The Spider Children: The Warren Brood, #1

By Bartholomew Lander

"You have spider legs. You have fangs and venom. And you've never thought your own obscurity odd?"

 

Seventeen-year-old Spinneretta Warren doesn't just have a bizarre name. She's got eight spider legs to back it up, along with fangs, venom, and a pair of siblings as unusual as she is. But apart from the odd stare, nobody in Grantwood, California seems to care that Spinneretta and her family are human-spider hybrids.

 

But when her ninth cousin (and self-proclaimed magician) Mark shows up at their door, Spinneretta finds herself falling head over heels into the mysteries of the Warren family. Convinced that something sinister is moving behind the scenes in Grantwood, Mark begins investigating the truth of the spider children's origins. But Spinneretta is skeptical there's any great secret to be found. Besides, she's perfectly happy with her mundane life, hanging out with her friends and dreaming about an internship at the Golmont Corporation.

 

That is, until Spinneretta's younger sister is nearly kidnapped and the Warrens' lives take a sharp turn for the extraordinary.

 

With Mark intent on exposing the dark secrets surrounding Grantwood, and an obscure legend that's just a bit too compelling to ignore, Spinneretta finds herself forced to face a web of lies that has surrounded her family for decades.

 

A slow-burn upper YA Lovecraftian urban science fantasy about human-spider hybrids.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lunarium Books
• Release date: Apr 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9789198733310

Book preview

Prologue

A Goddamn Miracle

According to the bedside clock, May had been unconscious for just under four hours. Night had fallen long ago, but it was impossible to tell in the windowless cubicle they were trying to pass off as a recovery room. Her head throbbed, and her still-blurry vision made her dizzy all over again. The sterile lights pressed against her temples, and a twinge of panic raced toward her heart. Ralph? she said, throat dry.

Right here, came a soft voice.

She turned her head, not without a tremendous effort. Ralph still held her hand as though he’d never left. Despite her pounding forehead, she smiled up at her husband. Her memory was a blur. Her other hand drifted instinctually to her lower abdomen, and a mild soreness jump-started her recollection of the birth.

The cesarean. The scuttle of doctors moving about the delivery room. A glimpse of her daughter before falling unconscious.

Where is she? This time it was a little harder to speak. It felt like she’d swallowed broken glass.

Ralph nodded his head toward the door, eyes distant. They have her in special care right now, I think. He cleared his throat and made a visible effort to brighten his somber tone. But Doctor Morton said he wanted to talk to us about it once you were awake. He showed her a weak smile, but his brown eyes held no joy. I’m sure everything’s fine. I hear all babies go there after a C-section.

May’s stomach turned as he spoke. Ralph had always been a terrible liar.

Fifteen minutes later, Doctor Morton poked his head into the room. Drowsy and dizzy as she was, May still noticed the slight frown creeping across his lips. That meant bad news. The doctor hadn’t even opened his mouth, but tears were already washing away her vision.

Ahh, you’re awake, Morton said, his voice bright.

May’s heart continued to sink. Through the tears welling in her eyes, she saw him pass a nervous glance over them both. Ralph’s grip on her hand tightened.

Abruptly, Morton broke out with his goofy grin. "Well, you’ll be happy to know that your daughter is perfectly healthy. Which, given the circumstances, is a goddamn miracle if you ask me."

May felt a weight lift from her shoulders, but another squeeze from Ralph’s hand cast doubt over her relief.

What is that supposed to mean? Ralph asked in a calm, measured tone. It was the tone he used when his temper was just below boiling. "Given what circumstances?"

Doctor Morton gave Ralph a puzzled look. "Really? Nobody’s told you? I figured one of the nurses must have said something about it by now."

May didn’t find his word choice very reassuring. What circumstances made a healthy baby a goddamn miracle? How healthy was healthy? What the hell was wrong with her child?

The nurses wouldn’t say a damn thing to me, Ralph said, his voice wavering.

Morton scratched his forehead. "Huh. That makes things a tad awkward, then. Now, before I say anything else, I want to reaffirm that your baby is perfectly healthy, all things considered. However, I’m sure it would come as no surprise if I were to say that your little girl is rather special."

Ralph nodded, his anger fading. We’ve had four months of ultrasounds. No surprise there.

This time May squeezed his hand. As she did, a flare of pain ripped its way through her temples and made her wince. Was it the drugs? The blood loss? She suspected both, and a healthy dose of stress to top it all off. What’s wrong with her?

