“The cult’s inner workings and ultimate goal are complicated to explain. If you’re actually interested, I’ll tell you another time. As for why I left,” he said, his tone growing dark, “there was nobody left to stop me. When I was five or six, the clan was probably a hundred members strong. But when I left, there was only one other true Warren remaining.”
Spinneretta could only listen in silent shock, again unsure if she could believe something like that. “What the hell happened?”
“Family politics got out of hand.”
She nodded, feeling a mix of horror and relief at the news. Family politics. That must mean they started killing each other off, she thought. Sounds like the world may be better off without them if that’s the case. Assuming there was any truth to the matter in the first place. “So, if this is all true,” she said, “then why are you telling me?”
The edges of his lips turned up in a smile. “Because when you don’t know what people will believe, deciding what to lie about is tedious. Besides, you said that I owed you answers, did you not? If knowing where I come from and what I’ve done bothers you, you are free to keep your distance. My business is with your father, after all, and not you.”
She grinned, deciding to play along with whatever game this was. “You can’t just say I’m magic, and by the way you have a bunch of distant relatives who suddenly died out and expect to get off without explaining it. My report will turn out awesome with that kind of flair.” Or I could at least write a book about it.
“Fair enough. Unfortunately, I have some work that I must attend to. Were it not for that, I’d explain more to you now.”
Spinneretta nodded in disappointment. How the hell was she supposed to sleep with this new collection of mysteries on her mind? She reluctantly pushed herself up from the soft surface of the sofa and started toward the door. She stretched her left set of spider legs across her body and let the joints crack. “Well, thanks for entertaining me. When can I hear the rest of your crazy-ass story?”
“The next time you have trouble sleeping, I suppose.” He had opened the book again but still looked squarely at her.
She was about to take her leave when a seemingly random thought occurred to her. She paused, her hand on the door, and turned back to him. “Can I ask one more for tonight?” His pale brown eyes flicked up to her again, and he nodded. A moment of hesitation. “You said there was just one time you actually enjoyed using magic . . . ” She had trouble finishing the question because of the inherent insanity of it, but he picked up on her meaning at once.
His gaze grew distant, cold. His irises seemed to flicker with some unspoken irritation, as of a loathing kept sealed under lock and key. “I’d be more discerning with your questions henceforth,” he said, “for some things are best left forgotten.”
Chapter 5
Mercurial
As Spinneretta expected, her attempt at sleep was an exercise in futility. Before talking to Mark, her mind had at least pretended that it wanted rest. Now, it was alive with a hornet’s nest of buzzing thoughts which grew louder the harder she tried to ignore them. There was a vague sense of horror stemming from just how calmly the man had professed complicity in ritualized murder, whilst at the same time claiming some divine magical gift. The idea was ludicrous in this day and age, and yet the possibilities disturbed her.
You’re thinking too hard about it, Spins, she thought. He’s probably just fucking with you.
Insane though the idea was, she found something about the fantasy that Mark really was some kind of wizard intriguing. He was strangely confident of that notion’s reality, but the fact that he seemed so normal in all other regards made it hard to believe he was crazy. For the last time, he’s fucking with you. But that wasn’t a satisfactory explanation either. Her dad, who made a point of never talking about his roots, had mentioned the concept of magic in connection with the Warren name. It had to have been deliberate. Why else would he choose their own family name for a race of boogiemen? Why would he specifically make those boogiemen wizards? And why did her dad seem so afraid of their visitor?
An echo in her mind rose to challenge the doubt. You have spider legs on your back. Why is that normal but magic is insane? He may have had a point. If the Warren brood was real, then who was to say that magic couldn’t exist?
Above her head, motes of fresh dust swam in the pale blue light from the window. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in her pillow, trying to delay the coming morning.
The next day, the exhausted and semi-catatonic Spinneretta struggled to stay awake at school. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone an entire night without sleep. After arriving home, she collapsed on her bed and napped away a few hours before dinner, though she didn’t feel at all rested when May summoned her to the encore performance of Awkward Dinner Theater. After finishing her lasagna, she excused herself and returned to her room, where exhaustion dragged her to bed early.
But at 2 a.m., she was wide awake. She tried in vain for half an hour to fall back asleep but was too well-rested to do anything more than lie there clutching her pillow. If she wanted to sleep again, she’d need to find something to occupy her until she felt tired again.
She sat upright in the darkness of her room. Her head swam, but at least it was better than the previous night’s headache. Something to do. Preferably something productive. Her homework for tomorrow was done. Her eyes fell across the white glint of the plastic bag sitting on her dresser, and she remembered the teal tank top. She had yet to modify it for her legs. That was something distracting to do.
Dizzy from half-sleep, she turned on the light. When her eyes adjusted, she grabbed the tank top and her small box of sewing supplies. She sat down at her computer desk, laid out the garment, and prepared to get to work. As she unfurled her spider legs to begin estimating, however, she found herself wondering if Mark was still awake. The conversation from the previous night nagged at her, and her curiosity overwhelmed what apprehension she had toward their strange visitor.
