The Spider Children (The Warren Brood Book 1)

by Bartholomew Lander

  “So your parents won’t care that you knew he was going and did nothing to stop it?”

  “Jeez, Mandy, you’re trying pretty hard to turn me into the bad guy over here.”

  Amanda sighed. “You don’t know how lucky you and Chels are. I wish I had a brother.”

  “If you want Arthr he’s yours.”

  “Come on, Spins, I’m serious. Being an only child is awful. I don’t even have any freaking cousins. If I had a little brother or sister, I’d be there for everything. You wouldn’t be able to keep me away from their extracurriculars. I’d be at every baseball game or ballet recital or—”

  “Illegal street fight?”

  Amanda laughed. “Well, someone’s gotta step in and beat up their bullies, so why not me?”

  “I don’t think Arthr needs anyone looking out for him.”

  “That’s not the point, Spins. It’s about being the bigger person and taking the good with the bad. Yeah, Arthr’s an asshole, I won’t even pretend to deny that. But he’s your brother. Family is family.”

  Spinneretta heard her mother’s words coming from her friend’s mouth and gagged a little. Sometimes she hated Mandy; she was always just a little too right for Spinneretta’s tastes. “I really can’t believe I’m letting you lecture me like this. This is the most backwards thing of all time.”

  “Well, maybe you’ve just gone soft.”

  She smiled. “Are you sure you’re not just telling me to go because you don’t want me eating all your rice pudding again?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  Spinneretta stood another moment in silence. “Dammit, Mandy. You’re making me feel all guilty about it, for some reason.”

  “Good, that means you have a heart somewhere in that spidery core of yours. If you want, I’ll bring you some consolation rice pudding next time we do dinner.”

  Spinneretta gasped. “Bring it to me tomorrow.”

  “Can’t, I have to study for Spanish this weekend. I can do it on Tuesday, though.”

  Her mouth was already watering at the thought of the rice pudding Amanda’s mother made. “Fine, but you’re honor-bound to deliver it Tuesday.”

  A giggle. “Right, right. Will your mom be okay with me just showing up uninvited?”

  “You’re not uninvited. I invited you.”

  “Just ask her to make sure. I don’t want her getting all passive-aggressive on me like that one time. Now stop dilly-dallying and go be a good sister.”

  “Alright, alright, fine. I’ll even be enough of a sister for you, too. You can live vicariously through me.”

  “That’s what I like to hear. Be sure to tell me how it goes.”

  “Of course. Talk to you later.”

  Cutting the line, Spinneretta let her arm slump toward the ground. She stared off into space for a few seconds, bitter taste on her tongue. A breath of cool air tempered the remnant of her anger. She thrust her phone into her pocket, turning back to face the road she’d walked to get there. This isn’t what I wanted at all, she thought. Stupid Mandy and her stupid platitudes.

  Though she hated to admit it, Amanda was right. Well, maybe she wasn’t right, but it was harder to convince herself of that now. She knew she wasn’t obligated to go and watch Arthr’s idiot match, but now it sure felt like she was. But more importantly, not settling this stupid feud between them was dangerous. If she buried the hatchet, then that would be one less poisoned barb to distract her from things that actually mattered now. Mom always said that hate harms the hater most. Maybe there was something to that; it certainly wasn’t doing any damage to Arthr and his monstrous ego.

  As she started toward Old Town, she tried to think of the bright side. She’d be able to gloat about being the bigger person if Arthr said anything. That was a plus. And maybe it would be fun to watch him beat the daylights out of a bigger dirtbag than he himself was.

  Pat Rhodes. Just the thought of that perverted grin as he made one of his passes on Chelsea and Amanda in freshman year made her skin crawl. Stomach turning. Vile. Shameless. Were it not for her unflattering jacket, he may well have included her in his scope. Now that she thought about it, there was probably no better matchup for Arthr. No matter who won, she won. If Arthr got his high-horse kicked out from beneath him then she’d be happy, but she’d be just as glad to see that gorilla get his teeth handed to him.

  Well, might as well enjoy it as much as I can.