The doctor lowered his voice. To be honest, I’m not sure. That is to say, I’ve frankly never seen anything like this before. Ahh! That probably didn’t sound very good, did it? But no, we won’t be naming a disease after her, if that makes you feel any better. A nervous chuckle sputtered from his grin like water from an old, rusty sprinkler. I’ll have Molly bring your daughter in. I shouldn’t have to explain anything after that. With a purposeful haste, he turned and exited the recovery room, leaving a rigid and palpable silence behind.

May kept repeating those words, though they made no sense to her. Perfectly healthy, he’d said. All things considered, he’d said. A goddamn miracle.

Those incompatible thoughts continued running in their own separate directions, growing and spreading. Whatever was wrong with her child must have been wrong on a fundamental level. It didn’t matter how healthy she was at the moment because soon nature would take its savage and unapologetic course.

Her mind flashed to images she’d seen of a baby born with his heart outside his body. How healthy had that baby been? How long had he lived? And even if that poor miracle survived, could she have cared for it? Could she have been the loving mother he deserved? Doctor Morton’s words stabbed over and over: nothing short of a goddamn miracle…

May doubled over, grabbing at her abdomen with her free hand. A numbed soreness again radiated from the incision. She wanted to throw up. Her head pounded and her eyes ached. What God could condone such cruelty?

The clack of footsteps entered from the hall. When Ralph squeezed her hand again to signal the nurse’s arrival, May was still trapped in her own world of hopeless vacuity. Then she heard a brief, almost inaudible cooing. The panicked voices and thoughts ceased.

Time stopped. Silence. Her universe was empty of all existence except for her and her daughter. Though her eyes were clenched shut, she thought she felt the tiny heart beating not ten feet from her. She cracked her eyes. The breath went out of her husband—a sound that gave her no comfort. She focused her blurry vision on the maternity nurse.

The nurse stood nervously just inside the doorway, her face filled with a mixture of revulsion and apprehension. A bundle of blankets sat in her arms, held farther from her body than May thought appropriate for a maternity ward. Then she noticed what rested within the bundle. May held her breath. The baby was beautiful, her sleeping face the portrait of peace and tranquility. Her face was round, her cheeks full and rosy, her tiny nose upturned, her ears small and flat. Strands of dark, wispy hair crowned her perfect head.

But there was something wrong. Something out of the ordinary. Something none of May’s research could have prepared her for. What stood out about this child, the apparent cause of the nurse’s discomfort, was a pair of dark structures bending down over her shoulders. Their presence defied everything May understood about anatomy. They weren’t tumors, for they were far too well-formed, too purposeful. But May didn’t care what they were. The despair and anguish consuming her mind vanished. In their place was a sudden and overpowering need to hold her child.

She reached out toward the nurse, ignoring the crippling weight of her arms. For a moment the nurse didn’t move, her expression perplexed, but then she glided to May’s bedside and lowered the Warrens’ firstborn into her mother’s embrace.

May cradled her daughter. The newborn girl, indeed, seemed healthy. May could now see the strange structures clearly: two long, thin, finger-like appendages that curled over her shoulders from the back and gleamed with a glossy, deep brown color. The appendage on the left flicked upwards lethargically, as if reaching for something an inch above her face. It was the most precious gesture May had ever seen. These are…

Legs, the nurse said. There’s more. Under the blanket. Six of ’em.

Six more? Six plus two made eight of those beautiful little limbs. May reached down and gently grasped one of the legs between her thumb and forefinger, feeling its texture against her skin. It was smooth and just a little hard, like plastic mixed with eggshell.

Ma’am, are you alright?

I’m… A chuckle rolled out of her mouth. I’m great. She turned to Ralph, who had all but vanished from her awareness. Ralph, look at her. Her voice wavered as she started to laugh again.

But Ralph’s expression was one of silent disbelief. His eyes were locked on the bundle May held. The hell’s the matter with you? he said after a moment.

The question made her giggle. Perhaps it was the drugs again, or perhaps it was the euphoria of motherhood. What do you mean?

Ralph looked at the nurse incredulously before returning his gaze to May. After all that talk before? You’re just okay with this?

She heard a very different question, and another laugh bubbled out of her. She’s more than okay.

Again Ralph glanced at the nurse, but his eyes came right back. Concern filled his features. Is she alright?

May wasn’t sure what he meant. Is she healthy? Is she stable? Is she acceptably normal? Is she here? Is she ours? Is she perfect? Yes, she said. Look at her.

Ralph slid closer and put out a hand. He caressed his daughter’s cheek, and the dark appendages twitched in response, curled autonomously toward his hand. Ralph quickly withdrew his finger, like he was afraid of being bitten. Though his perplexed expression lingered, May didn’t care. She was on top of the world.

