The Spider Dance

by Nick Setchfield

  The crate hit the floor of the warehouse, indistinguishable from the other hammered-down boxes that filled the building. Bare bulbs hovered over these stacks of cargo, suspended on lengths of flex and swaying as the wind entered with the men. The light they gave was sketchy and Winter had to squint to see the details stencilled on the surrounding freight. He read the names of foreign ports – Rotterdam, Jakarta, Singapore – and hyphenated chains of numbers, meaningless to him.

  Looking up, he saw the warehouse had two tiers. There was an upper gallery, accessible by a steep flight of wooden steps, more a glorified ladder than a staircase. He imagined this area had to be some kind of administrative space. He certainly couldn’t imagine anyone hauling crates up there. The gallery was lined with windows, a number of them cracked. They held the night in their frames, the glass dingy and speckled with rain.

  Winter and Luca returned to the truck, collecting the next of the crates. The other two men also carried a crate between them. As the four of them shuffled back to the building Winter noticed that the trajectory of the rain had changed. Now it was aimed at the warehouse, slanting against its walls. He could feel its touch on his face, cold and intent. The odd thing was the direction of the wind hadn’t shifted at all. If anything the rain was straining against it.

  They placed the last of the boxes on the floor, slamming up dust. Luca picked a splinter from his thumb and once again Winter saw the crucifix in his hand, catching the light from an overhead bulb.

  The man in the gloves pulled a billfold from his jeans. He began to count through a fistful of grubby lira.

  ‘And there were no questions?’ he asked. ‘No officials came?’

  ‘No one,’ said Winter, receiving his half of the cut.

  The rain had hardened. It was insistent against the high ceiling of the warehouse, pecking at the shadowed timber.

  ‘All clean, no problem,’ agreed Luca, pocketing the remaining half.

  ‘You will stay here,’ instructed the man in the cap. ‘At six o’clock the crew of the Ananke will arrive. They will take the crates. You will take the money. The money will come to us. Intact, you understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Winter, taking care to filter the disdain from his voice.

  The gloom of the warehouse quivered like firelight. The hanging bulbs had momentarily dimmed. Winter glanced at the nearest light fitting. A solitary bead of rain slid the length of the flex. It crawled to the bulb and clung to the glass, trembling before it finally struck the floor.

  ‘Do we get to know what’s in the crates?’

  The man in the cap eyed him, suspicion moving beneath his skin. ‘I thought you had experience?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m just curious.’

  The man unzipped his jacket. A semi-automatic crouched in a holster, strapped against his chest. ‘This is how we cure curiosity.’

  Winter tried an appeasing smile. ‘Home remedies are always best.’

  Rain cascaded from the other lights. It raced down the undulating cables to spatter the floorboards, filling the warehouse with a terse, drumming rhythm. The bulbs fizzled as water met electricity. In seconds every last light had died. The tapping of the rain persisted.

  Winter lifted his eyes. The upper tier of the building was dark now. A solid, emphatic dark. The windows that lined the gallery were impossible to make out. There was only shadow there and it was absolute.

  He brought his eyes down again. The lower tier retained just enough illumination to see by. The warehouse doors had been left open, allowing a finger of light from the quayside, sodium-yellow and bristling with vapour.

  The gloved man turned to his colleague. ‘A fuse has blown. We need to fix the lights.’

  There was a sound from the upper tier. A violent sound, like a door slamming in the wind. It jolted Winter, made a blade of his nerves.

  The man in the cap eased his gun from its holster. The gloved man slid his own weapon from a jeans pocket. Their eyes tightened, searching for any hint of movement upstairs.

  ‘I’ll check it out,’ said the gloved man. His counterpart nodded.

  The Camorrista climbed to the gallery, gun in hand. He moved stiffly, his steps cautious. Winter saw him pause at the top of the stairs before entering the darkness. Then he was gone from sight.

  The dead bulbs swung in perfect synchronisation. Their shadows rotated and merged.

  Winter decided it was time to arm himself too. He reached for his gun. The man in the cap noted this and nodded.

  The rain’s rhythm quickened on the floorboards. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

  There was a cry from the upper tier, out of the dark. A broken cry, severed before it had a chance to be a scream.