  Spinneretta had arrived at the Potter’s field just in time to see the fight start. The seething crowd of twenty-five or so students had been pressed up against the fence, as though an invisible bouncer were keeping them from getting any nearer. Without a sound, she watched the sport as it unfolded. She watched Arthr’s first attack hit nothing but bone. She watched in quiet disbelief as Pat threw a fistful of dirt into Arthr’s eyes and bashed him in the side of the head a moment later. At first, she couldn’t believe that Pat could stoop so low. Then came the shock that Arthr had let something so simple derail his momentum. Some of the students flanking her along the fence gasped when Pat kicked Arthr from his vulnerable crouch. But the gorilla showed no signs of slowing his assault, and soon he’d dropped Arthr with a knee to the leg.

  It could have all been poetic justice. It could have been a perfect lesson in hubris. She could have been a big sister, comforting him while repeating I told you so. She could have lectured Arthr when it was all over, reminding him pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall. She could have ended the evening feeling satisfied at Karma’s fulfillment, disgusting though its realization was. But that was before Pat broke open the joint in Arthr’s spider leg, bursting the chitin and freeing a stream of pulpy syrup.

  It was then the true weight of the situation hit her. Her stomach churned, her spider legs shivered, and the nerves in those appendages rang as they imagined the pain he must have felt. It all must’ve been a terrible illusion, a forgery of reality brought on as divine punishment.

  But there was no end to the unfolding horror. She was helpless to look away as the ape-man pulled Arthr into a half-sitting position by his hair and hammered another blow into the side of his forehead. The crowd reacted, but Spinneretta couldn’t hear them. All noise faded away except for the helpless, deathly scream coming from Arthr’s mouth.

  Spinneretta watched as Pat approached Arthr yet again. Was that not enough for him? How far was Pat willing to go to take revenge on behalf of his brother? A part of Spinneretta wondered if Amanda would have done the same thing, and that thought summoned back her best friend’s words: someone’s gotta step in and beat up their bullies. She ground her teeth, breaking through the paralyzing weakness and nausea. A surge of buried pride bubbled up, and with it flowed a violent determination. Someone had to step in; someone had to be a goddamn sister.

  “That’s enough!” she yelled, vaulting over the rot-wood fence and sprinting toward the two combatants. Dried grass scratched at her ankles as she ran.

  Pat didn’t give her even a passing glance. Instead, he stepped closer to where Arthr lay.

  A surge of adrenaline pushed her muscles to the limit, and she closed the distance just as Pat pulled back his fist again. Every muscle burned. Without thinking, she threw herself toward him as quickly as she could, her spider legs uncoiling beneath her jacket and extending. “I said that’s fucking enough!”

  Pat’s shoulders moved, and she was in front of him. Her hands and spider legs collapsed upon the huge punch, and the impact shook the whole world. When her bones stopped rattling and the ground ceased pitching beneath her feet, she stood between Pat’s fist and Arthr’s prone form, her spider legs having soaked the attack. Her legs were flexed, straining against the strength in the man’s arm. His stance was awkward, his plunging attack having become a clumsy hobble as Spinneretta appeared before him. His face was only inches from her own, his eyes wide with confusion. The scent of cheap booze and cigarettes emanated from his gaping mouth.

  For a long moment, nothing moved. Finally,
with a disgusted look on his face, Pat casually swept his trapped arm and shoved Spinneretta aside. The ground again whirled, and before she knew what had happened she hit the ground a yard away, broken shoots of dry grass cutting her palms as she reeled from the force of the push.

  “And who the fuck are you?” Pat shouted.

  The heat stinging her scraped palms drew a hiss from between her teeth. She extended her spider legs again from beneath her jacket and scrambled to get back to her feet.

  Pat whistled. “Oh, would ya look at that. Arty’s lil’ spider-sister came to help him out.” He turned for a moment to where the crowd and his cohorts buzzed. “Hey guys, lookie here! Arty needs his lil’ sis to save him!”

  In a flash, she was on her feet and marching toward him again. Arthr, his whole body shivering in pain, had managed to fight to an unsteady crouch. His broken leg still hung limp at one side, the blood staining his shirt in a growing smear. A sympathetic shiver of pain tortured Spinneretta’s matching leg. The stench of blood was heavy in the air, and she had to fight back against the nausea in her stomach. “Back off,” she said as confidently as she could. “He’s had enough.”