What do you think? Way better than just a description, eh? Doctor Morton said, once again walking into the room. He showed May a bright smile and turned to the nurse. You can go back to the nursery now.

Thankful for permission to leave the miracle behind, the nurse turned and retreated from the room without a word.

Now then, I’m glad to see you two are getting acquainted, he said, ignoring Ralph’s clear discomfort. I’m sure you must be wondering what this little bundle of joy’s miraculous malformation is.

Ralph grumbled. I’d sure like to hear the answer to that. Nurse said she has six more, so that’s, what, eight of these weird little leg things? The fuck does that make her, a spider?

May snapped her head toward him. "Ralph! How could you say that about her? She’s not a spider. She’s an angel." She cradled their daughter closer and again began gushing over her.

Ralph stared at Morton in disbelief. "Are you seeing this? Either I’ve lost it or I’m the last sane person in this hospital!"

Morton wiped his brow. "Now, Mr. Warren, please, calm down. We are all quite sane here. A nervous tick started in the corner of his mouth. As I mentioned before, I’ve never seen anything like this. I’d be lying if I said I had any idea what those extra legs are about. But rest assured, Mr. Warren, we are checking into it. That is to say, he said, flipping back the top sheet on his clipboard, we would like you to come in for a blood test as soon as possible."

A blood test?

Specifically, we’d like to do some genetic testing to see if we can’t find something out of the ordinary that might explain this. Fused chromosomes or what-have-you. We’d like Mom to participate as well, of course.

Fine with me, Ralph said. He appeared helpless, lost.

Great. We can work out the scheduling later. It might not even be necessary depending on how the screening test comes out, but I wouldn’t hold my breath on that one.

Ralph didn’t respond.

The doctor stood there a moment, basking in the awkward silence. Well, at any rate, you three take it easy. If you need anything, you have the button. But don’t get too comfortable. You still have some paperwork to do. Now’s your last chance to bicker over names, after all.

May looked up, the thought having slipped her mind. They had, of course, considered names before. They’d settled on Layla if it was a girl and Jackson if it was a boy. Those names, however, no longer fit such a miraculously unique child. What name could befit such a miracle? When the tiny creature in her arms stirred, May once again forgot the matter altogether and resumed cooing to their half-awake daughter.

Ralph excused himself not long thereafter. May said she was making a phone call, and that was all the excuse he needed. Leaving the semi-private room felt like coming up for air. Out of sight, out of mind. But it wasn’t out of mind. The image of his daughter’s legs wouldn’t leave his thoughts. What the hell was going on with this hospital? Not just the hospital, but May. She’d been given to such despair during the pregnancy that he’d thought even a common congenital disorder would’ve crushed her. She’s not a spider, he heard her saying again. She’s an angel. Nauseous and dizzy, he turned left down the corridor. He needed to talk to Morton, now.

The halls were deserted. Last time he’d been out of the room, nurses and orderlies had been bustling about. That was hours ago. Now the staff was down to a skeleton crew, and the dim lighting of the corridor made everything feel imaginary, sinister. He felt eyes on him from the shadows, like spiders crawling up the back of his neck.

He found the doctor in his office. Sidling past the dim and empty reception area, Ralph’s eyes were fixed on the yellow glow radiating from Morton’s half-open door. The man sat at his desk, phone in hand, speaking in a hushed tone. Baring his teeth, Ralph marched right up to the door and barged straight in. Morton jumped in surprise, his tongue frozen in mid-sentence.

Morton. We need to talk.

Doctor Morton looked like he’d seen a ghost. After a moment, his lips began to move again. I’ll call you back in a moment, Mr. Clearwater. He clacked the phone down into its cradle and took a shaky breath. I thought you’d be with your daughter, Mr. Warren. You nearly gave me a heart attack! He laughed a nervous laugh. A forced laugh.

Ralph glared at him. What am I supposed to do about her?

Oh, don’t worry. She’ll mostly recover in a few days. For a few weeks, you should make sure she doesn’t do anything too strenuous until—

"I’m talking about my daughter, you jackass!"

He’d expected Morton to laugh that asinine little chuckle. Instead, his eyes hardened to distant beads of coal. What is the problem, exactly?

Ralph’s tongue flapped as he tried to form words. "I swear to God, you’re all lunatics. Do I have to spell this out for you? My daughter has spider legs! How am I supposed to… What’s normal about that? How is she going to live a normal life? That’s it. He had to make it about her. He couldn’t let on that those legs creeped him out of his skin. It’s just about the most ridiculous thing I’ve—"

Morton’s teeth flashed in a scowl. And what do you expect me to do about it?

