The Spider Dance

by Nick Setchfield

  Winter said nothing, waiting for him to step aside. After a moment the man did so and headed down the corridor that led to the buffet room. Winter watched him walk away, evaluating his physique, assessing the probability of concealed weapons. State security, no doubt, keeping tabs on the whole honeytrap operation. Not entirely unexpected – and Winter had no reason to suspect his cover had been compromised – but it was another variable to factor in.

  He climbed the stairs, passing sombre portraits of Hungarian monarchs, peering down from dingy, cream-painted walls. There were cracks in the plaster, fine as veins. Like most of Pest this hotel’s glory had begun to rot.

  He turned into the third floor. The door to room 304 was firmly closed. Winter heard laughter from inside. He hovered for a moment, nodding blandly to a passing maid, then unlocked the door to his own room. A snap of the light switch illuminated the modest but aspirational furnishings. A crisply made bed, a square armchair, an antique table.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and quietly unbuckled his watch strap. His head felt heavy on his shoulders. Over the years he had learnt to hate rooms like this. Something about their anonymity, their neat emptiness, always got to him, made him feel adrift. Tonight it was worse. Tonight he couldn’t even feel that familiar numb ache for home, because home was now a room in Battersea with sour milk in the fridge.

  He indulged a smile as he wound his watch. This had to be an improvement on that, at least.

  Waiting there, hunched in his suit, Winter became aware of a steady, rhythmic vibration thudding through the wall. It was accompanied by a quickening squeal of bedsprings. He sighed, turning the watch in his hand, seeing the seconds tick from every angle. It was moments like this when surveillance felt more like voyeurism.

  The pace of the thrusts increased, the headboard smacking the wall in the room next door. He could hear the interplay of grunts and moans, the pair of them struggling to synchronise as they made love. Made love? No, it sounded more ragged, more urgent than that, a purely physical act, torn from the moment. Winter imagined the softly whirring camera behind the mirror or the grille, recording every sweat-slick detail while the men from the state looked on. It was reassuring to know there were even seedier ways to serve your country.

  And then there was a scream.

  Winter couldn’t tell if it was the woman who had screamed or the man, but it cut through the wall and it cut through his nerves. It was an anguished, animalistic sound, turning guttural as it died.

  The light in his room flared and dimmed.

  Another scream, even louder than the last.

  Winter sprang from the bed. He threw the door open and stepped outside. The wall-lamps were flickering, casting a stutter of light and shadow the length of the empty corridor.

  He stood by the door to 304. As he did so a third scream came. This one ended in sobs. Winter kicked to the left of the keyhole, targeting the weakest part of the lock. He kicked it again, the wood splintering beneath the impact of his heel.

  And then he stepped back, set his muscles and barrelled forward, sensing the door loosen on its hinges as he slammed against it. He made a second attempt, channelling all of his strength into his right shoulder. This time the door gave way.

  The air in the room had a brittle, jagged edge, as if it was threaded with electricity.

  The pair were on the bed, in a mess of sheets and half-discarded clothes. The man’s head lolled over the edge of the mattress, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his face frozen, caught between ecstasy and pain. His hands curled and shuddered as if snatching at something just out of reach.

  The woman was on top, stockinged thighs straddling the man’s waist as her skirt rode up around her. She had her hands on his bare chest, the fingers embedded in the flesh, pressing hard against the ribs. Her skin seemed to be lit from within, a bright, translucent pink, mapping her veins with its glow.

  She looked directly at Winter, saliva running from her lips.

  Her eyes were golden.

  There were no whites, no irises, no pupils. Just solid shells of gold, opaque and gleaming.

  The light in the room continued to quiver, the lamps buzzing in irritation as the voltage danced. It made a tableau of the bed.

  And then, as the light steadied, the woman’s eyes changed. The golden shells shrank, retreated, swallowed by the pupils. Moments later her eyes were dark again.

  ‘Hart, I’m feeding!’ said Alessandra Moltini.

  Her voice had a low rasp, older than her face suggested. There was anger there but something fond, too. The glow had faded from her hands.

  Winter was speechless. He was about to step towards the bed when he felt a sudden impact against his spine. Someone had leapt on his back.

