It would be nearly thirty minutes before their simple order was prepared. While waiting, they’d found the time to discuss things more important that Spinneretta’s alleged blood-horniness, such as why a piece of meat and a bowl of chowder were taking so damn long. Spinneretta’s prevailing theory was that the woman suffered from an acute case of arachnophobia and, despite the polite obscurity provided by the jacket, was spending the majority of her time in the bathroom vomiting. Mark’s counter-theory was that she had, through a series of increasingly hilarious accidents, killed the cook on duty and was now forced to take over the position herself while maintaining the illusion that everything was fine. As the clock on the brick-painted wall struck 9:55, the waitress returned with their food.
“Here you are,” the waitress said in a dry tone, plopping a pair of plates on the table before Spinneretta. “That’s a sirloin, rare, and a short stack of pancakes for the lady, and a cup of corn chowder for the mister.” She placed the cup in front of Mark with a greater degree of care.
“Thank you,” Mark replied.
Spinneretta managed little more than a meager grunt of gratitude. When the waitress again vanished, she pushed her plate of pancakes to the side for later and turned her attention to the slab of meat. “Hey, can you turn away for a sec?”
“Hmm?”
“Just do it.”
Mark obliged without complaint, turning his gaze over his right shoulder.
When his sight was averted, Spinneretta stabbed the steak with her fork and lifted the slab to her mouth. She opened wide and let her concealed fangs emerge. She clamped her jaw down over the steak and pierced the meat’s rubbery outer layer with her fangs. Then, the digestive enzymes began to flow.
It was a nostalgic sensation, satisfying and awkward all at once, like the draining of a cyst, or the explosive alleviation of sinus pressure. Her venom glands opened to contribute an offering to the digestive soup. The release made her dizzy. She counted to three in her head, and then withdrew her fangs. She pulled it away from her face, looking it over once to ensure everything was in order, and then dropped it to her plate. She wiped her mouth clean with a napkin. “’Kay.”
Mark turned his gaze back to her. Once his eyes brushed over the puncture marks in the steak, a look of understanding came over him. He smiled, and she didn’t care for the looks of it.
“Look, it’s embarrassing, alright?” she said, irritated. “Like I said, it makes me feel like I’m ten years old again.”
“If this is comfort to you,” he said, in a less sarcastic tone than she had expected, “then I shan’t complain.”
Great. No complaints. How polite of you. She dropped the end of her straw into the larger of the two holes in the steak. The meat just inside of those puncture marks had already liquefied. Before long the enzyme and venom soup would eat through the entire thing, turning the once-proud steak into a viscous puddle.
“Would you like me to turn away again while you eat?”
“No, it’s alright.” She took a long slurp of the thick jelly. The taste of sour gravy kicked her in the mouth.
“How is it?”
“Revolting. The enzymes don’t mix well with stuff that’s been cooked, for some reason.” Should’ve just got the buttered noodles. On the bright side, it was technically rawer than igneous rock.
Though it took a while, Spinneretta eventually choked through the rest of the steak. When she moved on to the pancakes, she was surprised to find that they were average—and average was a welcome change at this point.
“You’re not even going to put syrup on them?” Mark asked over his chowder. “Or is that too exciting for your taste buds?”
“I just prefer to let the taste of the pancakes stand on their own merit.”
“Do you like all your food boring?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” she replied. She looked across at him, and his pale brown eyes held hers for a moment. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
With the mood having lightened considerably from the pall of blood-horniness and the Instinct, Spinneretta finally found the courage to ask Mark the question she’d pondered since the night he arrived. “What’s with your eyes?”
“What about them?”
“They’re . . . I don’t know, there’s something about them.” She remembered how his eyes had fascinated and terrified her at dinner on his first night with them. They’d unnerved her at the time, and even now she was not entirely used to them. There was something about them that was out of the ordinary. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone with eyes that color before, is all.”
“You mean brown?”
“That shade of brown, stupid.” His smile told her that he was teasing, but she still continued. “They’re just so . . . Faded, I guess. I thought Warrens always had really dark eyes.”
“Luck of the draw, I suppose. They were my mother’s eyes if that makes any difference.”
“Really? But I thought darker eyes were genetically dominant. Light eyes should be recessive, shouldn’t they?”
“Perhaps,” he said, not feigning any knowledge of genetics. “My cousin, Lily, has the same eyes as me. Her parents both had dark eyes, too. It must run in my mother’s side of the family.”
Disappointed by the lack of some mystic secret, she nodded and went back to eating her pancakes. She wasn’t even halfway done with them, but she was already full.
Mark and Spinneretta left the diner at 10:35 after paying for the meal. Spinneretta had bitterly insisted that she pay for her own share, as the hazardous slab of meat had been the second most expensive item on the menu, but Mark refused to budge on the issue. She ultimately let him have his way; being taken out to dinner like this was unfamiliar, and part of her wanted the full experience. By then the heavy mist had turned to a steady drizzle, and the longer they argued on the matter the wetter they were likely to become. And so, her spider legs wrapping her chest, jacket pulled tight around her, she walked as fast as her human-legs would allow, scarcely keeping pace with Mark as they headed back along a dim street toward the Warren residence.
