Marvel Novels--Spider-Man

by Neil Kleid

  —a strand of webbing reached out and snagged it, swinging it toward the window, where it landed with a meaty clap in the palm of a dirty, red glove. MJ sat up warily, afraid to depend on what her eyes were seeing. Her jaw dropped as she stared at the vision of spandex and mud crouching low in her windowsill, clutching the remote control.

  “I…I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you,” he said. The voice was hoarse and strained but definitely familiar. “Waiting and wondering… knowing there was someone…a lunatic out there calling himself Spider-Man. A…a killer.”

  He dropped into the apartment, soaking her floor. She backed away, hopeful but still unsure.

  “I know you,” he said. “You read the papers… watched the news. You probably walked the streets looking for me.” He ran a hand across his chin, dislodging dirt. “I…I pray to god you didn’t find me. I mean, him. Kraven.”

  He moved toward her, holding out a hand. She touched her fingers to her wet eyes and felt her hands shake with nerves and fear; she moved them back to her lap.

  “Two weeks, Mary Jane. Two weeks of my life.” He crouched on the floor, still holding out his hands. “Two weeks of our life…our life together…stolen from us and tainted. Defiled and...and…”

  Slowly, carefully, he peeled away the mask. MJ’s heart leapt into her throat; a small sob of relief escaped, and she started to cry once more, tears of joy mixed with tears of sadness. He stretched out his hand, and this time she took it. His eyes were wide and tired, his face caked with dirt and sweat. He seemed haunted, hunted. Mary Jane’s heart opened wide.

  “I…” he swallowed deeply, his throat still dry. “I love you, Mary Jane.” He closed his fingers on her own. “More than I ever realized.”

  “Peter…?”

  She pulled him to her, cupping the back of his head in one hand and reaching for his face with the other. He moved up and onto the bed, listening to her rapidly beating heart, feeling its warmth and its steady, welcoming call. Rain spattered against the windows.

  Peter Parker rested his head on Mary Jane Watson’s shoulder, quietly breaking down into tears of relief as she held him close and hugged him tight. He pulled away, staring into her wet, wide eyes for a long moment. Then, again, they came together, clutching one another, afraid to let go.

  SEVEN

  STANDING in a darkened room, cloaked in the skin of his oldest enemy, Kraven the Hunter reached up and slowly pulled Spider-Man’s mask from his head

  He grinned as he placed a telephone handset back on its cradle. His heart flared with anticipation, thrilled at the news he’d received from his loyal attendants.

  Thunder rolled and jungle drums called as he set the mask aside. He mentally checked his final preparations, knowing that he would not have long to wait.

  Tonight, he thought. Tonight it ends.

  Come to me, Spider, he called.

  “He’s out,” he said to no one at all and to everyone that mattered. His father, his mother, all the Kravinoffs before and after. Kraven laughed triumphantly. “He is coming.”

  Come to me, Spider. For the last time.

  PART FOUR

  HUNTERS

  ONE

  PETER clawed out of the darkness, fingers scratching at soil as he scraped free, back toward the warm, peaceful, empty void

  (Come out, Kraven roared, rifle trained on his chest, come out so I can kill you)

  Perspiration matted his face, mingling with grime and tears. He dug and scratched until all ten fingers were raw and bloody. The darkness closed in, his sinister foes laughed, yet still Peter made no headway. Pain pressed against his chest, his throat tightened, and he began to scream. He kicked and fought to get back to the warm white (red) as the rhythmic thrum (gunshots not thunder not drums but a rifle or maybe a heartbeat) pounded in his ears. He cried in terror and finally broke free, through the crumbling twilight, and then light flooded both eyes

  Peter woke with a scream, dry and strained, and pushed away the down pillows. The room was dark; it had only been an hour since he’d fallen asleep. Peter caught his breath as he let his eyes adjust.

  Mary Jane was gone. His heart suddenly raced, and he gripped the sheets. Where was she? Peter shifted to the left. Fluorescent light peeked out from beneath the bathroom door. He could hear MJ moving around inside.

