by E L Wilder
Her mother stopped spraying when she spied him, a look of recognition sweeping across her face. “You,” she whispered. “You don’t look a day older. Nothing to say for yourself?”
Long time no see.
Her mother chuckled. She could hear him!
“Is this about Hazel?” Amy suddenly paled. “Is she hurt?”
Hazel’s here.
“Hi, mom!” Hazel tried to channel the thought to her mother, but when she saw no recognition in her mother’s eyes, she knew the message had merely echoed through Clancy’s thoughts, going no further.
She says hello.
Her mother was about to say something but then paused, shook her head, deciding she didn’t need to know the details. She’d grown up with a magical mother, and now a magical daughter. She knew enough to know that sometimes the answer was just magic.
“Can she hear me?” she asked.
Loud and clear.
Suddenly, her mother’s face flushed, and the look of maternal worry was wiped clean and instantly replaced by something worse: maternal anger. “Well, tell her she’d better have a good reason for sending her niece through the Postern.”
Busted.
But the anger was just a mask. At the corners of her mouth and her eyes, there was a tightness, a worry, etched in her wrinkles that belied her true feelings. Hazel realized with a pang of guilt that her mother was just doing what a mother did, mothering. A reflex she could stop no more than the beating of her own heart.
The Postern has been destroyed. She’s trapped in Quark. Sort of. She’s okay, but Charlie isn’t. We need your help.
Her mother’s eyes widened. Charlie had spent so much time there growing up that her mother had treated her no different than her own children. Charlie’s parents had adopted her when they were already in their fifties, and by the time Charlie was a teenager, her parents were already in their seventies. They hardly had the energy to keep up with a teenager of Charlie’s caliber. As a result, Amy Bennett often referred to Charlie as her third daughter.
Her mother leaped forward. “Should I call nine-one-one?”
No. But bring the spray bottle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Her mother’s olive-green Vanagen bounced down the South Way, the old Bennett mobile clinging precariously to the road.
Hazel was starting to see where she’d inherited her driving skills. “It’s true what everyone says,” Hazel said to Clancy.” Women are doomed to become their mothers.”
Clancy had been filling her mother in on the turn of events and informing her of the plan, but as soon as the car had started, some sort of cat instinct had taken over and he’d pressed himself into the seat and started howling. If she thought riding inside a cat that was riding inside a car was uncomfortable, the added discomfort of being ridden by her mother was serious next-level stuff.
“Hazel Roisin Bennett, if you can hear me, we need to have a serious chat when this is all said and done. I cannot believe you took your niece through the Postern, and then you had the gall to get yourself stuck there. And now you need my help to rescue your best friend—which I’m happy to do, you know I love Charlie—but this is a serious leap of faith, even for a girl that grew up in a clan of witches.”
Amy continued chiding her, but Hazel was suddenly distracted by a sharp tug on her body, akin to somebody tugging at the hem of her shirt. She wondered how strong the bond connecting them was. If Clancy traveled too far from the lesion, would she snap back into her body? Or, worse, would the connection sever? Hazel tried not to think about it too much as they careened down the South Way. Instead she conjured images of things that stayed together through thick and thin—of cars stuck in mud, of chocolate chips stuck in cookies, of fruit suspended in Jell-O molds—anything that might help her focus and stay melded with Clancy.
“Did you feel that?” she asked Clancy.
But Clancy didn’t respond. He only pressed himself deeper into the passenger’s seat and sank his claws deeper into the cushion.
“Are you okay, Clancy?” she asked. But Clancy only moaned in reply. “For somebody that’s not a cat, you sure carry a lot of cat baggage.”
Clancy hissed.
“Damn it, Tyler! You call that caretaking?” her mother asked, as she bounced the car across a series of washboard ruts. “So where are we going?”
Charlie had mentioned earlier she was going to take Nancy somewhere to get some epic panoramas of Bennett Farm. And there was only one place they could do that.