She crept downstairs, supplies in hand and leg. Light from beneath the study door spilled across the carpet. With a nervous breath, she rapped her knuckles against the door once more.
A voice answered from inside. “Come in.”
She opened the door and found Mark sitting in the same chair as the previous night, reading what seemed to be the same book. It was as though her unhinged sleeping schedule had sent her back in time. “Good morning,” she said.
He smiled at her. “Good morning to you. You are up quite early.”
“I couldn’t sleep again.”
“Is this a recurring problem you have?”
“Not usually. I just couldn’t sleep last night with all your talk about cults and wizards.”
He chuckled. “Too scared to sleep, mayhap?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “No,” she said, irritated. “Too curious to sleep. Curious how much of it is true, for instance. Mind if I bother you for a bit?”
“I told you that you were welcome. It’s your parlor, after all.”
Not letting the aggravated expression on her face waver, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She flopped down on the couch, as she had the previous night.
Mark gestured to the garment she held in her spider legs. “What’s that?”
“Tank top. I need to modify it so I can wear it, so I figured you could entertain me while I do so.” She leaned forward and slid the coffee table closer to her with two of her legs. She set her box of sewing supplies down and laid the shirt out on the table’s naked surface. “So, Mark Warren, tell me about yourself.”
Mark raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re not going to ask me about cults and magic?”
“Time will tell if I do or not. Hearing you talk about yourself might give me a yardstick for measuring how crazy you are.”
“Does this mean you’ve accepted the possibility that magic exists?”
She paused in consideration. “I wa
s thinking about what you said. And I think you’re right. Even if we’re talking about something as insane as magic, I’m kind of obligated to be open-minded about it.” Whether that was true or not, she was undecided; it sounded reasonable enough, though. She placed two pins in the upper half of the shirt, not too far below the hem. The light fabric fluttered a little as she held it up and flexed her spider legs behind her, estimating where the holes would go. “Well, tell me something.”
For a moment, he just observed her measuring. “What do you want to know?”
“I don’t know, how old are you?”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty? And you said you’ve been out of home for six years?” Her legs twitched a couple times before she settled on the placement of the second set of pins.
“I would not say out of home, but yes.”
She ignored his semantic objection, trying to paint a mental image of his life. “What have you been doing all this time?” She extended her lower legs, imagining how the tank top would fall.
“I believe I mentioned that I’ve been moving here and there.”
“Moving here and there doesn’t usually take six years. To what end? Didn’t you say you were looking for someone?”
He nodded. “My cousin. She went missing six years ago, and I’ve been looking for her ever since.”
“Really?” She felt a hint of guilt over doubting his motives. “Is that why you came here?”
“It is. I was hoping your father would be able to help me find her. No luck so far.” He sat there for a moment, and then leaned abruptly toward her.
Startled by his proximity, she slid away from him across the couch. “What?”
He appeared surprised, as though he’d just thought of something. His expression hardened. “Miss Spinneretta, please answer me one question. Have you ever felt . . . I don’t know, perhaps you may call it a type of magnetism toward someone?”
“W-what?”
He glanced down at his hands. His fingers were twitching, as if emulating her spider legs, or trying to shape the air into the words he needed. “I suppose it’s more than a magnetism. I’d rather call it a mental attraction that draws you in a very specific direction, toward somebody.”
Her mouth hung open and she blinked at him. “Are you hitting on me?”
His face went blank. “What?” Then, embarrassed, he sat back up and ran his hand across the bridge of his nose. “No, I am speaking of the Sight!”
“What the hell’s the Sight?”
Still reeling from her accusation, he stammered for a moment before he was able to properly explain. “The Sight is a mental power that illuminates those with whom one shares blood relation. It is inherent to the bloodline of the Lunar Vigil. As a Warren, your father had it. And if you are his child, then logic holds that you must have it as well.”
She shook her head, confused. “No. I have nothing like that.”
His eyes probed her. “Are you certain?”
“Yeah. One hundred percent.” She may have been a Warren, but she was positive she had no ESP or psychic powers of any kind. Sure, she had her quirks, like recurring dreams and a mental fixation on the odd sigil within them, but she certainly had nothing matching this Sight of his.
Mark let out a sigh. “That is disappointing. I wonder why that is.”
Unsure how to respond, she shifted back into her seat and returned the garment to the coffee table. Surveying her pinwork, she ensured she had not made any mistakes. The hell is with this guy? she thought, unable to entirely focus on her shirt. She took a deep breath, deciding to ignore the strange topic. “Well, anyway, you must’ve done something interesting in those six years. I can’t imagine you’ve just been moving around aimlessly.”
To her relief, he seemed willing to drop the previous subject. “I attended college briefly,” he said. “Does that interest you?”
“Maybe.” She pulled a pair of scissors from her sewing box and started cutting short slits where she’d marked the fabric. “Depends on what you studied.”
“Folklore.”
