him, from rubbing their slits against him in an attempt to entice him, he’d easily maintained control over his body so his cock didn’t harden.

  He would never mate with a mortal.

  Three

  ARAÑA sat with her back to the wall, her knees up to provide a pillow for her head. Her hair, freed from its braid at gunpoint, was a welcome curtain against the eyes of the men watching her.

  Some sat on the concrete floor of the cage holding them. Others paced along the bars separating them from her.

  They all wore the tattoos of lawbreakers. The majority were there because they’d been found guilty of rape or murder. A few of them were thieves caught for a third time, and from their conversation Araña knew they’d been given a choice between running the maze or being put to death under a three strikes law.

  If the history books spoke truly, once there’d been an uncount able number of prisons and jails in the United States. Places that filled up as fast as they could be built, providing jobs and financial security for those who worked on and in them.

  Now prisons existed only for the wealthy and powerful, those who could afford the cost of keeping a loved one incarcerated in order to avoid the death sentence or a criminal’s tattoo. In most places small crimes were punishable by restitution and community service, more serious ones by hard labor and a tattoo—or death.

  The framed “Wanted” pictures of Erik and Matthew rose in her mind. They’d been convicted in absentia on charges of piracy and murder. The first would have gained them a tattoo, but they’d been sentenced to die for killing the son of a councilman when they boarded his boat and discovered he was a child molester.

  Araña’s arms tightened around her legs as she fought against the wave of agony thinking about Erik and Matthew brought with it. A shuddering breath was her only concession, but it was noted by the men watching her.

  Catcalls came, lewd offers of comfort if she’d push her pants down and bend over to press her buttocks against the bars of the cage separating her from them. She ignored the men, ignored even the sudden silence that came with the opening of a door.

  She followed the visitors’ footsteps as they walked down the aisle and stopped in front of the cell she was in. A melodic, unfamiliar voice said, “She’ll make a nice addition to the entertainment tonight.”

  Farold, the man who’d p
aid the guardsmen a handful of bills when they’d presented her at the maze, said, “I thought you’d approve, Anton. The betting audience has grown tired of seeing nothing but hunting. It’s been a while since a woman ran. I thought you’d want to put her in the maze with only the convicts at first… Perhaps they’ll even kill each other for a chance at one last f—”

  “Language, Farold. There’s no need for us to descend to their crudeness.”

  “I apologize. You’re correct. There’s no excuse for it. The income from the wagering proceeds will increase if we give the clubs a chance to offer odds as to what the men will do if given a chance at a woman. I took the liberty of sending her photograph along with the pictures and profiles of the men. She’s really quite beautiful, which is an added appeal. Plus she bears a brand, one of the Church’s, I think. But I didn’t recognize its meaning.”

  “You did well, Farold. What was her crime?”

  “Jurgen and Cabot brought her in. They warned me against touching her, quite vehemently. In fact, they were disappointed you weren’t on hand to deal with the transaction personally. Both of them claim she’s a witch and one of their companions died as soon as he touched her.”

  “Some of those who practice black magic are capable of setting such a spell in place. Jurgen and Cabot certainly displayed a great deal of restraint in not killing her outright. Cabot in particular. He’s the youngest son in a family where the oldest inherits everything. If I remember correctly from my days with the Church and serving as his mother’s confessor, he was terrified of anything that even hinted of witchcraft.”

  “You’re correct. I got the impression Jurgen was responsible for keeping her alive and bringing her to us. Have you decided which of the hunters will work the maze tonight?”

  “No. I’d hoped Hyde would be here by now with a new delivery. On his last visit he said he’d spotted several dragon lizards. He hoped to trap at least one of them.”

  There was a sharp inhalation. Araña almost glanced up at the mention of the lizards.

  “Do you think that’s wise with the turmoil going on in the guard? Carlos Iberá’s influence is growing. If he succeeds in having his grandson named commander of the guard, his push to have the red zone done away with will grow even stronger. Hyde getting caught bringing dragon lizards here…”

  “He won’t get caught. And in the event he does, then I know nothing about his intentions, nor did I commission him to capture the creatures for the maze. Once he crosses the red zone boundary, and as long as we ensure they don’t escape, there won’t be a problem. On the contrary, I imagine they’ll attract a larger crowd to the gaming clubs, especially on the evenings I set them against some of the hunters who have lost their drawing power.”

  “The werelion among them?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid club patrons have become jaded in their tastes. Running the dregs of society against animals or Weres no longer draws the crowd it once did. But dragon lizards… I hope Hyde is able to deliver, and if I were a betting man, I’d bet on him. He’s been an excellent supplier over the last couple of years.”

  “What you say is true.”

  “I’m curious about the brand and the claim the woman is a witch,” the man with the melodic voice—Anton—said. And though Araña didn’t lift her head, she could feel his attention focus more firmly on her, could hear power in his voice when he directed her to stand.

  With a thought she knew the demon mark rode her shoulder again. She hoped it would move to her palm if either of the men dared to enter her cell.

  Farold said, “I can get the taser. She’ll stand quickly enough then and comply with your request.”

  “No need. I have a better idea. Perhaps I should let the demon amuse himself in the maze tonight. What do you think?”

  “He’s always a crowd-pleaser, especially when he’s put in with humans.”