  Winter released the safety catch. There was sweat on the metal.

  The body thudded to the ground in a shudder of dust.

  ‘Christ…’

  Winter stared at what was left of the man. The angle of the fall had bent the limbs into a haphazard heap. The head lay twisted, exposing a savage gash across the throat, deep enough to reveal the epiglottis. The flap of cartilage glistened beneath mucus and muscle. Blood spouted from the ruptured jugular even as life faded from the man’s eyes.

  This wasn’t the plan, thought Winter. This wasn’t the agreement.

  Luca clutched his tiny cross, the chain scoring his skin. He was whispering what had to be a prayer, low and urgent.

  The man in the cap moved forward. Winter reached for his elbow, trying to pull him back, but the remaining Camorrista was determined.

  ‘Show yourself, you animal!’ he shouted into the dark. ‘A true man kills in the light!’

  He began to climb the ladder, the wood creaking beneath his boots. ‘Come on, you godless filth! Show me your face!’

  Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. The rain echoed among the crates, nearly concealing another sound: the click of a fingernail against a hard wooden surface. It originated from somewhere inside the gallery. The rhythm was subtly altering, adjusting, switching to the pace of a heartbeat.

  The man in the cap came to the top of the stairs. Now he faced the bank of shadow. His stance was full of pride and machismo, the gun jutting ahead of him.

  ‘I said show me your face! Or has the grave made you ugly?’

  This time Winter glimpsed the shape that took him. He had a fleeting impression of teeth and hands. A blur of something predatory, primal.

  A gunshot joined with a scream.

  More gunshots. Louder and closer, cracking the air at Winter’s side. Luca had a snub-nosed revolver in his hand and was firing indiscriminately at the gallery, the shots panicked and wild.

  The flashes of gunfire strobed the darkness, creating a stuttering tableau. The Camorrista was held in the jaws of another man, anchored by the throat. The body swung, helpless, the strip of flesh that was caught in its assailant’s teeth tearing to breaking point. The cap fell and then its owner tumbled after it. The body rolled across the floorboards, more a wound than a man now. Behind it a figure stepped back into shadow.

  Luca fired again, the bullet striking a joist and scraping the roof.

  ‘Put your gun down!’ Winter hissed.

  The gun squeezed out another shot, directionless as the last. Winter took hold of Luca’s arm and wrenched it down.

  ‘Stop bloody firing!’

  The Italian’s eyes were huge with fear, the pupils fit to burst. ‘This is my city! I know what these things are!’

  ‘You need to stop firing!’

  ‘They will kill us!’

  Luca fought Winter’s grip, trying to lift the weapon. He had leathery, obstinate old muscles but Winter kept the gun arm in a lockhold.

  ‘Listen to me. Listen to me! We need to go upstairs.’

  Luca was so thrown by this statement that he stopped struggling. ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘If you don’t come upstairs with me right now, you will die.’

  ‘Maniaco!’

  ‘I’ve made a deal. They won’t kill me. If we’re lucky
they won’t kill you.’

  Luca moved back, his eyes narrowing. When he spoke there was disgust in his voice. ‘You’ve made a deal? With them?’

  Winter nodded. ‘Follow me, Luca, and we’ll both walk out of here.’

  He tossed his gun away. Then he turned, spreading his hands in a show of appeasement to whatever waited in the upper tier. He glanced back at Luca, encouraging him to drop his gun as well. A moment later the snub-nosed revolver smacked the floor. It had doubtlessly been emptied of bullets in any case.

  The two of them climbed the stairs, Winter leading the way. As they entered the gallery they stepped over the bloodied body of the second Camorrista. He was still alive, or at least on the very edge of life, his eyes pleading for an ending.

  The rain had intensified against the warehouse. Winter could hear it striking glass, though he couldn’t see the windows it battered.

  A man waited in the dark, the details of his presence revealing themselves as Winter and Luca approached. They saw gleaming shoes, a black suit and a tie stabbed with a silver pin. He was wiping a gob of blood from a trim beard, almost preening as he did so.

  ‘We have an agreement,’ said Winter, with confidence.

  The man shrugged, offering only a red smear of a smile. And then he lunged.

