The Spider Goddess

by Tara Moss

  They were Sanguine.

  Not vampires. Sanguine. I’d been told that ‘vampire’ was a loaded term with a lot of negative baggage, and I should never, ever use the ‘v’ word in the face of the undead unless I wanted to get myself necked. (Nosferatu is no better. It means ‘plague carrier’. Bram Stoker has a lot to answer for, Celia says.) Sanguine is the correct term, from the Latin sanguineus, ‘of blood’. These were all things I’d learned fairly recently.

  In addition to the requisite blood-thirst of their kind, these four models had a penchant for expensive, figure-hugging designer clothes and, it seemed, leather. Tonight Athanasia was wearing tight leather pants. We’d got off to a rather bad start when I’d arrived in New York and she was caught up with an entrepreneur named Elizabeth Báthory. Athanasia had worn those same leather pants the night I’d found her on the ceiling of the lobby, head twisted round, baying for my blood.

  I’d staked her.

  She’d survived.

  Things had been tense since.

  ‘It’s the small-town hick,’ Athanasia said, answering her question with a rather derogatory answer.

  I moved across the tiles of the lobby, brushing past the four hideously beautiful women, and aiming for a quick escape to the lift. I knew perfectly well that these four creatures hated my guts with the eternal passion of the undead and would suck me dry in a mortal heartbeat. Only one thing prevented them – they lived under Celia’s roof, and they had to play nice. The middle levels of the sprawling mansion were a kind of halfway house for Sanguine, hence the blocked-out windows. Or at least that was how it had been described to me. It was an arrangement Celia had here in Spektor – goodness knew why – and it had been going for some time. Sanguine could come and go, and reside on the middle floors if they pleased, but they couldn’t come up to the penthouse. Celia, as mistress of the house, could revoke their invitations at any time. Celia had assured me she’d spoken to her friend Deus, who was a very powerful local Sanguine, and he’d ordered that I not be harmed by these demon-women. I was Celia’s ward and they weren’t to lay a hand on me. That rule had been clearly explained.

  But it was something of an uneasy truce.

  As I passed the glowing glares of these four deadly models I tried to remember that I was safe. They wouldn’t want to harm you. They wouldn’t want to be homeless. You’ll be fine . . .

  ‘Nice dress. So modern,’ Redhead hissed as I strode past her, keeping my head down. She clearly had no appreciation for vintage.

  Blonde followed close behind me, and sniffed my hair. ‘Oh, smell the virgin!’ she cried. ‘Yummy.’

  That’s none of your darned business, I wanted to shout, but I held my tongue. It did not pay to provoke Fledglings. They had notoriously little restraint. Celia could kick them out on to the street, sure, but if they’d already ripped my throat out it would do me little good. No, I just had to get out of the lobby and into the elevator and I would be fine. I scurried up to the lift, feeling extra clumsy with the burden of all my parcels, and found I could not quite press the call button with my elbow. With my heart beating a touch too quick, I placed the vivarium on the floor and pressed the button with a free, shaking hand. Thankfully the lift was on the lobby floor. The doors opened, I hastily regathered my things and I stepped into the lift with my jaw tight and my breath quick.

  ‘Oh, listen. Her heart is beating fast. Yummy little morchilla . . .’ Brunette said.

  Morchilla. Blood sausage.

  I felt my temper flare. ‘Vampire chic is out this season,’ I blurted. ‘How sad for y’all.’ I pressed the button for the penthouse floor.

  A hand shot out to stop the lift door from closing, and I regretted my quip immediately. The manicured hand was clenched tight on the ironwork of the sliding door; long blood red nails, the wrist decorated with what looked like drawn-on bracelets.

  ‘I will get you back, you know,’ Athanasia hissed. ‘I’ll have your throat!’ she shouted, as if I hadn’t got her point, and now she was showing fang – a lot of fang. This was rapidly getting out of control.

  ‘For now you’ll have to do with rice,’ I cried out, and threw a big handful of plain white rice grains outside the lift. They hit the lobby tiles, bounced and scattered. Athanasia let go of the door and it slid shut.