  An arm locked around his throat and began to tighten its grip against his windpipe. He glimpsed a black sleeve. The arm was surprisingly slender given the pressure it was exerting. Winter spluttered, feeling the breath being muscled out of him.

  As he staggered he tilted his weight. With a grunt he managed to heave his assailant over his shoulder, hurling them into a small wooden table that promptly collapsed.

  A furious, cold-eyed young woman glared up at him. It was the maid, the one he had passed in the corridor; the one he hadn’t given so much as a first thought, let alone a second. She had to be part of the state operation, staking out the room.

  Grimacing, the pinafored woman pulled herself up. She seized a floor lamp with both hands and hurled it at Winter’s head. He sidestepped and the lamp hit the wall, its bulb shattering.

  The maid spotted the bottle from the bar, abandoned beside the bed. Grabbing it by the neck she smashed it against the wall, showering the sideboard with champagne and glass. Now she had a proper weapon. She inched closer to Winter, swiping at him with the broken bottle.

  Winter raised a fist in defence. The glass scraped his knuckles and claimed blood. Instinctively he reached for his gun. But it was in his room, waiting in his case. He glanced at Alessandra, still crouched over the bare-chested man on the bed. She was watching the fight with a thrill of hunger in her eyes.

  The bottle sliced past him again. Winter saw a ceramic ashtray on the bedside table. He snatched it and sent it spinning into the maid’s teeth. Now it was his turn to draw blood. She simply wiped her lip and kept coming, thrusting the bottle at him, scoring it through the air.

  Winter’s eyes swept the room, hunting for another weapon. There was a Bakelite phone on the sideboard. He ripped the heavy black handset from its cradle and swung it by the severed cord.

  The woman dodged it. Smiling now, she closed in.

  Winter backed deeper into the room, aware he was running out of options. The maid matched him, the bottle poised as if ready to take his eyes.

  He stepped past a heavy oak wardrobe. One of its doors was ajar. For a moment the wardrobe was between him and the maid.

  Winter flung the door. There was a thick smack of wood against bone.

  The maid dropped to the floor, concussed.

  ‘Were you enjoying that?’ asked Alessandra, her tone playful.

  Winter stepped over the maid’s body, confirming she was unconscious. ‘Did it look like I was enjoying it?’ Irritated, he wiped his knuckles on his trousers, smearing the fabric with blood. The wound had begun to throb.

  ‘I imagined you were playing with the girl. You could have killed her at any moment, Hart, we both know that. All you had to do was cast a blood hex or summon a shadow scythe or…’

  Winter cut through whatever she was saying. He indicated the man on the bed, still spreadeagled beneath her thighs, a look of agonised rapture on his face. ‘What the hell have you done to him?’

  Alessandra grazed her nails across the man’s chest, snagging the sparse, sandy hairs. ‘Why, I’ve used him, darling.’

  Her nonchalance rankled Winter almost as much as her familiar use of darling. He had encountered creatures like this before. ‘What are you? Some kind of bloody demon?’

  ‘What are
you?’ she shot back. ‘Some kind of bloody amnesiac?’

  Winter stared into the mirror that faced the bed. There was doubtlessly a camera on the other side of the glass, capturing all of this. They would have his face now. And there would be men, too, alerting their colleagues.

  ‘We don’t have time. We have to get out of this hotel. Right now.’

  She began to button her blouse. Winter glimpsed pale, heavy breasts rising beneath the silk. He took his eyes from her, conscious of a sudden dryness in his mouth.

  ‘Move,’ he urged. ‘She won’t be alone.’

  Alessandra slid from the bed and snatched her jacket from the tumble of clothes on the floor. They entered the corridor, checked it both ways, then made for the lifts. Winter chose to abandon his gun in his room. Every second was crucial now.

  The lifts were tucked to the side of the stairs, a pair of bronze doors decorated with peacocks. An illuminated panel lay between them, indicating the floors of the hotel. Ground level had just lit up. Winter could hear the grind of metal from inside the shaft, the gears crawling in oil as the cage rose. Someone was on their way.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, turning to the stairs instead.

