Page 59 of The Spider & the Storm

He slapped a hand against my shoulder as he walked past before I had time to process his abrupt change in demeanor. There’d been a defensiveness in his tone when speaking of his brother, I realized after the fact, and although I couldn’t say I knew his personal reasons for that, I also understood the need to defend and protect well.

Having a brother incarcerated for ending someone’s life would do that to you.

I moved into the kitchen, watching the world through a sheer screen of black mesh. I looked for the woman who’d invited me, scanning the crowd around the buffet table and the few people standing by the mentioned cooler.

Exactly why I wanted to find her, I wasn't sure. To avoid her maybe. Or perhaps, with the help of my mask, I'd finally found the courage to ask for her name.

When I didn't find her in the dining room or kitchen, I moved silently like a specter, following a witch and Ghostbuster through the back door and into a backyard bordered in English-style gardens. Purposefully chaotic and meticulously overgrown.

It felt fitting to find her there, standing to the side of a weeping willow, a black cup in her hand as she spoke with a woman donning a head of purple dreadlocks. She was oblivious to my presence at first, and I was grateful, as the gown she wore stopped me dead in my tracks, reminding me instantlyof embarrassing Victorian goth wet dreams I’d had in my late teens.

The ribbons laced through the corseted top were cinched tightly enough to emphasize her waistline and the voluptuous, rounded swell of her breasts, accentuating a cleavage I was struggling to tear my eyes from. The full, flowing skirt dusted the ground, only revealing quick glimpses of the sparkling black heels she wore on her feet. Her jet-black hair was piled into a cool and purposefully messy nest that would’ve made Helena Bonham Carter proud, and to it, a veil was pinned, distorting my view of her face.

I hated that I couldn’t stop staring.

I hated the thoughts that were going through my head.

The things I wanted to do to her. The things I wanted her to do to me. Things I never should’ve wanted in the first place, and I knew without a shred of doubt that it was then that I should turn around and leave.

I’d held up my end of the self-imposed bargain. I’d entered the party; I could say that I’d gone. It was time to go, yet not only did I not leave, but my damn feet kept on moving toward her. One foot in front of the other, walking as if I were floating on air through the yard.

She turned from the dreadlocked woman to watch me stalk in her direction, and although the night was dark and the veil kept her features soft and shadowed, I could clearly make out the curve of her black smile.

“You came,” she said, both genuinely surprised and—dare I say it—happy.

“You knew it was me,” I stated, my voice low, and not at all paying attention as the dreadlocked woman smirked like she knew something I didn't before walking toward the house without announcing her leave.

My mystery woman in the Victorian gown didn’t falter for a second as she reached out and lifted my hand in hers. Instinct warned me to pull back, to snatch my hand away, and still, I didn’t listen to an intuition I'd seldom ignored in the past.

I let her impossibly smooth fingers clench lightly around mine as she said, “You don’t exactly blend in.”

She was talking about my tattoos, of course, but the comment dug deeper beneath my skin, grazing against something I’d kept locked away and guarded. I was reminded then of my heart, as if I needed to be, and, God, it was beating so loud.

Can she hear it?

“I try,” I muttered, watching the way her long black thumbnail traced one thin strand of ink etched along my middle finger.

A shock of electric heat zapped my nerves, and the hairs along my arms stood on end. I swallowed audibly, and she must’ve heard because she looked up to where my face was. Her eyes struggled to meet mine through the barriers of her veil and my mask, and yet she managed to succeed.

“You should try harder,” she replied, her voice not unlike a satisfied cat’s purr.

I caught myself chuckling before I could stop the sound from rumbling up from my chest. “I thought I was doing a pretty good job, to be honest with you.”

“Well, I can't speak for anybody else, but …” She released a deep breath as she nodded, lowering our conjoined hands, her thumbnail still tracing that webbed line. “I see you.”

I lifted my chin, looking down at her through hooded eyes concealed from hers. “And what if I don't want to be seen?” I challenged past my heart, thumping an irregular tune in my throat.

The woman tipped her head with consideration before laughing gently through her nose. She shook her head slowly—hardly noticeable to anyone who wasn't paying attention, but I was. She tightened her hold on my hand, reminding me she hadn't yet let go and neither had I, as she took a step closer. There were mere inches of space between us, and a breeze blew past, carrying with it a spicy blend of cinnamon and black pepper, filling the gap between our twin black forms.

With her chin tipped up, her face aimed toward mine, I was glad for her veil. I was even gladder for my mask. Glad for the things that kept her from witnessing the turmoil on my face and the hope in my eyes as they dropped to stare at her full black lips.

“But I think you do, Spider,” she said quietly, using that nickname again that I both loved and hated, only for the fact that she had nothing else to call me. “And I'm glad that, of all the witches in this city, you chose to catch me in your web.”

My lips parted softly to speak, though my tongue ceased all ability to form words as she released my hand and walked back toward the house, daring me with a crook of her lithe finger to follow.

But if I could've, I would've told her I hadn't chosen her. I would've said she'd come along when I least expected, landing on one silvery strand of my carefully crafted life of secrecy andsolitude when my back was turned. I would've mentioned that she possessed the ability to leave, to fly away and never see my face or speak to me again, and I would've gladly let her.

Unless I just forgot where I'd laid the sticky shit down, I thought as I followed, lured by lace and tulle, cinnamon and black pepper.

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