The anger in the doctor’s tone gave Ralph pause. He shook his head, the question throwing him off guard. I don’t… I mean, there has to be something you can do, Morton. Couldn’t you, I don’t know, surgically remove them, or…?

The cradled phone began to ring, a blisteringly sharp tone, but neither of the men acknowledged it. It sounded like the cries of a bluejay being burned alive. The look in Morton’s eyes grew more distant. When he spoke, his tone was low and measured. I’m afraid that would be impossible. You’ve seen her move her legs, yes? Beneath her flesh, those legs connect directly to her spinal cord. If we were to remove them—a procedure I’m uncertain you could afford—we would cause irreparable damage to her nervous system. Would you really paralyze your daughter for life just to be rid of some unsightly growths?

Ralph sputtered, alarmed at the quiet indignation pointed at him. It’s got nothing to do with unsightly! Do you think people are going to just accept her like this?

Your wife seems to have accepted her. I thought she was the one with all these petty little reservations.

The cavern in Ralph’s gut deepened. That new vacancy began to seethe, and the incessant death-chirping of the phone put his teeth on edge. I swear to God, Morton, if you’re trying to suggest that I’m being shallow about this…

I recommend you accept your daughter the way she is, Morton said. "Don’t worry about what others think. You’d be surprised how far the definition of normal can stretch these days."

Ralph chewed his lip. Morton’s gaze held his, and the doctor’s rare sternness drained him of all hope. With no recourse, he turned around and stormed out of the office without a word of parting, leaving Morton to his damned phone call.

Unsure where he was going, Ralph wandered the twilit hallways. He was lost, in a daze. Before he even realized it, he found himself heading to the bathroom to throw up or scream or something. He felt like he was going nuts. It was a dream—a nightmare. But as he laid his hand upon the men’s room door, he paused. The screaming thoughts in his head receded to a mere whisper. No. Not a nightmare. It felt suspiciously like a curse. He trembled as his lips formed the word, thoughts reignited into a black firestorm. A curse. Was it possible?

Those born of the line of Golgotha are invariably cursed.

He’d never believed a damn word his grandfather had told him until that moment. The man had been a skeletal wreck from a lifetime of vice and loss. Whenever he spoke, it was in riddles or eschatonic fragments. But now Ralph leaned against the door, feeling the cool wood against his forehead, ruminating on his grandfather’s words. Could the legendary curse of Golgotha, which had allegedly taken his sister and two brothers, really have existed? What were the chances the old man had actually predicted this? Slim to shit, Ralph thought with a poisonous hiss. Nothing but fairy tales and delirium.

Fairy tales. Delirium. He didn’t know if he was describing his grandfather or his own life. With a low sigh, he pushed open the bathroom door.

The next week, the Warrens returned to the hospital for blood work and genetic testing. May’s test came back perfectly normal. Ralph’s came back genetically spider.

May named their daughter Spinneretta. It came, she was elated to inform him, from the word spinneret, the appendages spiders used for spinning silk. If Ralph disapproved, he never showed it. He had bigger problems to deal with, after all.

The two would go on to have two more children, just as miraculous as their first. To the boy born two years after Spinneretta, May gave the name Arthr, an amalgamation of the word arthropod and the common name Arthur, whose pronunciation was preserved. Four and a half years later, a second daughter took the name Kara, somewhat lazily appropriated from carapace. Ralph had to wonder where May was getting these names, but she never revealed her sources.

With the birth of May and Ralph’s third child, the Warren brood was complete. Time moved on in its unerring march. To the dead stars sleeping within A’vavel, the decade leading up to the year 2013 would pass in the blink of an eye.

Chapter 1

The Warren Brood

Spinneretta always thought of the attic as a graveyard. It was dusty, crammed full of forgotten trinkets, and likely to be haunted. And as she stood at the end of the second-floor hallway, staring up the ladder into the trapdoor’s even surface, she felt a familiar pang of unease. With a small sigh, she climbed up to the trapdoor and wrestled with the handle. Though the door was sticky from disuse, it sprang open with a loud pop. A flurry of dust billowed down from above, filling her sinuses and spiracles with the scent of wood. With a cough that almost became a sneeze, she stretched out the eight spider legs that grew from her back. They were slender, each an arm and a half in length when fully extended. Each bent along five articulated joints and was covered in lustrous black chitin plates. As the dust settled, she grappled the ladder’s higher rungs with her spider legs and resumed her climb.