  He wiped a layer of sweat from his brow, hoping the gesture would eradicate all remains of the vivid nightmare. It had felt real—too real, in fact, and too close to Peter’s recent, horrifying reality. For a brief, harrowing moment, he’d thought he might still be in the ground, down in the grave with no way out.

  Trapped, he thought. Like an animal. Dead in the grave, for all intents and purposes, these past two weeks.

  Questions swirled through Peter’s head like a whirlwind. Why hadn’t anyone but Mary Jane come looking for him? What had happened to his apartment, his bills, his job? And why hadn’t Kraven simply killed him and been done with it two weeks ago? Valid questions all, to which Peter planned on finding the answers—particularly the last.

  Breathe, Peter. He knew what came next, but he wanted a moment first. A moment to be grateful that he was alive. I’m alive. You’re alive, Peter. Breathe.

  Unfortunately, a moment was all he could afford.

  He sat up in bed, turned toward the bathroom, and called out: “Mary Jane…?” His voice, barely above a whisper, hardly carried across the bed. He tried again, doing his best to project.

  “Mary Jane?”

  “I’m in the bathroom, hon.” Soft and reassuring, low and musical. No sound had ever been sweeter.

  She’s here, Peter thought. Thank god, she’s here.

  Unfortunately, he needed to be elsewhere. His first impulse had been to check in on Mary Jane, to make sure that she was safe, and he’d done that.

  Mary Jane, in turn, had reassured him that May was also safe. Returned from her trip, May had no idea that her nephew had been missing. Mary Jane had assured May that Peter was overwhelmed with work, and would call when he had the chance.

  Peter had attended to those he loved. Now Spider-Man had to attend to the rest of the innocent.

  He moved the blanket aside and slid off the bed. First priority, he thought, stop Kraven’s murderous rampage.

  He snatched up his costume from the back of a chair. Second priority, clear Spider-Man’s name and convince New Yorkers that they can still trust me.

  He pulled his uniform down over his bruised body. Third priority, find the Cannibal Killer and bring him to justice.

  He stumbled, stricken by a moment of vertigo, flashes of light dancing before his eyes. He grabbed the back of the chair and righted himself, waiting out the disorientation. Grim and determined, Peter lost himself in the task at hand—slipping on the web-shooters, reaching for the mask—and failed to notice the door opening behind him, letting in a shaft of light from the bathroom.

  “What are you doing?”

  Mary Jane came up behind him, her scent capturing his full attention. He looked over his shoulder and saw her in the doorway, standing in a silken robe, running a hairbrush through her long, auburn hair. Peter smiled and turned away, focusing his attention back on the costume, and MJ moved around to face him.

  “Get back in bed,” she said. There was an emphatic, no-nonsense edge to her voice.

  He shook his head and whispered, “I’ve got to go.”

  “You’re not going anywhere! You need to rest, to eat! You can hardly stand, barely talk—”

  “Voice’ll come back soon enough.” That was true; he could already hear a difference in register. “You know what they say: feed a cold, starve a man who’s been in the ground for two weeks.”

  She grabbed at his mask, ignoring the weak attempt at humor. “I don’t care about your voice! You’ve been through a traumatic experience. I have been through a traumatic experience.” Tears trailed down her cheeks. Since Peter had come crawling through the window, he and MJ had held each other through crying jags, decla
rations of love, and vindictive revenge plots against Kraven and the rest of Spider-Man’s rogues’ gallery.

  “Peter…” She wiped away the tears and twisted his mask between her fingers, the hairbrush discarded and forgotten. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until…until…”

  He sat down next to Mary Jane and held her hand, gently stroking her hair as he looked into her eyes. He had to make her understand, needed to let her know how much she meant to him. These last two weeks had tested her in ways that Peter could hardly imagine. If the tables had been turned—if MJ had been missing— Peter knew he would have been lost. He’d have torn New York apart until she was back in his arms.