  ‘Oh!’ Brunette said and bent over to begin counting.

  Soon all four of them were on their knees. ‘One, two, three, four, five, six . . .’ I watched the pathetic display through the ironwork as the lift ascended.

  The undead are obsessive compulsive.

  In former times it was common practice to scatter grains around graveyards, and in ditches alongside cemeteries, to slow the progress of the undead when they rose from their graves to feed on the living. Some misguided superstitions specified that vampires counted at the rate of one grain per year, but sadly, that wasn’t true. They counted fast, but still, they counted. Evidently they had to. Eastern Europeans sometimes favoured carrot seeds for this purpose, but my great-aunt swore by rice. Rice grains are small to carry, and cheap to acquire. She told me there were still wise folk in New York State who scattered grains outside their homes, just to be sure. At Halloween they put all those unwanted pumpkin seeds to use on the steps of their homes to help identify undead intruders dressed up as trick or treaters.

  You could never be too careful.

  I arrived at Celia’s midnight blue penthouse doors out of breath and a little shaken by the encounter with Athanasia and her gang. That was by no means the first run-in I’d had with those four, but it did seem our uneasy truce had become increasingly fraught.

  I knocked and entered. ‘Celia, I’m home.’

  Relieved to be safe, I slipped off my shoes and unburdened myself of the vivarium, satchel and bags. I saw Celia’s stocking-clad feet up on the leather hassock. Freyja was with her, and at the sound of my greeting she hopped down from the chair and strode over with her white tail in the air.

  ‘Hi Freyja, how are you?’ I said and leaned over to pat her silky back.

  ‘Meow,’ was her pleased reply.

  ‘And how are you, young Pandora?’ my great-aunt said, turning to me.

  ‘Oh, good thanks. Except . . .’ I hesitated.

  ‘Goodness me, you’ve been having trouble with Athanasia and her friends again?’ She marked her page and closed the book she was reading.

  ‘It’s no big deal,’ I said quietly and stood at the doorway for a moment. My heart was still beating hard from the confrontation – just as the Sanguine women had known. It was downright creepy to imagine that they could sense the rate of my heart, even from metres away. What a horrible skill. And due to some long established pact I didn’t understand, Celia allowed those horrible creatures to live in her mansion. There was at least one more Sanguine down there I knew of, too. Samantha. The woman in the photograph in my desk at work. She’d worked at Pandora magazine before Athanasia turned her, and by some mad twist of fate I’d taken her position there. But Samantha was different from the others. I felt sorry for her because I knew she’d been a victim. It wasn’t her fault that she’d been made into a monster. Perhaps that was one of the reasons I couldn’t bear to toss away the wrinkled photograph of her with her mother; it was a reminder that she’d once been human.

  It was also a reminder of the danger of the Sanguine. Samantha and I had been friendly from time to time, though I hadn’t seen her much lately. And even she had once tried to eat me. It was a terrible habit those Sanguine had. You couldn’t trust them not to try it. And yet my great-aunt allowed them here, and she even had a friend who was Sanguine, and a very powerful one at that. How could she stand it? How could she stand those creatures? Celia stood. This evening she was wearing a stunning dress in black and deep ruby red, with black silk stockings and her omnipresent widow’s veil. She slipped her feet into her fluffy slippers and walked gracefully over to me, the heels making a faint click on the hardwood floors. ‘Come now,’ she said and gave me a brief hug. Her embrac
e was cool but heartfelt. ‘I’ll have to let Deus know if they’re harming you in any way,’ she said.

  Deus. Not Deus.

  ‘I’m unharmed,’ I assured her. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Did you have to use the rice again?’

  I nodded. My cheeks became warm.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Celia said, and put her hands on her hips. She tilted her head to one side. ‘I should probably have a word with him.’

  ‘Don’t!’ I said. ‘It’s not necessary, really.’