Despite the plummet her mood had taken earlier, Spinneretta found the grim weather pleasant. If she weren’t so tired, she’d have enjoyed going for a run. The cold, damp weather was a perfect accessory to a night that was, step by step, becoming warmer. Gradually, she allowed her footsteps to slow. “Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone before?” she asked.
His own jacket clutched around him, Mark turned over his shoulder. “Of course.” His own pace slowed until he fell in beside her.
“I had a nice time tonight.” She gave him a warm smile, feeling a light giddiness reawakening.
Mark laughed. “Are we talking about dinner or the fight?”
“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “You know what I mean.”
Though it wasn’t easy to admit it, she was actually talking about both. Despite the impossible embarrassment that had come from throwing herself on Mark earlier, there was a ray of hope in that bottomless shame. When she had wrapped her arms and appendages around him she had smelled his heart rate jump. Too lost in the haze, she’d overlooked it; under the circumstances it was trivial, completely natural. She had no evidence that his pulse hadn’t spiked out of fear, but at the very least it gave her some hope that Mark might feel something for her. And wasn’t that worth having made an ass of herself?
“Well, if that qualifies as a nice time,” Mark said, oblivious to her internal monologue, “then I feel sorry for you. Did you even taste the coffee?”
“Unfortunately. But even with the terrible service, undrinkable coffee, and the suspiciously cooked raw meat, I’d still say it was more enjoyable than any date I’ve ever been on.” She hoped it came off as innocuous as she meant it to.
He again laughed, this time dismissively. “I find that difficult to believe.”
“Sad as it is, it’s true, though I don’t have an extensive body of experience. The on
ly real date I’ve ever been on was a blind double date with my best friend, and I only went because she literally forced me into it.”
“Sounds to me like you need to go on more dates, in that case. There’s no excuse for that being the best,” he said, jerking his head behind them.
“Not really interested. Besides, I’m one hundred percent unapproachable thanks to these,” she said, riffling her legs under her jacket. Wait, she thought, did he just confirm that this was a date?
“We both know you’re only unapproachable because you try so hard to be.”
She shrugged. “Details, details. Pretty much everyone knows I’m a loner, and thus far they’ve been kind enough to keep their distance. I have a reputation for being pretty cold, you know.”
“And I’d say that reputation just changed drastically.” He bent at the knees, bringing his eye level down to meet hers, a mischievous smile on his face. “By this time Monday, the entire school is going to know that cold, unsociable, dare I say misanthropic Spinneretta Warren crushed someone three times her size for picking on her little brother. Doesn’t exactly sound like the outcast persona you wish to project, does it?”
She realized he may have had a point. “Well, so what? I’d say my school life was over if it existed in the first place. Even if we assume everyone suddenly forgets my history and looks at me totally different, what do you think is going to change, exactly?”
“Who knows?” He stood again to his full height. “You’d certainly get more guys coming after you.” She scoffed, but he spoke right over it. “Maybe you could start spending some more time with the social butterflies.”
“That wouldn’t turn out well; I’m pretty much their natural predator.”
“Well, we shall see, then, won’t we? The promenade ball on the horizon adds another dimension to it all, wouldn’t you say?”
“Promenade ball? What the hell are you—” Her blood froze. That could only have been Markspeak for prom. “Oh no. How the hell do you know about that?”
“Your mother told me. She was quite excited about the possibility of you going, but she did not want to say anything to you. Something about not wanting to coerce you.”
“Ugh, of course.” She had specifically not told her parents about the now-Junior-accessible prom for this very reason. Maybe Arthr had told their mom about it, but who blabbed to whom didn’t matter after the fact.
“You’d be surprised what some of the males at the fight were saying of you. And I’d be surprised if you didn’t get quite a few asking you to go with them after tonight’s show.” His confidence was sickening.
“You’re out of your mind. No one’s ever asked me anything of the sort before, and they’re certainly not going to start now, reputation or none.”
Mark thought for a second. “Perhaps you’d like to make a wager of it?”
“A wager?”
He gave a half-sarcastic grin. “Within one week, I bet that someone will ask you to go with them to the promenade.”
“Oh? You’re that confident, are you?” He may have been talking nonsense, but it was at least flattering nonsense. “And let’s say they do? What happens if you win?”
“If I win, you have to go.”
“You can’t be serious. Prom is just a chance for vain girls to have their egos inflated by guys who want to get lucky. Even if there was someone I wanted to go with, I have more self-respect than that.” What’s in it for you, anyway? What do you care if I go or not?
He smirked. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid you’ll lose?”
She bit her lip. In truth, she might have been a little scared of that happening now. She had been on the receiving end of a couple unrequited crushes, or so the various rumors had said. Unlikely though it may have been, what if he was right? On the other hand, she didn’t think one week would be enough time to change anyone’s perception—not to that extent, anyway. It couldn’t be. Could it? “And if I win?”