  Worst of all, she’d had no one to confide in, no one with whom she could share her pain—because he had entrusted her with a secret, one she had guarded with her life. Because Peter loved Mary Jane enough to trust her—and only her—with the secret of his identity, with his deepest and darkest fears. And he’d put her through hell.

  Another life ruined by Spider-Man. The old Parker luck strikes again.

  But because of that love, and because MJ had kept his secret, he knew she would understand why he had to leave. She would see why guilt and responsibility drove him from her arms now, back toward danger and possible death.

  Not my death, Peter thought, anger flaring. But maybe Kraven’s. Because when I find him, after everything he did to MJ and to…I swear, I might kill him.

  “Mary Jane,” he said lovingly, doing his best to make her believe. “I don’t want to go, trust me.” Peter tried to extricate the mask from her hands, but she pulled it back violently. This time, Peter took her hand and softly rested his palm against hers.

  “I want to stay with you, here where it’s safe.” His voice, hoarse and dry, barely made a sound in the dark, quiet apartment. Outside, sirens and subways could be heard in the distance, vibrating gently against the window—the sounds of New York after dark. He cleared his throat. He had to convince her that everything would be fine, that he would be okay.

  “I want to be here, where nothing bad can touch me. But don’t you see, MJ? He’s out there.”

  He touched the mask again. She flinched, but this time allowed him to take it from her. He traced the outline of the mask’s eye-lenses, looking down at the white fabric (warm and peaceful and quiet), thinking about the last thing he’d seen through those eyes before Kraven put him in the ground.

  (Come out so I can kill you again, Spider. I’m going to keep killing you over and over and over)

  Peter winced and pulled the mask down over his face. He hid his eyes so she couldn’t see the fear behind them. “He’s out there, MJ. Kraven’s waiting. He’s…he’s murdered in my name, and I just…”

  Peter trailed off. He turned toward the wall, determined to see this through. He was now fully clad in the Spider-Man costume.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  He stood carefully, making sure to maintain his balance, and opened the window. Mary Jane followed and took his hand, spinning him around to face her worried gaze.

  “Peter, please—after what you’ve been through. What he’s done to you—”

  Pincers and teeth pierced his flesh, tore away three legs, and they waited in the darkness. They waited in the tunnel, where he could be hurt, where they could kill him. Goblin and rhino. Octopus and vulture.

  The Hunter.

  They waited to kill the Spider, because the Spider could die, even though it never lived. Lying on his back in a pool of blood, he understood now. Three of his legs had been torn away, and entrails dangled from his side. He knew then, he knew that the Spider was a trap. A lie. A coffin.

  (come OUT)

  thunder and gunfire white and warm ground and grave

  Peter shook his head, shooing away the visions. He turned back to Mary Jane again. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You need time to sort it out. For the past two weeks you’ve been—”

  in the ground and in the grave two weeks two weeks oh god Mary Jane the guns the thunder the drums the HEART

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Peter stepped onto the windowsill, letting the cool night air sing through his skin. Mary Jane reached for his arm, letting the rain spatter against her own.

  “You’re going.” It was a statement, not a question. She knew there would be no stopping him, that Spider-Man had to fulfill his responsibilities.

  He bounced on his toes, crouching in the window, and prepared to vault into the unknown. He turned to face her again, slightly ashamed but mostly resigned to his fate.

  “I’m going,” he confirmed.

  She tentatively held out a hand. Peter took it, entwining their fingers as the storm raged around them. He pulled her hand to his face and rested it against his cheek. He felt her warmth through the mask, and again cursed his powers and the long, strange set of circumstances that had brought them to this point. Smiling, he rested his palm against her chest, feeling the soft, subtle beating of her heart. He knew then, even if she did not, that Mary Jane’s heartbeat would bring him back. She would call him home, one way or another.

  Lightning flashed. He fired a webline out into the night, then leapt from her apartment into the blustering storm. Peter shook his head in pained disbelief as he swung away from the woman he loved more than life itself, heading toward the one man who’d dared to end it.