  The man gave her an incredulous look and clucked. “Hey. I remember you. You and that puke-colored jacket. You’re that girl who hung out with the nine and the six a few years back. I guess the rumors were true about you. You really are a freak, just like your shit-eating big bro.”

  Her heart pounded loud in her ears. Pat was even taller than she remembered. The way he stood there glaring down at her . . . it brought back such vile-tasting memories. Not slowing her steps for a moment, she moved again between her brother and the mountain of muscle and fat. “Fight’s over. You won. Now get out of here.”

  Pat smirked and took a single step closer to her. He reached out and, with no apparent exertion, shoved her in the shoulder.

  Spinneretta’s feet were barely fast enough to keep her upright. She spread her spider legs as counterweights. It took four clumsy steps to reclaim her balance. And when she recovered, she saw Pat place his foot upon Arthr’s shoulder and kick him back onto the ground. Everything went red. The calloused beating, and the way he’d broken her brother’s leg. Her family, her own blood. Family is family. Her anger toward Arthr faded, fusing into all the loathing she’d ever felt for the man named Pat Rhodes. The weight of that fury combined and triggered a violent lapse in self-control.

  As Pat stepped again toward where Arthr lay, Spinneretta rushed him. With a shout, she drew her own fist back and let it fly. The punch connected. Her knuckles scraped cartilage, and bone bit back against her hand. A sharp pain shot through the tendons of her wrist, and Pat stumbled back a step in surprise.

  He glowered down at her, a smear of blood beginning to flow from his nose. “You. Fucking. Cunt. You’re gonna wish you hadn’t done that.”

  “S-Spins,” Arthr choked at her. “What are you—?”

  “You stay the hell out of this,” she growled, peeling her jacket from her shoulders. As it hit the ground, her spider legs extended to their full length. The pain the punch had left in her wrist fed the rapidly spreading fire. Blood. More blood now. The smear under Pat’s nose, somehow thicker and more pungent than all of Arthr’s, set her freed legs on edge. It invaded her spiracles, hammered against her head like a gigantic fist banging upon a steel door. The strange adrenaline she’d fought against for so long began to creep into her nervous system. It was something animalistic, something raw and instinctual. It sharpened the scents of the evening air and deepened her ragged breaths.

  “I gotta be straight with ya, honey,” Pat said in a breathy voice. “I like girls with some bite to ’em. Gotta admit, you ain’t hard on the eyes, aside from them things on your back. What do you say you and I—”

  She didn’t give him a chance to finish. With an alacrity that startled even her, her appendages seized the ground and threw her forward. Before Pat could react, she sprang into the air and slammed a knee into the soft gap in the middle of his rib cage.

  Pat recoiled and sank to a crouch, clutching his chest. Gripped by a spasmodic coughing fit, his face glowed a feverish red. “You fucking cunt!” he said between coughs. In the blink of an eye he threw a rising hay-maker with his right fist.

  The attack arced through the point where Spinneretta’s head had been but a moment before, producing a low whistle as it split the air. Half-crouching, she sat five feet from him, her spider legs splayed to the sides. Her appendages bent and straightened rapidly, causing the blood that flowed within to heat as they drew in the crisp evening air. That primal, instinctual knocking on the door in her mind had grown louder. This time, too, she’d push back against its influence, just as she had each time before. She’d keep it from overcoming her, though she’d gladly partake of the heightened senses that seemed to seep in between the cracks. Concentrated, liquid adrenaline, that instinct put her nervous system into overdrive. It terrified her to imagine what would happen if she let it overtake her.

  “This is what I get, tryin’ to be nice,” Pat said between coughs. He took a strangled breath before expelling it in a mad roar. “I’m gonna put you in a fucking body bag!”