“What do you want?”
She paused. What did she want? She realized that the question was less about what she wanted than what she could reasonably ask for without embarrassing herself further. It crossed her mind that she could ask Mark to go with her if she won, but that was admitting defeat before the battle even began. It would just equate to a slightly more tolerable form of self-crucifixion—though she’d have been damn sure to make Mark play the role of the robber to the right afterward. But then it hit her. A grin came to her lips. “How about this, then: if I win, you have to teach me how to use magic.”
His footsteps stopped. He stared at her, his face tense. “Magic. You wish for me to teach you magic.”
“After miraculously healing Arthr’s leg, that can’t be that surprising.”
Mark shook his head, clearly shaken by the request. “Using magic is . . . it is not so simple as I may have made it seem. Magic is a fundamental force of the universe, but minds unattuned to it can be irreparably damaged by attempting to harness it.”
Fundamental force of the universe? Like gravity? She filed the question away for later. “Is it possible for someone unattuned to become attuned? You mentioned before that members of the Warren cult eventually mastered it despite not being born a Chosen.”
“I never claimed they mastered it; they merely reached a point where they could harness it without obliterating their half-eaten minds immediately. And even then, those men still possessed some degree of magical potential. Attunement or none, even the most learned sorcerers practice their craft on borrowed time.”
A chill clawed at her neck. Was he referring to himself as well? “Okay. Well, hypothetically, what if I was attuned to it, or whatever?”
“Hypothetically?” He nodded his head in consideration. “Were you attuned, then learning magic, at least to some extent, would be possible. But I would advise—”
“To hell with your advising. If I win, then you have to at least give me a chance. Let me see if I have this attunement of yours. And if I have the potential, you have to teach me.”
Mark wiped his wet bangs out of his eyes. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you? Are you truly that eager to tread upon lands forbidden?”
She crossed her arms and smiled. “You come uninvited to our home and spin my worldview right the fuck around. What did you think was going to happen?”
He nodded slowly in acquiescence. “You’re a very reckless girl, you know. Very well, I accept your terms. If you win, then I’ll at least teach you the fundamentals of magic, even if it goes no further than theory. But if I win, you’re going to the promenade. Have we a deal?”
She grinned at him. “Deal.” If you think I’m losing with these stakes, you’re out of your mind!
And as if God himself were condemning their wager, a peal of thunder split the night. The fine sheets turned to a heavier drizzle, and then into a full rain. Then, the storm they had been expecting began.
Chapter 18
Shelter From the Rain
The storm descended like a raptor falling upon its prey. Mark and Spinneretta were not long left to the elements, however, for their walk home had led them along the edge of Peninsula Park. Thanks to the pavilion that stood only a hundred yards from the road, they’d found shelter, at least for the time being.
The pavilion was an open, seldom-used structure. The concrete floor slabs were cracked, and weeds sprang unimpeded from between them. The roof had once been made of fiberglass, but after the surface had cracked from exposure to the elements it had been patched with plywood boards. It was a hideous compromise, but it was contiguous enough to keep them dry. There were eight benches in the pavilion that flanked four tables. The benches and tables were all made of ancient concrete mixed with cobblestone and pebbles, a combination which made sitting on them an intolerable nightmare.
Spinneretta was forced to temporarily discard her jacket, for the downpour had left it soaked. She tossed it across the table nearest her. There was no hope of it drying, but at least it wouldn’t give her hy
pothermia there. “Well, this is shit,” she said, sitting down and letting the cruel edge of the table bite into the small of her back.
Across from her, Mark sat sideways on his own bench. He flashed a weak smile at her before sighing. “It could still be worse.”
“What do we do now?”
“We either wait out the rain or go home drenched,” he said, resting his chin in the palm of his hand.
She thought about calling her mom and asking for a ride back, but for all she knew May was livid and screeching right now. No doubt her mother’d figured out her involvement in Arthr’s predicament. Spinneretta wanted to avoid the coming punishment for as long as possible, and so she just allowed her gaze to drift out to the falling rain. The single light in the pavilion turned the falling droplets into a storm of dancing phantasms drifting on the winds of chaos. She pulled up her knees and hugged them to her chest, wrapping her spider legs around them. The way the ghostly needles of rain appeared and vanished just beyond the light’s reach awakened a quiet hopelessness in her; she had to avert her eyes so as not to be hypnotized. “Mark?”
“Hmm?”
“Since we’re stuck here and all, do you think you could tell me something?”
He looked across at her, confused. “Which something is it that interests you?”
She breathed out and let her eyes drift shut, calmed by the roar of the raindrops on the fiberglass roof. With the fresh knowledge of his so-called magic’s reality, it was impossible to hold back her curiosity. “How about telling me more about where you come from? About the Warren cult, as you called it.”
Mark was quiet for a moment. “I would advise you to be more prudent in your questioning. You already know more than you should of such subjects.”
The Spider Children (The Warren Brood Book 1) Page 28