  “Announce it to the clubs then, so they can calculate the spreads and let their members know Abijah will be part of the entertainment.” There was a brief pause, then Anton began speaking in an ancient language.

  Words ran together, vowels and consonants blending so closely and in such odd combination Araña couldn’t differentiate one from another. But the cadence and sound of them stirred something inside her, sent fear whipping through her, deeper even than that caused by the mention of the demon.

  A breathless, nameless dread built in intensity as Anton’s incantation did. Crashed over her in icy shock when it ended abruptly with a summoning name. Abijah en Rumjal.

  She felt a wrenching, inexplicable sense of déjà vu at hearing it. A primitive instinctual memory like the ones she sometimes experienced when she was trapped in a spider’s vision and forced by her unwanted gift to destroy lives.

  Araña lifted her head, unable to resist looking at the demon. Just as she couldn’t fight when the fire called her to look into its black heart.

  Terror left her breathless as Abijah shimmered into existence. He was a dark-skinned thing of nightmare and punishment—a harbinger of the Hell and damnation she’d been told since birth awaited her unless her soul could be cleansed of the evil taint the spider mark meant she carried.

  The demon’s eyes flared from gleaming yellow to bright red. His fingers ended in curling, wicked claws. Leathery black wings emerged from his back, like those of a bat, while a snakelike tail coiled around his thigh as though it were a living thing.

  A forked tongue flicked out to taste her fear. A smile curled on his lips when he found it. And as if wanting to add to her terror, he reached up and caressed the mark on his chest with a deadly talon, drawing her attention to the golden scorpion there.

  At the sight of it, the primitive instinctual memory and the wrenching, inexplicable sense of déjà vu slid through Araña once again. Her heart pounded against her chest as though it would beat its way through ribs and muscle and flesh in order to escape his proximity. The spidery shape of her own mark rested at the base of her spine as if cowering in the presence of a greater demon.

  Abijah was naked. She noted it and pressed harder against the back of the cage when his penis stirred to life.

  “She interests you,” Anton said to the demon. “That rarely happens. Perhaps you’ll give the gamblers a show they’ve yet to witness.”

  The demon made no reply, but apparently one wasn’t expected. Anton said, “Bring her to the front of the cage, Abijah.”

  The maze owner’s eyes narrowed when the demon made no move toward compliance. The fast race of Araña’s heart slowed with sudden understanding. Abijah wasn’t a willing participant in the evil of the maze. He was bound somehow, forced to serve a master not of his choosing.

  “Bring her to the front of the cage, Abijah,” Anton repeated, his tone holding a threat. And this time when the demon didn’t immediately obey, the command was followed by a flurry of sentences spoken in the same unfamiliar tongue that had summoned him.

  Abijah disappeared. Or seemed to. Until she saw the scorpion step through the opening between the cage bars, the deadly stinger at the end of its tail curled over its back.

  Without conscious thought, Araña rose to her feet. Scorpion morphed to yellow-eyed demon.

  The spider hid on the sole of her foot, as far away from the flicker of the forked tongue as it could get. The golden scorpion now marked Abijah’s cheek rather than his chest, and what small hope Erik and Matthew had been able to foster in Araña, about her own mark, was extinguished. It was demon in nature.

  There was no way to avoid Abijah’s touch. No point in resisting it.

  Taloned fingers curled around Araña’s upper arm. His skin was hot, but she’d expected as much, knew from the spider birth dream that demons were born in a place of fire and molten lava.

  Abijah pulled her from the wall of the cell and forced her to the front of the cage as he’d been ordered to do. Anton smiled and turned slightly toward his human companion. “You’re right, Farold. She’s quite stunning. Quite exotic, actually.”

&nbs
p; “It almost seems a shame to run her with the criminals.”

  “I know what you mean. We’ll allow her two knives in the maze and give Abijah permission to play with her all night if the convicts don’t kill her first.” Anton took a step closer. “There’s something about her… Is she a shapeshifter, Abijah?”

  “No.”

  “One of the human gifted?”

  Abijah’s hand slid down Araña’s arm in a frightening caress. It stopped at her wrist, and the shiny tip of a curved nail scraped over her veins before digging in deeply enough to draw blood.

  He leaned down. The forked tongue darted out to lap at her blood before he released her. “She is mortal, but not one of the human gifted.”

  “Interesting. Her use of witchcraft must be learned instead of inherited. Too bad, but it might not matter. Given your physical reaction to her, are you capable of breeding offspring on her, Abijah?”

  The demon refused to answer, forcing Anton to ask the question a second time, and then a third before an answer was unwillingly torn from him. “Yes.”

  Araña couldn’t suppress a shiver of terror. She’d longed to know the feel of skin against skin, to have a lover. But not this one. Not a demon that sent the spider-shaped mark to cower on the sole of her foot.

  Farold said, “Why not add a caveat that Abijah can’t intentionally kill her unless she’s escaping the maze? If she survives his attention, that’ll make her next run a profitable one.”

  “You prove yourself a worthy assistant yet again.”

  Anton spoke in the flowing, frightening language, and at the end of it, the demon disappeared. “Done. Abijah has his instructions.”

  “I’ll send the information along to the oddsmakers so they can factor it into their calculations.”

  “Do that. It should make for an interesting night.” Anton focused on Araña’s hand. “Let me see the brand.”

  She complied.