  Winter blocked a fist. Then he took a hook punch to the jaw. The impact flung him against a table, scattering tools and papers. His face burned from the blow, bone-deep.

  The man in the suit advanced, baring his lips, declaring his teeth. The canines were gleaming spikes, grotesquely extended. Spittle and blood shone on the enamel.

  Winter caught sight of a long, flat-blade screwdriver. It had rolled alongside him. He snatched it from the table and went for the man’s heart.

  The pair of them barrelled backwards, toppling a set of stools. Winter kneed his opponent in the crotch, eliciting a raw, wounded groan. A thought flashed through his head. Good. Something in common with these undead bastards, at least.

  Winter was on top now. He pressed his advantage, urging the screwdriver closer, targeting the heart.

  Killing this man would change the entire plan. But he had no choice. He had seen how the others had died.

  Matching him, the man seized his wrist, forcing the tool away, making it shake in the air. Their muscles locked, straining in stalemate.

  Lightning lit the harbour, flaring through the tall windows that lined the upper floor. Winter turned, just a fraction. In that moment of all-encompassing brightness he saw the pattern of the rain as it hit the glass. It was dark against the panes, narrow and focused. A thousand insistent pellets, forming themselves into silhouettes.

  The rain had taken the shape of men. Each one filled a frame.

  The windows shattered. Winter shielded his eyes. When he looked again there were three figures standing among the strewn glass, the wind from the docks gusting around them. They had matching suits, handsomely cut, and they faced him, confident as knives.

  ‘Signore,’ said their obvious leader.

  Winter stared at the man. He had seen the stern mouth and tall, imposing temples before, captured in a courtroom sketch.

  The newcomer spoke again, insistent now. ‘Signore, if you please.’

  Winter tossed the screwdriver to the floor. He rose to his feet, keeping his eyes on the man.

  Was this Don Zerbinati himself? If it was, he had shed the years. The hair was a deep black and glistened with wax. The moustache was gone while the olive skin was unlined, the lips a little fuller than Winter remembered from the picture. He looked to be in his early twenties, at most. Did these creatures possess that power? Could they actually make themselves young again? Alessandra would have known.

  ‘Salvatore!’ snapped the man. Winter’s opponent gathered himself, adjusting his jacket, righting his tie.

  ‘The crates are here,’ said Winter, attempting to steady his breath. ‘Just as I told your contact. The Camorra are doing business with the crew of the SS Ananke. They’re coming at six.’

  The man he assumed to be Zerbinati nodded, his eyes sweeping the warehouse. ‘Your information was useful. I choose not to claim your throat tonight. A deal, my friend?’

  Winter dabbed at his split lip. He saw Zerbinati eyeing the blood, his tongue flickering at the edge of his teeth. ‘I wasn’t expecting you or your men. That wasn’t the arrangement.’

  ‘We have a new arrangement, Englishman. One where you get to live. Savour it. It’s sweet.’

  The newcomer’s gaze settled on Luca. ‘I’ve spared you before, haven’t I?’

  ‘Yes, Signore Zerbinati.’ The Italian struggled to keep eye contact. The cross was concealed in his hand, the chain gathered against his palm.

  ‘Do you remember I told you to convey a message? A warning to your brothers? To give them word that our rule of this city was total and not to be challenged?’

  Sweat gathered on Luca’s scalp. ‘I told them, Signore Zerbinati. I swear by the Virgin, I told them.’

  Zerbinati regarded the bodies of the Camorristi. ‘You were clearly not as persuasive as I wished. I wonder why I even spared you.’

  ‘Signore Zerbinati, the Camorra are proud…’

  ‘The Camorra are dead. Was it a proud death?’

  Luca’s mouth opened, wordless. Zerbinati closed the space between them.

  ‘I asked you, was it a proud death? Did you witness it?’

  Luca nodded, then vigorously shook his head, desperate to give the right response. ‘It was dark… I saw nothing…’

  Zerbinati took another, final step. ‘But you would have heard if they screamed? Did they scream like children, these proud Camorra? Or did they die like men?’

  ‘They screamed…’

  ‘Of course they screamed. As you all scream. You are all children to us. Your lives are soft and warm and brief. It’s your tragedy that you will never be men.’