She’d nearly reached the top when her knee smashed into the corner of a maliciously misaligned beam. She cursed as one hand and half of her extra appendages went to her throbbing kneecap. Ahh, so that’s why she’d felt so uneasy; her subconscious had remembered this was coming. She’d been up in the attic fewer than ten times in her seventeen years, but that damn beam got her every time. When she could move again, she grabbed the edge with her foremost appendages and leapt nimbly up to the floor, allowing the trapdoor to fall closed behind her with a thunk.

The setting sun out the faux-crystal window gleamed, painting the surrounding forest in brilliant greens and golds, but the attic was as dark as a grotto. Spinneretta found the chain to the light and gave it a quick tug. The hanging bulb flickered to life, banishing the Halloween palette with an ancient yellow glow. Eyes adjusting to the new hue, she glanced around, scanning the chests and boxes that sat in uneven stacks along the slanting walls. Now, where would I be if I was a family tree?

She approached one of the chests at random and undid its latches. The lid creaked as she lifted it, and a fresh swirl of dust billowed up from its depths. She fought the urge to sneeze, and when the cloud dispersed she turned her attention back to the trove of papers and folders within.

Did you find it? came a muffled voice from the hatch in the floor.

Not yet, Spinneretta called back.

The snap of creaking wood came, and the trapdoor popped open again. Pushing the hatch into its upright position, her mother climbed up onto the floor, wobbling as she found her footing. Spinneretta noted bitterly that she’d avoided that damned beam.

Did you check the memento chest? Mom asked.

Which one? They’re all memento chests.

The one with all the old papers.

Spinneretta gestured quizzically to the mouth of the open trunk.

No, no, not that one. Her mother surveyed the clutter. If memory serves me, then… She gave a musical hum and set about rummaging through a stack of boxes against the other wall. Spinneretta watched, half-mesmerized by her mom’s certainty, as she grabbed a small chest and heaved it several feet out from the wall, leaving a trail of angry dust in its wake. "Ta-da! This should be it." In triumph, she unfastened the rusted latches and pulled the lid open.

To Spinneretta’s untrained eye, the contents were identical to the first footlocker she’d opened, but the high note her mother sang dispelled her doubts.

Mom began to sift through the folders and files. "Let’s see, I believe this’ll be a good starting point for my family. She pulled a thick file from the document prison, checked the first few sheets, and passed them into Spinneretta’s waiting hands. And if I’m not mistaken, your dad’s proper tree should be… Huh. It should be here. Right here, between family recipes and… That’s weird."

Spinneretta glanced over the aged surface of the folder in her hands. Her fingers felt filthy having touched it. It’s missing?

Her mother clicked her tongue in frustration. Somebody probably misplaced it. God, I came up with this organization system for a reason! Who was even up here?

Spinneretta ignored her. She bent in close to examine the packed contents of the chest. How could anyone call such rampant paper-smashing organization? You’d need ESP to find anything. As her eyes navigated the labyrinth of faded manila walls, something paper-clipped to one of the files caught her attention. She reached out and plucked it from the box. It was a flexible rectangular magnet with a light blue printing on one side. The printed side had a border resembling a set of intertwined ribbons framing a couplet in the center:

The wolf in the warren, ravens overhead

Three miles in bedlam, Arachne weaves her thread

Spinneretta gazed at the magnet, unable to make heads or tails of what it was trying to convey. What’s this?

Mom gave a surprised laugh. That, she said, is something I haven’t seen in forever. They’re the last lines from a poem I wrote a long time ago in college. Her tone fell, and a nostalgic sigh seeped from between her lips. I was so proud of it at the time that I immortalized it in magnet form. Don’t remember why I put it away up here, though.

Spinneretta turned the magnet over in her hand and ran the tip of one of her spider legs over the back, feeling the age in its slick, rubbery surface. What does it mean?

It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just some pseudo-intellectual garbage I threw together for a contest.

The response made Spinneretta pause. She didn’t often doubt her mother, but the answer rang with insincerity. She didn’t find it likely that her surname’s occurrence in the text was just a coincidence.

Mom leaned in close and chuckled. Hey, you want to know a little secret?

A profound sense of dread began to solidify in Spinneretta’s stomach. Secret? What secret?

Because of that poem, she whispered, "we almost named you Arachne."

Wh-what? Spinneretta stared at her mother. Her lips trembled as she processed the words. Please tell me you’re joking.

Mom smiled. Nope! Lucky for you, we came up with something better, huh?