“Tell her to turn into the Monarch Field,” said Hazel.
Clancy howled as the Vanagon vaulted another pothole.
“Tell. Her. Clancy,” she reprimanded, wishing she had the hands to clap between words for proper emphasis. But it had been enough. Clancy pulled himself together long enough to volley the directions to Amy.
Her mother cranked the wheel and launched the Vanagen off the South Way. Clancy howled and tried to disappear in the crack of the bench as the Vanagen bounced through a gap in the tree line and emerged into a pasture.
Her mother laid on the horn, scattering a flock of sheep grazing in the field and scaring the chickens in the nearby pen. Hazel didn’t think the Vanagen was cut out for this kind of off-roading. But she was in no position to advise, even if she had wanted to.
On the far side of the pasture, a wooded hill climbed above the main tree line. Even from here, Hazel could see the crown of the hill, bald except for a single massive maple tree split down the middle. Once upon a time, it had been struck by lightning and, miraculously, survived the experience. Split Tree Hill.
Her mother rolled the Vanagen to a stop as close to the base of the hill as she could get, but the far side of the field was consumed with overgrown bushes—the remnants of the hedge maze that had once grown there but now mostly only existed in Hazel’s dreams.
“We’ll have to walk from here,” said her mother.
As soon as Amy opened the door, Clancy bolted out into the fresh air and immediately resumed his dignified posture.
“Welcome back,” said Hazel.
Let’s never speak of this again.
Somehow Hazel hadn’t ventured to this part of the farm since returning home—at least in body. But it had been the setting of her recurring nightmare. She shivered a little as they picked their way through the scattered bushes and found the footpath that carved its way up the hill.
As they climbed upward, Hazel felt something again. A strong pull inside her, like she had snared herself on something and was being jostled around.
“There it was again!” she said to Clancy. “Did you feel it?”
I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. But I have some concerns that you’ve lesioned yourself into a spot of trouble.
“Well, we haven’t encountered my riven half yet. I’ll consider that a victory for the moment.”
It was in the shade of this maple that they saw Nancy, sitting on a bench, camera set on her lap as she stared out at the horizon and the gentle cut of the Green Mountains.
“I guess this is it,” said Amy. “And you’re certain I should do this?”
“Positive,” said Hazel.
Positive.
Amy took a deep breath. “I haven’t done something this stupid since the summer of ’69.”
Amy approached Nancy, who only noticed her presence at the last minute. She eyed Amy suspiciously.
“Where’s Charlie?” asked Amy.
“Who are you?” asked Nancy haughtily.
“I’m Amy Bennett,” she said.
“Ah,” said Nancy, chuckling. “The reformed hippy.”
Amy frowned but proceeded politely. “I was hoping to talk to Charlie.”
“She wasn’t feeling well so I drove her home just after her shift.”
“Oh, I bet she did,” growled Hazel. God, she hoped it wasn’t too late. Her heart lurched in her—or was it Clancy’s—chest.
Nancy looked up at Amy, her lips drawn tight in a humorless smile.
“If you don’t mind, I’m trying to get into the right state of mind to do my work.”
Amy scowled, a look Hazel rarely ever saw her wear. Even when her mother was agitated, she conducted herself with great poise. Amy Bennett, for all her over-mothering, was still the consummate hippie. Live and let live. Go with the flow. Peace, love, and understanding. And all that. But if there was one thing Amy Bennett did not suffer—and she actually suffered a lot more than that—it was the rude and the entitled. And the Amy Bennett that materialized now was not the former flower child. “I do mind, actually,” said Amy. “You’re sitting on my bench.”
“Kumbaya,” said Nancy dismissively. There was a venomous edge to her voice. “This land is your land, this land is my land, and all that.”
“Actually, this land is just my land,” she said. “My name is on the deed. And I have a problem with pests on my property.” Amy drew her spray bottle like a gunslinger and rapid-fired long string of shots right in Nancy’s arrogant face.