  The man in the blue waistcoat was scrambling up the final flight.

  Winter spun, making to run. And then he swivelled at the waist, launching a foot at the man’s throat. The kick connected. The state security agent tumbled down the stairs.

  The bell chimed as the lift arrived on the third floor.

  ‘Go!’ cried Winter, pushing Alessandra in front of him.

  They were already running as the lift doors opened, slamming through fire doors and racing down the next hallway. Winter calculated options as they ran, remembering what he could of the hotel’s layout. Six floors, arranged around a central stairwell. There had to be a fire escape, even in a building of this age. It was the best chance to get them out unseen. A street level exit would be too conspicuous – and state security would undoubtedly have the main entrance under surveillance.

  They heard the fire doors smash apart behind them. Somebody was sprinting in pursuit, pounding down the carpet. A third agent. Christ, they were cautious.

  A bullet studded into the wall, hacking through plaster.

  Winter swerved, throwing Alessandra to the side. Whoever had taken that shot was an idiot – a gun fired at a shallow angle in a corridor like this could easily provoke a ricochet.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ demanded Alessandra, hotly. ‘Cast a shadow scythe, for God’s sake! Deal with them!’

  Winter ignored her, focused on keeping them both alive. Zigzagging, they hurled themselves through another set of fire doors. The reinforced glass puckered as a second bullet embedded itself.

  There was a double-sash window ahead. Beyond it was the grilled lattice of a fire escape, framing the Budapest skyline. An emergency ladder waited, connecting the platform outside to one by a fourth-floor exit directly above.

  Winter heaved the window open. He hastened Alessandra through and she began to climb, her heels ringing on the steel rungs. Winter followed her, threading the cold metal through his hands. Glancing down, he saw their pursuer emerge through the open window. He was looking for them on the platform below.

  Winter stealthily dropped a couple of rungs. And then he kicked the gun from the man’s hand. The weapon clattered into the dark.

  The agent turned, seizing Winter by the left leg, intending to drag him from the ladder. Winter broke his grip and booted him in the teeth. The man fell back, clutching his bloodied mouth.

  Winter carried on climbing. But then two arms wrapped themselves around his ankles. His opponent was balanced on the lowest rungs now, exerting all his strength in a bid to rip him from the ladder.

  Winter clung to the handholds. His calf muscles bulged, resisting the lockhold. Straining, he managed to work a leg loose. He clipped the sole of his shoe against the man’s chin, knocking him back by a matter of inches. Collecting momentum, he swung his foot and drove his heel hard into the Hungarian’s face.

  The man tumbled backwards, his balance lost. His spine smacked against the edge of the platform and he fell, flailing, to an alleyway four storeys below. Winter turned his head but still heard the wet crunch as the body hit the tarmac.

  Alessandra’s hand was waiting for him. It coiled around his wrist and helped him to the next platform. Winter took it gratefully, but he shuddered at her touch. It felt like his skin had been grazed by tiny blazing needles. He remembered how her hand had glowed in the hotel room. What was she?

  They climbed the remaining ladders, passing the windows of the fifth and sixth floors. Finally they reached a terrace beneath the grand arches of the hotel’s roof. The sky seemed huge above the city, the stars mirroring the lights that pricked the streets and glittered on the bridges flung across the Danube. Winter could see the dome of Buda Castle to the west, the sacred Crown of Saint Stephen high and vigilant above the gloomy hills.

  He stepped past a chimney to the edge of the parapet, where the guttering curled over the side of the Maria Theresa Hotel. All the buildings in this boulevard were packed tight, rising in each other’s shadows like weeds competing for sunlight.

  Below the hotel was another terrace. The building it belonged to was unlit, and looked as if it had been dark for some considerable time. Its ornate balconies were shattered, a headless stone gargoyle left to guard the drains. Artillery scars, Winter imagined, from the siege of ’45. One jump and they could reach the roof, find a path to the backstreets, disappear.

  ‘I’ve never seen you fight like that,’ said Alessandra. It was a simple statement but her tone made it accusatory. ‘So much bone and sweat and muscle. It’s not your style at all. Not the man I remember.’