  He lurched forward and hurled a fast right jab at Spinneretta, but his punch hit nothing but air as she sprang out of the way. Another chased, but she was out of range before his arm left his side. She sidestepped his next hook and dodged another hay-maker with a graceful leap back to his right. Pat threw another set of punches, but each fell further from her as she danced around him. To Spinneretta, it was a small matter to avoid the oaf’s attacks with that Instinct’s help. She could have done so even without the strange adrenaline pumping through her veins, but this made it somehow more enjoyable. Legs writhing, she bathed in the warmth around her; from where the crowd watched, an unnatural heat emanated with each excited student’s heartbeat. That heat was tangible, palpable. She could smell Pat’s muscles contracting with each punch. That telegraph was all she needed to determine the strike’s course and evade the blow.

  Sweat sat upon Pat’s brow and grew thicker with each fruitless exertion. Each punch was backed by the intention to kill. The excitement was building, and Spinneretta could taste it. She could taste the anger boiling through Pat’s veins. She could taste the yet unclotted blood dribbling from his nose. The fury with which he continued his relentless and pointless assault gave her a sadistic satisfaction. It brought the Instinct closer with each breath, each movement. She was edging the bloodlust.

  “You motherfucker!” He reared back and threw a straight right at her head. It whooshed over her as she ducked. On a dangerous and violent impulse, she answered the attack by sending two of her legs lashing across the underside of his arm in opposite directions.

  With a shout, Pat stumbled back in shock. Two lines crossed in an X on his underarm. A slow trickle of blood began to turn the shallow incisions bright red. “You fucking freak!” His whole body twisted, his torso dipping toward the grass. One arm flew down and then curved upward. And then a hail of dirt and cobbles fell upon her. A hot, dry pain filled Spinneretta’s eyes.

  Reeling, she sent one hand to wipe at the invading particles. Everything went dark, her lids clenching and filling with tears. But her legs twitched at the smell of blood. He was moving. Spinneretta sprang backward, narrowly avoiding the next blow. She spread her appendages wide. The Instinct read the air for the taste of his movement. Even without eyes, she could smell his sweat and heat, his blood.

  Another punch—a left this time. She sidestepped it and dragged the tip of one leg along its side, drawing a shout from Pat and painting his other arm with a bright streak. With both his arms tagged, there was nothing to fear; the taste was growing thicker with each moment. Soon that rich, metallic scent ran in branching streams down both his arms. And whenever he drew back to launch another blow, her spiracles—relishing the euphoric flavor staining the air—alerted her. She sidestepped, jumped, and leapt, dodging each attack without effort.

 
After expending what seemed to remain of his strength, Pat stood panting once more, his alcohol-laced breath intruding in the evening aroma. As it became clear that he was too exhausted to attack again, Spinneretta cracked her eyes open, wrestling with the embedded particles of dirt. She fought through the pain; the heat tickling her muscles and skin more than made up for it.

  “What the hell are you?” Pat said, a note of desperate fear leaking into his voice.

  “You’re the only one here who hasn’t it figured it out,” she said. “But since you’re so slow, I guess I have to give up the secret. You might want to grab a pen for this one, because here comes the big spoiler.” She splayed her arachnid legs to the sides and opened her surely bloodshot eyes wide, hoping it made her appear as crazed as she felt. “You want to know what I am? I’m a Warren! And no one messes with a goddamn Warren!”

  He shook his head, unbridled anger rocking his frame. “No. You’re nothing. You’re just a fucking freak like your shithead brother!” He shot forward and threw a punch with his entire weight—it had enough force behind it to snap a girl her size in half.

  But Spinneretta didn’t give him a chance. She closed on him, soaring under his attack before the punch even reached its apex. Her fist slammed into his solar plexus, momentum driving her knuckles beneath the layer of fat and muscle that protected it. Pat buckled and convulsed from the strike. Air exploded from his lungs and saliva flew in loose strands from his mouth. Spinneretta broke through the euphoric haze in her mind long enough to wrangle the anger and hatred she felt for the man—for what he did to Arthr, and to Chelsea and Amanda. In the blink of an eye, she threw her left elbow across his jaw. As his head snapped to the right, her legs scrambled, seizing his trunk and ferrying her up upon his mountainous form. When she rose above his shoulders, she twisted her hips and sent her knee careening across his face. The sound of cartilage breaking met the air, and a stronger scent of blood followed.