  Luca raised the cross. It seemed pitiably small between his thick, weathered fingers.

  Confronted by the sight of the crucifix, Zerbinati flung his hand against his face. The gesture was mocking, theatrical.

  ‘No! Not the pendant! Spare me the pendant! It burns!’

  He lowered his hand, a smirk on his lips. ‘Or would you call it a necklace?’

  Luca kept the cross steady in his fist, though his arm was trembling. He thrust the trinket at the vampire, channelling every ounce of his faith.

  Zerbinati casually took the cross from his hand. ‘Is this pewter? Are you threatening me with pewter? What, you can’t afford silver?’ He turned to the other men. ‘Can you believe this guy? It’s an insult! Does he think I’m some lower-caste tomb rat?’

  There was an amused murmur from the shadows.

  Luca stared as the vampire revolved the cross. The faith had gone from his eyes, replaced by pure apprehension.

  ‘You seem to have trouble hearing my questions,’ observed Zerbinati. ‘So I shall ask again, and I shall keep it simple. Is this pewter?’

  Luca stayed silent. Zerbinati held the cross in front of his face, letting it twirl and twist on the chain. ‘Taste it for me.’

  The Italian’s eyes narrowed, uncomprehending.

  ‘I said taste it!’

  Zerbinati crammed the cross into Luca’s mouth. Then he clamped a hand to the man’s face, holding it there as Luca frothed against his palm, choking on the talisman.

  ‘He’s with me,’ said Winter, quickly. ‘You don’t need to do this.’

  Zerbinati ignored him. He kept his hand in place, his grip tightening, forcing the cross into Luca’s throat until the tongue spasmed and the neck muscles hardened in protest. Luca fought for air, gagging as the reflex action hauled the crucifix into his windpipe.

  ‘Spare him,’ said Winter. ‘Come on.’

  Zerbinati removed his fingers. He observed Luca for a moment. And then he smacked his hand upwards, swatting the Italian down the stairs. Luca landed in a broken heap.

  ‘Show me the cargo,’ said Zerbina
ti.

  Winter led the way down the steps, the four men following. He was the only one who cast a shadow on the warehouse floor.

  Luca stared at him as he stepped past. His eyes were accusing, even as the whites darkened with burst blood vessels. Winter looked away but the guilt found him.

  They came to the crates. Zerbinati studied the shipping manifest then put his nails to the box on top. Winter saw them elongate, tapering like diamonds. They scored through the lid, spraying splinters and wood dust.

  The lid was flung aside. Inside the crate were stacks of white cartons, only differentiated by the chains of numbers stamped upon them. They had the bland, practical look of pharmaceutical goods.

  Zerbinati opened the nearest carton, sliding a sheet of foil from the card container. It held eight caplets, each containing a crimson fluid. Winter could only imagine it was blood.

  Zerbinati cracked the caplet with his teeth. He let the fluid trickle on his tongue. His lips crinkled. He was clearly unimpressed.

  ‘Chemical swill,’ he declared. ‘No connoisseur would be satisfied.’

  ‘I imagine it’s not intended for connoisseurs,’ said Winter, hoping to tease some detail on the contents of the crates.

  Zerbinati gave him an austere look, his face set at a regal tilt. ‘A true connoisseur would kill for their thirst. This substitute is for cowards. Those we have turned who have no stomach for claiming a throat. They’re weak, but their ache is strong, like an animal’s need.’

  ‘Are there many of them, these cowards?’

  ‘Believe me, it’s an expanding market. There’s always a thirst to be satisfied. And there’s always mucho scharole to be made from a craving.’ Zerbinati kissed the tips of his fingers, a gold ring in the shape of a salamander glinting in the half-light.

  ‘Capitalism in action. No wonder the Camorra wanted a piece of it.’

  ‘We control the flow of Scarlatto in the Mediterranean. We won’t tolerate competition. The Camorra filth will be reminded of this, yet again. But you are so full of opinions, Englishman…’

  Winter met the undead gaze. ‘Think of it as a job interview. It would be an honour to serve you, Don Zerbinati. I trust there’s a position going?’