She perked up at once. “Folklore? That’s pretty cool, I guess. I didn’t know there were degrees in that. Doesn’t seem really useful for a job, though.”
“I wasn’t interested in a job. And they only offered a couple classes in the subject. I ceased attending once I realized they were only teaching the most popular of traditions.”
Spinneretta considered this. “So why did you go, if not for employment?”
“I was discouraged from searching, so I decided to take a bit of time to better myself and see if I could learn anything that might give me some leads.”
She eyed him skeptically. “You were hoping that learning more about folklore would help you find your cousin?”
He smiled. “I suppose I’m not doing a very good job of convincing you of my sanity.”
His self-awareness made her laugh. “I told you I’m being open-minded. That just doesn’t make much sense to me.” Although it did resonate with his claims of weird culthood, didn’t it?
“It doesn’t have to,” he said flatly. “It is not your problem, after all.”
She was quiet at this, and decided to drop the subject. “Well, what about that nasty scar on your arm?”
Mark started and glanced down at the pale line that ran the length of his left forearm, as though he’d forgotten it existed. “What about it?”
“That’s a burn scar, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is.” Not even a hint of inflection. He traced a finger along the scar absentmindedly.
“How did you get it?”
“Forgive me, but I don’t like to talk about it.”
The distance in his voice made her feel like she was chasing a phantom. It seemed like every question led to a dead end. Finishing the initial cutting of the slits, she suspended the tank top using her anterior spider legs. Her fingers wrangled a needle and spool of thread as she prepared to fold the flaps and finalize the edges. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed he was smiling at her. “Is something amusing you?” she asked.
“Your name is Spinneretta. And you’re sewing.”
She stared at him, not understanding why that should amuse anyone. A moment later, she laughed. “If you can believe it, my parents almost named me Arachne. That would’ve been really appropriate.”
“I suppose it would be.”
“Though I’d need to take up looming for it to be totally accurate. Would you believe it if I told you my initials spell out the word sew?”
“I think I’d find that pretty contrived, to be honest.”
“Well, it’s true.” She worked the needle with her fingers as her legs held the tank top in place.
“Would you mind if I asked what the E stands for?”
Her jaw tightened and a flash of anger boiled up through her blood. “I do mind, actually,” she said, quieting Mark with her sudden show of irritation.
A moment of confounded silence followed. “Forgive me for saying so,” Mark said at last, “but you’re an awfully mercurial girl.”
“And you’re awfully blunt and formal. Would it kill you to say I’m sorry instead of forgive me?” She huffed, and immediately felt embarrassed over the outburst. She took a deep breath to cool down. “Sorry, I get touchy when it comes to my names. My mom gave me this stupid name because she thought it sounded pretty and wanted some idiotic pun on my legs.”
“I did not intend to salt the wound.”
She couldn’t tell if the hint of irritation in his voice was her projecting or not, but decided to focus on her work instead of worrying about it.
Mark crossed his arms. “So,” he said, the illusion of frustration dissipated, “if you don’t mind me asking, what was it like growing up as a spider-girl, Miss Spinneretta?”
“Stop calling me Miss,” she said, irritated again.
“Forgive . . . Sorry.”
She took a deep breath. “It was interesting.”
“Are most
people fine with your extra legs, or . . . ?”
“They weren’t at first, no. I don’t remember well, but it was a lot harder when I was young because I didn’t understand what the big deal was. But as I got older, and as Arthr and Kara grew up, everyone seemed to get used to it around here. If they didn’t know us personally, then they’d heard about us and knew what to expect. Had some idea of half-spider in their heads by that time.”
Mark nodded, deep in thought. “I see.”
“Doesn’t matter these days, though. I always wear something to cover my legs when I’m out so people don’t get too interested.”
He nodded again, and his expression slowly lightened. “And just what does a half-spider-girl do for fun?”
“Hey, I thought I was asking you questions.”
“Just curious. Feel free to not answer.”
She exhaled. “I do a bit of sewing, a bit of baking. A good amount of reading. And I program a little, thanks to Dad.”
“And what does your father do?”
She smiled proudly. “He’s a system engineer at the Golmont Corporation.”
He gave her a blank stare. “The what?”
“The Golmont Corporation.”
“I’m afraid I’ve never heard of them.”
“Seriously? They’re one of the biggest private tech companies on the West Coast. And they also operate the ISP for Grantwood, Widow’s Creek, and I think Mount Hedera.”
The confusion on his face deepened. “ISP?”
“Internet service provider?” She blinked at him, seeing his lack of comprehension, and shrugged it off. “Well, whatever. Point is, if you haven’t heard of them, you probably should’ve. There you go, my hobbies and my dad’s job. Is it my turn again?”
“Certainly.”
“Can you show me some of your magic?”
He laughed. “Perhaps another time.”
Spinneretta sighed, pulled out a sloppy stitch, and started again. “Didn’t think you would.” How could he? He was just making it up anyway.
The Spider Children (The Warren Brood Book 1) Page 8