  Deus was Celia’s powerful Sanguine friend. I’d not met him, but I was already positively terrified of him. Celia made him sound very civilised, sure, and I knew they were close. Heck, from what little she would tell me, he seemed to be the primary reason for her unnaturally youthful good health. I could see how she’d be grateful for that. But my run-ins with the fanged had been less than pleasant, so the thought of a very powerful Sanguine was extra terrifying. He was no Fledgling. I couldn’t just rice him.

  ‘I see,’ Celia said, and sighed. She thought for a moment. ‘Well, let’s have a look at this.’ She indicated the box containing the vivarium. I too was happy to change the subject.

  We opened the box together to find a surprisingly beautiful, lightweight container inside. It was certainly not your standard pet shop vivarium. This one was modelled on, of all things, a castle. It had been designed with little turrets and an arched doorway that acted as a locking front. The top lifted off and shut with a little padlock. It was constructed of a clear material like glass, giving it the effect of an ice castle. Freyja sniffed at it and seemed not to know what to think.

  ‘This is beautiful! Where do you think he found it?’

  ‘Harold is very clever. He can get anything, you know,’ Celia replied.

  I’d heard him claim that, but really, a princely spider vivarium?

  ‘What do you suppose it’s made out of? Is it glass? Or some kind of plastic? Do you suppose it is made for spiders, or for something else?’ I rambled excitedly.

  Celia shrugged. ‘It’s a fine house for your friend.’

  Gosh. ‘It’s almost a shame I won’t have it for long.’ I dusted the packing material off it, and placed the castle on Celia’s shelf. It fitted perfectly, though snugly, between the shelves, the turrets just making the squeeze.

  ‘It looks like it belongs there,’ Celia said.

  Funny, but it did.

  She returned to her seat and watched me as I cleared the packing material away.

  My gaze was drawn to the jar on the shelf. The tarantula was quietly watching us. It was strange how intensely I felt its eyes, like it actually knew what it was seeing. It somehow appeared self-aware. Peculiar, I thought again. Peculiar.

  ‘Have you told anyone about your little pet?’

  ‘It’s not a pet,’ I protested. ‘In fact, it’s a shame this is such a lovely vivarium because I think I may have already found the pet shop the spider escaped from. I’m going there tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll be missing this little guy.’

  Celia smiled enigmatically. ‘That will be interesting, I think. Be sure and let me know how you go.’

  I set about transferring the tarantula into the vivarium. It worked with surprising ease – the animal just slid down the glass of the jar and walked right in like it owned the place. I refilled the tiny water dish, slid it inside and locked the little door at the front. Ah, the food, I remembered. I took out the small box of live crickets Harold had given me. Celia watched with one cocked, perfectly sculpted eyebrow as I clumsily took one of the insects by two legs. I was afraid I’d hurt it, so I let go. Oh, this is awkward. I tried again, and it squirmed and wriggled but I managed to quickly throw it inside and shut the castle door again. I was pretty sure I never wanted to do that again.

  I covered my eyes, and watched through laced fingers.

  Seconds ticked by. Minutes.

  It turned out to be a rather anticlimactic meeting of creatures. The spider just sat in its castle, watching me. Don’t look at me, look at the cricket! I wanted to point and tell it to eat. Surely it must be starving by now?

  I was confounded. ‘Maybe I got the wrong thing. I figured the cricket would be okay,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it looks like the cricket will be fine,’ Celia said.

  I frowned.

  I arrived to work at Pandora magazine on Wednesday morning with some trepidation. I had no idea what kind of mood Skye might be in and I really didn’t want a repeat of Tuesday’s unpleasantness. As a pre-emptive strike, I arrived with a bagel and cheese in case Skye felt like starving me again, but I desperately hoped to get away on my lunch break. I had plans.

  Morticia had her Doc Martens up on her desk and a lopsided smile on her face when I walked in. ‘Good morning,’ she said.

  ‘Hi. Is she . . .?’

  ‘Here? No. Not yet.’ I relaxed a touch. I slipped Celia’s coat off and sat on the edge of the reception desk. I gently placed the satchel on the floor. Only a couple of staff were in so far. They paid us no attention, as usual. ‘How was your night?’ Morticia asked.