“Mom!” Hazel said, more impressed than surprised.
And then nothing.
No transformation of body, simply Nancy’s facial features transforming from smirk to scowl, peppermint-logged bangs hanging into her eyes and droplets dribbling off the tip of her cute pixie nose. And while that was deeply satisfying in its own petty way, it was not the transformation that Hazel had expected.
“Clancy, why isn’t anything happening?” Amy asked. “Spiders abhor peppermint.”
But Hazel knew exactly what it meant: she had been dead wrong in all her assumptions. Nancy was not cursed to skitter the earth as a direspider and she almost certainly wasn’t a killer. She was just a goth-hipster artist with some seriously dark undercurrents . . . who was actually investigating Bennett Farms as an example of a dying farm.
“I’m terribly sorry, Miss,” said Amy. “Let me get you a paper towel from the car, I—”
That tugging sensation struck Hazel again, only this time it was insistent, almost painful. Like somebody had grabbed hold of her arm and was twisting and pulling her.
Okay, I felt something that time. What are you doing?
Hazel grimaced in pain. “I . . . didn’t do anything.” She tried to find something that she could grab onto, but there was no purchase, no handhold available. And before she could articulate what was happening, she was suddenly and violently ripped from Clancy’s body.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Hazel’s hearing returned first and she heard a clicking like knitting needles at work, and for an irrational moment, she thought that, perhaps, Cass had followed them there and had patiently been keeping watch over her. Her sense of touch returned as something feathered her cheek. It sounded like there were multiple people rushing around her, trying to rouse her. They wouldn’t stop poking and prodding her and she tried to muster the energy to tell them to leave her alone.
She opened her eyes, expecting to see her mother and Tyler tending to her on the hilltop, but as her vision cleared, she realized she was no longer on Split Tree Hill. Her current location was dim. And while she was being tended to, it wasn’t with friendly hands. Or any hands at all. Just legs—eight of them. She looked on in horror as the direspider, its black body glistening in the wan light, crawled across her, its legs and spinnerette busy cocooning her in a straitjacket of webbing.
Hazel started bucking, fighting against the bonds, but it was futile. She was already well cocooned. She looked on helplessly as it finished its work, a machine designed with deadly efficiency. The spider made one last loop, then jumped into the rafters, trailing a line of web with it. It secured the web in the rafters and then reeled it in, hoisting Hazel into the air until she was suspended upside-down, her head dangling a few feet above the stone floor.
Then the creature crawled down the line and scurried around her body, checking lines, less like a giant spider and more like a pirate checking the rigging. Its mandibles constantly quivered and clicked as it worked. Seemingly satisfied, the spider ascended the cord by which Hazel dangled and disappeared into the rafters.
Hazel took the opportunity to attempt to move. Again futilely. Despite her best effort, she remained straitjacketed, arms pinned to her sides, legs locked together. She stopped, panting, trying not to slip into a claustrophobic fit. Just move what you can, she said to herself. She found that she could wiggle her fingers, and she did so with almost hysterical joy.
She felt calmer now, and she took a moment to look around. She was still in Silverwell Academy’s version of the Carriage House and had been strung up right next to the carriage. The vehicle’s door hung open, giving her a clear view of the lesion within. Even from this distance, she could see on the other side of the portal a shape that was unexpected but not unwelcome. Clancy, pacing back and forth, his tails flicking wildly.
What was he planning?
She wondered if she could project herself to him again, for whatever good it would do her. What would happen if her consciousness were with Clancy when the werespider returned to dine?
Clancy whipped his double tails twice, crouched down in front of the lesion, and before she could process what he was about to do, he leaped forward. When he struck the lesion, it exploded in a flash of pink so bright it forced her to close her eyes.
When she opened them again, Clancy was crumbled on the floor of the carriage.
“Clancy!” he hissed.
He twitched, and a moment later, groggily lifted his head. His words came to her drunkenly. Did it work? He staggered to his feet.