Spinneretta shook her head, but the heat was building. "Wait. Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that you were going to give me a name from Greek mythology—a name that people would at least understand—but instead settled on a pun on a spider’s ass?"

Her mother beamed. "You bet we did! We couldn’t have named you Arachne because there was no imagination in it. Spinneretta just has such a cute ring to it, you know?"

The anger shook her fingers until they threatened to crumple the stack of papers within the age-stiffened folder. "No, it doesn’t! It’s not even a name, it’s a misspelled noun! You gave Arthr and Kara normal names. Mostly. How’s that fair? Why did only I get stuck with a fake name? You couldn’t even give me a reasonable middle name, what the hell’s up with that?"

Mom giggled. You’re our special little girl and I love you very much. She bent over to kiss Spinneretta’s forehead, leaving her stunned. And when her mother stood back up, she let out a long sigh. Now, where the hell are those records? I swear I’ll crucify whoever moved them. I guess I’m going to stay up here and look a bit harder. Is that enough to get started on your project?

Spinneretta grumbled. Yeah. She returned to the open hatch in the floor. Fighting with her mom was useless, but hearing how close she’d been to having a half-reasonable name made her want to scream. Folder and papers heavy in her hands, she lowered herself through the trapdoor, spider legs grappling the edges as her feet scrambled for purchase on the rungs of the ladder. The dust-smell of the attic started to fade as she rappelled downward, and that transition alone made her feel a little better.

Just three months to go, she thought. Sarah Warren, here I come.

Spinneretta made her way to the study, a small but cozy room beside the stairs leading up to the second floor. Three of the study’s walls were lined with bookshelves housing countless assorted volumes. One end of the room was crowded with a couch, a lounge chair, and a coffee table, while the other held a wide hardwood desk where her father used to work when deadlines drew near. The times when he had the luxury of crunch-time debugging at home, however, were far in the past. Spinneretta was now the only member of the family who used the room with any regularity.

She flopped onto the small faux-leather couch and opened the file containing the archived history of the Wolf family. The folder was thick enough that, with a little luck, she wouldn’t even need the Warren side to write a C-grade essay with minimal effort. She began to sift through the documents, finding the inelegant, type-written font offensive to the eye.

She only got a few minutes of peace before the door flew open with a bang. Spinneretta was too used to the intrusion to be startled by it anymore. She didn’t even bother looking up when Arthr pushed his way into the room.

It’s Friday night, her brother said in mock disbelief. "And you’re studying. I knew you were lame, Spins, but I didn’t think you were that lame."

That joke gets funnier every single time you use it. She hoped against all hope that he’d just leave.

Arthr, the only male among the Warren children, had grown taller and faster than Spinneretta; at fifteen, he now towered above her by half a head. Like her, he had their mother’s lean figure and russet eyes. As if satisfied by her remark, Arthr’s snide expression vanished. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, his biceps flexing. His messy brown hair flopped into his eyes. What are you studying, anyway?

Grade project. Thought I’d get a head start on it.

He stretched his spider legs outward, the joints rattling and popping. Can’t blame ya. Not like you’ve got anything better to do.

Mm. Experience said the only way to get her brother off her back was to deprive him of the reaction he sought, like starving a flame of oxygen. The hypothesis held, and after a few moments of ignoring his latest prod, he sighed in resignation.

Well, whatever. I’m outta here. Tell Mom I’m out with the guys.

Wait a second, I thought you were still grounded for punching that kid in the nose.

He gave an arrogant shrug. Oh well.

"Would you prefer I just tell her you’re out bird-watching?" The way he froze in the doorway confirmed her suspicion.

Tell her what you want. If you must know, we’re going to do some sprints. Gotta keep in shape for the meet in Hedera next month. He gave a smug grin over his shoulder as he left the room. Despite his freshman status, Arthr was already making waves on the track team. The student body knew him not only as that rad guy with the spider legs who runs really fast, but also as an unbeatable fighter hungry for glory. The twin reputations swelled his head like an oozing cyst.

As usual, Spinneretta just let his bland elitism roll off her back. Though she loved running as well, Arthr always gloated about his competitive edge. But she didn’t care. She preferred to run at night, when nobody was around to see when she let her legs out to drink the cool air. She couldn’t say why, but it was cathartic, and Arthr’s incessant superiority was a reasonable price for that.

With a small huff, she turned back to her documents. Sprints. Like I’d believe that. She was sure he was going bird-watching, which was Arthrspeak for hitting on hot babes at the mall.