  I thought of Athanasia and the way she’d bared her fangs at the mouth of the lift, ready to lunge.

  ‘The usual,’ I said. ‘And yours?’

  ‘The usual,’ she replied, but with a barely detectable touch of melancholy. She paused, and then her eyes lit up. ‘So, want to hear some goss?’ she asked excitedly.

  ‘Sure.’

  She took her feet off the desk and leaned in to me. ‘You know the whole thing with Sandy Chow?’

  The name was familiar. ‘The designer, right?’ I was still learning who’s who.

  ‘Yeah, the designer. Well, apparently she’s missing. Like for real missing. It’s all over the news. Did you see?’

  Celia and I didn’t watch the evening news. In fact, as far as I was aware, she didn’t have a television. Would television reception even work? I wondered. There was no phone or Internet access, and my cheap mobile didn’t even get one single bar of reception. Morticia flicked a few strands of shaggy hair to one side of her face. ‘And get this – Sandy’s workshop was destroyed. All the samples, the patterns, everything gone. The police are treating it as a possible kidnapping. Even murder.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And it gets even crazier. Richard Helmsworth – I’m sure you’ve heard of him – well, his workshop was apparently all packed up and he’s vanished. Some think he might have . . . you know, been responsible.’

  ‘Why do they think that?’ I asked.

  ‘They had this big public rivalry. I’m sure you’ve read about it.’

  I hadn’t.

  ‘And now she’s missing, and he’s missing too,’ Morticia concluded with a look of thrilled shock.

  ‘I remember the stylist on the shoot saying something about how she couldn’t get the Sandy Chow samples. I wondered what that was all about,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. It’s weird, huh?’ Morticia’s eyes were wide. She seemed excited by the whiff of drama. ‘Watch this space,’ she concluded.

  I nodded. ‘I’ll do that. I’d better get to my desk,’ I said.

  I picked up my satchel with extra care and made my way to the back of the office.

  Skye DeVille arrived at work two hours later. Some part of me had dared to hope she might show up after lunch, so I knew I could get away. She was becoming increasingly tardy of late. But at eleven thirty she breezed past me wearing a short, quilted jacket and a neat scarf tied elegantly around her neck. She wore riding boots with designer jeans and it looked like she might have just stepped off an equestrian fashion spread.

  ‘Good morning, Skye,’ I said.

  She didn’t look particularly well, I thought. She was probably battling a cold.

  ‘No phone messages this morning,’ I told her and she shut her door without a word.

  For the next thirty minutes I watched the clock anxiously. I had plans for my lunch break and the sooner noon came around the better. I was worried she might �
�

  ‘Where is the jewellery!’

  Skye’s office door burst open and I turned in my chair and braced myself for her wrath. Standing in the doorway with her fists clenched, and her fuchsia pink lips pressed into a thin, mean line, she stared right at me with hollowed eyes. Frankly she seemed a little crazed. I sincerely hoped this wasn’t some initiation phase at the magazine – work for two months and then the abuse really steps up?

  ‘Where is the jewellery?’

  ‘Umm,’ was all I could muster. ‘I . . .?’

  ‘The jewellery from the shoot. The Chanel jewellery. It has to be returned today,’ she said, enunciating each word slowly, and with venom.

  I’d never seen her quite like this and I was so shocked that I couldn’t grasp what she was talking about or how I should respond. Jewellery from the shoot? Would the stylist have these things from the shoot, perhaps? ‘The stylist . . . maybe she —’ I began clumsily.

  ‘It was in my office yesterday!’ Skye roared in response.

  I pulled myself together. ‘Do you mean the temporary tattoos you were looking for? We haven’t managed to locate those,’ I told her. ‘I’m sorry —’

  ‘Brilliant,’ she responded, seeming at last to calm a touch. Her voice became low and even. ‘And now the jewellery is missing as well.’ She narrowed her eyes at me. ‘Open the drawers of your desk.’