“Clancy!” she shouted, louder than she had meant to. “That was insane and wonderful!”
Can you tone it down? My head feels like a unicorn just stepped on it.
He shook his head and flicked his tail. Tail. She looked frantically for the second appendage, but it was gone. It was then that she noticed the absence of his second set of ears. “Clancy, you’re whole again!”
He looked back and wriggled his single. Well, I’ll be. . . . One curse down and one to go.
One to go? What did that mean? She’d have to tuck that away for a time when she wasn’t blue-plate special.
“You have to hurry,” she said. “The werespider is here!”
You don’t say. I just thought you were field-testing the Snuggie from hell.
“Just get me out of here, and make it fast. My satchel. Maybe there’s something in there you can get.”
Hazel, I . . . there’s so much I need to explain, and I should have done it sooner.
“Clancy, focus! Now’s not the time.”
No, no. I think it is the time. I haven’t made it easy for us to partner, I get that now. Actually, I think I always got that, but I had a million reasons why it wasn’t my fault. For starters, your ineptness.
“Clancy . . .”
No, no, let me finish. And your bossiness. And your love of attention.
“Clancy, this is starting to sound less and less like an apology.”
I’ve given you a hard time, but only because there is something inside of you Hazel that I have never seen in all of your ancestors.
“Focus. Clancy. Or our familiarship is going to die along with me.”
I don’t deserve to be your familiar.
“If you can’t focus, then get me a focus. Something—anything.”
That’s what I’m trying to get at, Hazel. You don’t need a focus. It’s a crutch for you. There’s something about your spellcasting that is…unusual. Not everyone could have torn those holes in the fabric of time and space just by casting glamours, otherwise the world would be riddled with lesions and populated entirely by riven.
Finally, Clancy seemed satisfied and turned his attention to the satchel resting on the bench in the carriage. He nosed the bag’s flap open and rooted around inside.
For the record, it smells like someone was brushing their teeth, had to throw up, and used your bag as a receptacle.
A shriek pierced the air. The creature dropped from the rafters, no longer in dire
spider form. Hazel at last beheld the werespider’s hybrid form—a grotesque blend of human and spider. Though the creature’s body was a waxy black, bristling with ghostly hairs, its shape was basically human, graced with arms and legs, its curves distinctly feminine. But four spindly arachnid limbs sprouted from its back, scratching at the air like they were constantly searching for something—or somebody—to grab hold of.
The creature loped toward her, and sniffed at her, stroking her face. Hazel closed her eyes and tried not to think about all the biology lessons her mother had subjected her to—the field experiments when they’d gone down to the boathouse and watched the wolf spiders devoured their prey. The results were both disheartening and dis-stomaching. Did they inject venom into their prey and then wrap them? Didn’t they wait for the venom to liquefy their prey, then suck out the insides, like the world’s worst milkshake . . .
Hazel shuddered, and could she have moved her head, she would have shaken it to banish the thought. No, this was not an actual spider, she reminded herself. It was a person afflicted with spiderdom. Surely that meant the baseline instincts were still human and there was still a chance that Riven Charlie was still alive.
And for a moment, Hazel thought she recognized something in those features, though exactly what, she couldn’t say.
“Listen,” said Hazel. “I get it. This is hardly a great situation for either of us to be in. You’re not yourself. I’m not feeling hot either.”
The creature cocked its head to the side as if it might actually be listening, and Hazel felt emboldened. Maybe she could talk her way out of this. This was just a one-woman show and all she had to do was bust out her newly minted improvisational skills to sell this. She’d spent some time on Broadway—she knew what to do with an audience once you had captured them. You had to press your advantage, tell them what you knew they already wanted to hear. “You’re cursed and you’re just trying to find a way out of this. We can figure this out together,” she said.
There was a hissing and yowling from the carriage behind her. Clancy stood at the edge of the open carriage door. His back was arched and his two ears were pressed flat against his head as he hissed at the werespider.