  Winter could feel her eyes on him, searching behind his skin.

  ‘I’m not the man you remember.’

  ‘Sì. That’s obvious, Hart. What’s happened to you? Your gifts?’

  Winter broke eye contact. ‘We’ll do this later. I need to get you out of Budapest. You know that’s why I’m here.’

  Something mischievous played around her mouth, breaking the intensity of her gaze. ‘I know that’s why you think you’re here.’

  He was about to challenge her on what she meant by that when he saw a slice of light on the ground. A service door had opened on the far side of the terrace. The man in the blue waistcoat was strolling out of it, the one he had kicked down the hotel stairs. There was a Makarov semi-automatic pistol in his hand.

  Winter took the bullet a second before he heard the shot.

  It tore into his chest, shredding skin, skimming bone.

  For a moment he felt nothing. It was as if his body was simply noting the bullet’s arrival.

  And then it came, the numbing, consuming punch. Winter swayed, one arm wheeling for balance, the other pressed to his chest. His hand covered the wound, trying to plug it. He felt a warm insistence of blood pumping against his palm.

  The world tilted, the stars and the city blurring. Winter buckled and fell, hitting the terrace.

  He sensed Alessandra cradling him, lifting his head from the tarmac.

  The man with the gun was almost upon them, his breathing still ragged from the kick he had taken to the throat. Winter fought to keep focus as the figure loomed. The outline of the man rippled and warped as Winter’s eyes watered. He glanced at Alessandra and then moved his gaze to his left ankle.

  He slid the heel of his right shoe against the trouser leg, hitching up the fabric.

  She saw the knife strapped to his calf. With a nod she eased it from the sheath and hid it in her hand.

  And then she spun at the waist, slashing upwards, targeting the man’s ribs. She corkscrewed the mean little blade, twisting it into his side until the blue waistcoat purpled with blood.

  Winter lay there, curling into himself as he watched the man stagger and crash. Now their bodies lay parallel on the ground.

  Alessandra withdrew the knife and
tossed it away. She crouched over the fallen state security agent, easing her thighs across his chest. The man was clearly in agony but she smoothed her hands over him as if savouring each spasm of pain, stealing it into herself. As her nails traced down to the knife wound her skin began to shimmer.

  The Hungarian screamed and there was an unmistakable shudder of pleasure in the sound.

  Winter saw the world darken, the stars receding in his peripheral vision, turning the sky into something black and crushing. One last image lingered as he lost consciousness.

  Alessandra’s eyes, bright and blind as gold.

  5

  Adrenalin never truly took pain away. At best it dulled it, made it easier to manage. When that hormonal surge eventually subsided the pain would still be waiting, twice as unforgiving for being denied.

  Winter felt as though someone had lit a bonfire in his ribcage. The numb ache in his chest had become molten, burning in his veins, in his muscles, inescapable.

  ‘Easy,’ said Alessandra, kneeling in front of him. Her face was indistinct, half in shadow. Either they were in a barely lit room or his vision was almost gone.

  He must have slipped away again. It was so easy to give in. The darkness had a steady, tidal rhythm. It kept coming for him. Go under, it whispered. Succumb.

  How had they found this place? All he had were sensory impressions, nothing more. They came back to him in flashes: Alessandra holding him on the roof terrace, the scent of Guerlain L’Heure Bleue strangely familiar on her skin; the jump to the building below that had knocked the breath from him and made his chest blaze; the door that Alessandra had smashed, sending glass tinkling into the dark.

  ‘Try to make your breathing smaller,’ she told him now. ‘Little breaths, that’s right.’

  Winter did as she instructed, concentrating on keeping his chest from heaving, because it hurt like blue hell when it heaved. His right hand still clutched the entry wound, a crust of dried blood on his fingers.

  Alessandra tore her wig away and plucked grips from her hair, placing them between her teeth. It made her look oddly theatrical, but then this was a theatre, Winter realised, albeit a derelict one. There were curling posters on the walls. One had turn-of-the-century showgirls high-kicking in a frilly chorus line. Another, in a sharper, more modern style, displayed a burly tenor caught mid aria.