  TWO

  SERGEI waited patiently in the townhouse, dressed in his enemy’s skin, standing alone and counting the moments until the Beast arrived.

  Hours had passed since he’d received the call informing him that Spider-Man had returned. The potent cocktail with which Sergei had injected his foe had run its course. Now, for all intents and purposes, Spider-Man was back from the grave.

  NO! I am the Spider now!

  I am the Hunter!

  I am Kravinoff, the man!

  The chorus of voices grew louder and stronger inside Sergei’s mind, confusing him. They blurred the clear, concise purpose for his mission, the reason he’d undertaken this journey in the first place. He balled his fingers into a fist and struck the table—once, twice, pounding against it with all his might until a portion of the tabletop splintered.

  I am the Spider, Spider-Man reminded himself. A better Spider than the pretender I planted beneath the ground.

  I am the Hunter, Kraven roared, and I have won my prize, taken its skin, and cloaked myself within it for the world to see.

  I am Kravinoff, Sergei warned the other two, and what I do, I have done for stained honor and to restore my family’s dignity. I have defeated the Beast—the very one that lured us to America, all those years ago. The terrible demon who killed my father and ruined my mother.

  I am man. I am Hunter. I am Spider.

  I am victor, not victim. And yet he comes.

  A window opened somewhere in the apartment, snapping Kraven out of his schizophrenic reverie. He listened like Owl and detected the quiet creaking, the subtle fall of droplets against hardwood. A soft padding of hands and feet vibrated against the ceiling. Sergei sniffed like Bear, identifying the scent of wet fabric and graveyard mud between crude fibers—as well as the soft fragrance of an unknown woman.

  Sergei smiled. “He is here.”

  He placed a hand on the table, relaxing his fist and letting its fingers splay against the wood. He stood silently, waiting in the darkness, sensing movement and anger behind and above—a sneaking shadow, crawling toward him with hate in its heart. Riddled by defeat.

  You are no shadow, no Beast. You’re not even a Spider, anymore. Just a foolish man in a foolish mask, beaten and humiliated by a Spider far greater than you might ever dream.

  Spider-Man dropped from the ceiling without a word, hanging upside-down from a single strand of webbing. He stared at Sergei’s back, waiting for the Hunter to acknowledge his presence. Sergei smiled a wide and toothy grin, but he grew solemn and uncomfortable as the moment stretched on and neither deigned to speak f
irst.

  This moment. This meeting. There could be no room for levity, no time to gloat. Sergei cleared his throat. Then, slowly, he turned to face the man he’d buried.

  THREE

  SPIDER-MAN lowered himself to the ground and snapped to his feet, assuming a defensive fighting stance. Sergei could see his enemy’s fists shaking with anger. Fury coursed through the masked man’s veins, flowing like rain through his arms and into his fingers.

  Sergei frowned. He would not fight. There was no point.

  “Kraven!” Spider-Man cried. Raw emotion and justified hatred emanated from his clownish suit and exploded across the room, enveloping Sergei, who wore a Spider-Man costume of his own. Sergei nodded, cocking his head to one side.

  “Spider-Man.” Sergei spoke the name matter-of-factly, with no rancor or ridicule. He knew this would strike a note of doubt in the other man’s psyche, forcing him to question his own fabricated identity. Two men stood in a room, each wearing Spider-Man’s costume. Who was to say that Sergei was not, in fact, the true Spider-Man?

  I am the Spider. Triumphant, exultant.

  No, I am the Hunter! Bellowing, boastful.

  Gentlemen, I am Kravinoff. Ashamed, resigned.

  Sergei shook his head, bewildered. I am Kravinoff, he thought. Like my father before me, and my poor mother. And then Spider-Man roared and bounded forward, punching Sergei in the face.

  “You’ve gone too far this time, Kraven!” Spider-Man shoved him against the wall, then reared back and hit Sergei in the mouth with a brutal jab. “You robbed me of two weeks of my life, you animal!”