To her chagrin, Arthr was bafflingly popular with the girls at school. She supposed he was reasonably attractive and all, but how shallow did they have to be to tolerate his attitude? And why did Arthr’s legs seem to attract girls instead of repelling them? At first, she’d assumed the girls chasing after him were doing so out of pity, mistaking his extra appendages for some terminal illness. But she believed that less and less as time went on and his fan club grew in size.

A short while later, after reading an account of an ancestor named Jeremiah Wolf, Spinneretta grew weary of her research. Setting aside the old documents, she gave her arms and spider legs a thorough stretch before heading out into the hall. The door creaked shut behind her just as her mother, now covered in a thin layer of dust, descended the stairs with a frown.

I swear to God I’m going to murder whoever moved those papers, Mom said. I can’t find them anywhere.

Thanks for looking, but you don’t have to burn yourself out over it. I’m pretty sure I can fake the parts I don’t have. Spinneretta tried to hide her genuine disappointment. She’d always wanted a closer look at her father’s bloodline, though she doubted any real answers awaited her.

Her mother sighed. You can fake whatever you want, but now I have to find them just for the sake of it. She started toward the kitchen, then turned on her heel. Oh, I almost forgot, will you go find Kara for me? She’s not in her room, and it’s about dinner time. I’m afraid she’s out spoiling her appetite again.

Yeah, fine. Spinneretta gave her legs another wide stretch, anticipating the coming exercise. Knowing Kara, there was only one place she would be so close to dinner.

People always commented that Spinneretta and Arthr were every bit their mother’s children. But Kara, with her blond hair and striking blue eyes, resembled neither May nor Ralph to any meaningful degree. Without her slender build and arachnid qualities, she could have passed for a member of a totally different family.

Now, Kara sat perched on one of the branches of her favorite tree, waiting with the patience of a chiseled gargoyle. Her spider legs were planted at regular intervals across the bough, their tips sinking just beneath the bark. The smell of pine needles and the taste of sap on her legs reminded her of Christmas.

Teeth pressed together, two of her legs outstretched and tense, she waited for the moment she’d strike. Her line vibrated, and the air shifted subtly. Her lips parted in a vicious smile. Resin-like precursor began to flow from the secondary pair of fangs she alone had been born with. As the thick fluid pooled on her tongue, she couldn’t hold back a small shudder. It was the consistency of honey but tasted harsh and acrid.

As her prey approach, her muscles tensed. Even her spindly arms and legs prepared themselves. A moment later, her line shook from the impact. Now! With an explosive exhalation, her loaded muscles sprang and launched her off the branch. In mid-pounce, she seized the feathered creature trapped in her taut net. As she tore it from the trap, her unoccupied legs spread to absorb the impact of landing. Her bones rattled as she touched down upon the roof, and then her legs went to work.

While four of her pointed legs held the screech owl fast, her others began to hook and pull the thick substance from her mouth, stretching each captured gob into a silvery, amber-tinted wire of silk. Her legs danced around the owl, wrapping it until the feverish beating of its wings stopped. Once its wings were restrained and its legs bound, she began applying the second layer of wrapping. She gave each new strand a second tug to stretch it into a finer and more aesthetically appealing coating for her new friend.

Though Arthr and Spinneretta, too, were born with concealed fangs capable of secreting venom and digestive enzymes, only Kara was gifted with the second set further back in her mouth. While they may not have been true fangs, it was from these glands that she secreted the protein-rich precursor she’d learned, at a young age, to form into silk.

As she finished, she took a moment to admire her work. She didn’t like eating owls. Not because they didn’t taste good, but because they were so cute. The feathery mess that was always left over didn’t help, either. But food was food, and at least it wasn’t a possum. She opened her mouth, preparing to sink her fangs into the owl.

But before she could inject her acidic enzymes, a warning boomed from behind her. Let the bird go, Kara.

Her spirits fell at once. She turned and found Spinneretta hanging from a pine branch by two pairs of her spider legs. The firmness of her voice was a total mood killer.

How did you find me? Kara asked.

Spinneretta gave a half-hearted shrug. I hope you didn’t think you could be sneaky while jumping onto the roof from nine feet up. Let the bird go.

Oh, come on! I just caught it!

It’s dinner time. Spinneretta pulled herself up to sit on the branch. And Mom will probably do something awful to you if she finds another feather-pie in the gutter.

Kara grumbled. What’s for dinner?

Spaghetti, I think. Kara groaned, making Spinneretta laugh. But I’m sure there’s some meat for you, too.

Kara sat for a moment and then made a high-pitched whine in her throat. She swiped two of her anterior legs, splitting the pristine silk cocoon. The screech owl, hooting in a wild panic, stumbled free from the webbing. It made a short series of hops, trying to beat its bound wings, and then fumbled and rolled off the edge of the roof.

Poor thing, Spinneretta said. She turned around and began climbing back toward the ground to set the panicking bird free. Be sure not to leave any silk up there or Mom will scream.

Kara grunted and stared at the pile of wasted silk. Yeah, like I’m cleaning anything up on an empty stomach. She pulled a stray strand of web from her blond hair before crawling to the eaves and rappelling down the side of the house.

Mom, Spinneretta, and Kara were already at the dinner table when Dad arrived home from work. As was becoming the norm, he was late, but Mom greeted him as usual, and he received her warmth with equal parts exhaustion and comfort.

How was work? Mom asked, kissing him on the cheek.

He glanced at his watch, and a defeated look came over him. Long as hell. You guys didn’t really wait for me, did you?

Of course!

Kara anxiously tapped the tips of her spider legs on the table, eyeing the slab of raw, marbled beef on her plate. Spinneretta shot her a warning look, but Kara didn’t see it. She was just waiting for the go-ahead to dig in.

Dad smiled over at the table, a sad glint in his eyes. You really shouldn’t have. I ended up eating a while ago as we were tying up some loose ends.

What? Why didn’t you call? Mom asked.

He held up his cellphone. "Forgot to charge. Would’ve called from the office phone but I couldn’t find the time. Barely had time to eat. The new guy may as well be illiterate. Complete burden is what he is. Spins, I’d put money on you being able to code circles around him."

Spinneretta shook her head, ignoring the praise. Yeah, right. I’m terrible and you know it.

I had to teach him how to dereference a pointer.

A laugh turned to a half-cough in her throat. "What? And you guys are paying him?"

Not for long, if I can help it. Swear to God, I need to get you an internship in our department. Get you some experience beyond the basics, and you’ll be a real lifesaver in crunch time.

She sighed and gazed down at the cold spaghetti on her plate. Just keep saying that. An internship at a tech company as big as the Golmont Corporation would go a hell of a long way toward her dream job. So far, it hadn’t materialized.

Well, I’m going to take a shower. Eat without me. Really sorry to keep you all waiting.

At that, Kara snatched the hunk of meat from her plate and sank her concealed fangs into it. With a detached nostalgia, Spinneretta watched her sister envenom the meat. She waited until their mother returned to the table before she started eating her naked spaghetti.

Oh, Mom called as she sat down. Ralph? Do you know anything about the old records for the Warren family tree?

Dad’s footfalls stopped. A moment of silence buzzed from the hall. What about them?

They’re not in the attic where they should be. You haven’t seen them lately, have you?

A longer pause drew Spinneretta’s ears right to the source. No, he said. I have no idea. Sorry. With that, he ascended the stairs, leaving the rest of them to eat in peace.

So, did you start the grade project? Chelsea asked the next Monday at lunch. As she set her tray of food on their usual mesh table and sat down beside Spinneretta, the sunlight from the school cafeteria’s full-wall windows made her skin glow the color of fresh-baked bread.

Yep, Spinneretta replied, prodding the shriveled sausage on her tray with a plastic fork. I’m about halfway done with it.

Amanda gave her a surprised look. Damn, I thought you were kidding when you said you were going to get started on it.

She shrugged. I figured, why the hell not. I was kind of interested in my family history anyways. Not anymore. The thought just made her more curious about the missing Warren documents, which her interest had been chiefly concerned with.

Find any radioactive spiders in there?

"Afraid not. I found an antiquarian, though. Apparently he found some really boring things that nobody in their right mind cared about."

"That would excite you, Chelsea said. You could at least lie about it when you give your presentation so you don’t kill me with boredom."

Spinneretta smirked at her. I’m going to talk about pottery shards for forty minutes, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.

"You wouldn’t dare. Chelsea’s apparent earnestness caused Amanda to roll her eyes. And yes, I know you’re kidding, but that doesn’t make it alright to say things like that."

Amanda chuckled through a bite of her salad. If Spins gives her presentation on pottery, I’ll do one better and give mine on sand.

You’re awful. Chelsea propped her chin up with her hand and pretended to pout. She glanced off toward a table across the cafeteria, where Arthr and his track friends were flinging bits of corn at each other. Near their table, the baby-blue walls were punctuated with goldenrod posters for the upcoming senior prom.

How about you guys? Spinneretta asked. Don’t suppose you’ve done anything on it.

Chelsea pulled at her black ponytail, as she often did when distracted. My family’s boring all the way back to France.

"Not looking forward to that