Page 1 of Black Widow's Bite

Chapter 1

Addison

Today just felt wrong, and it was putting me on edge. It felt similar to how it feels when the music changes in a horror movie, and you just know that something terrifying is about to happen. The weird feeling started because of a dream, the same one I’ve had every night for the past three weeks. I feel like I should technically classify it as a nightmare, but somehow, even though it would make Freddy Krueger himself say whoa, tone that shit down, I couldn’t exactly consider it a nightmare, per se.

Every night it’s the same thing. It begins as soon as I fall asleep, and it never changes. I’m walking down some stairs to a creepy basement that I don’t recognize. The walls are old and chunks of the drywall have crumbled, or maybe rotted away. There are no lights on in the basement, and as I grope around in the dark I manage to stumble and fall into a large pit. It feels like I’m falling forever, and when I finally reach the bottom, I land on a giant spider web. Dream-me should really just stop wandering around and stay safe and sound on the web, but instead, I climb off and continue down a long tunnel. Snakes are slithering all around my feet, hissing, as I narrowly avoid stepping on them. There are so many of them that it looks like the entire floor is moving by the time I reach the small room at the end of the tunnel. When I enter the room, I see a man sitting on a throne of skulls, a crown of scorpions encircling hishead. Blood is dripping down his face from where the scorpions have stung him, but the man is smiling, beckoning me forward. As I approach, I see that in the spaces where his eyes should be there is a horrible, gaping darkness. Smoke begins to pool out of the holes and he laughs as my skin catches fire, burning and crackling as it spreads over my body, consuming me entirely.

That’s normally the part where I wake up, sweating and tangled in my bedsheets like I’d tried to physically run away from my subconscious. This morning had been no different, and I groaned when I checked my phone and saw it was only 5:30 a.m., over an hour before my alarm was set to go off.

I ripped my sheets off and hopped out of bed, knowing from previous nights that I wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. Instead, I showered and dressed, watching the sun slowly begin to filter in through my window as I got ready for the day. It wasn’t quite autumn yet and even if the lab stayed cool with the A.C., it was still decently warm outside, so I grabbed a black blouse and a pair of grey slacks out of my closet. I pulled my pitch-black hair up into a casual bun, opting for function over style as usual. Since I was so early, I decided to walk to campus instead of bussing, which I normally do in the mornings to facilitate a few extra minutes of sleep.

I was hoping the fresh air would help me shake off the last dregs of the dream. Maybe it was the exhaustion talking, but I couldn’t get the nagging feeling of impending disaster out of my mind, even after I reached the University science building. The campus was still half-asleep, and I had to turn the light on once I reached my department, the first one to arrive this morning.

Most of the time, dreams were simple enough to interpret. They were, after all, just a collection of data that your brain collected over the course of the day and was committing to long-term memory as you slept. But this dream made no sense to me. I’ve never had a particular fear of heights, or snakes for thatmatter. I wasn’t religious, so the weird devil-man was pretty off-topic with respect to what I’ve normally got on my mind. And as for the spider web, well...

I scanned my key card when I reached the lab and turned on the lights to illuminate the hundreds of spiders and scorpions that filled the room in tanks of various shapes and sizes. The Arachnology lab had been my home-away-from-home for the better part of five years, ever since the second last year of my entomology degree. Currently, I am working on my Masters’ thesis in Arachnology, so it would’ve actually been weirder if spiders weren’t appearing in my dreams at this point.

Since there weren’t a lot of people who felt like dedicating their lives to hanging out with spiders, I got my own little office inside the lab. I turned on my office light and dropped my bag on the floor before plugging in the coffee-maker in the small communal kitchen area at the back of the lab. I yawned and stretched as I watched the liquid energy drip into the pot, pouring myself some before it was completely finished brewing. Settling into my office chair with my mug, I continued ruminating about the dream plaguing my nights while my computer screen blinked to life in front of me. I really should consider it a nightmare, but the problem was that no matter how creepy and irritating it was, I just... wasn’t frightened by it. The themes practically screamed trauma, especially the burning alive part. I knew all too well what fire felt like when it licked across my skin. Touching the collar of my blouse instinctively, I smoothed down the fabric, running my fingers over my chest and along my collarbone, tracing the scars hidden underneath. The fire in my dreams didn’t hurt, not like real flames at least. It was a different kind of heat, one that had me waking up with an ache between my legs and a physical need deep in my core.

So... not quite a nightmare, although it did speak volumes about my love life - and mental health - if I was getting turnedon by a smoke-eyed dream demon. If I were a believer in such things, I would say that this wasn’t a dream or a nightmare, but an omen, and a bad one at that. It would explain why I couldn’t get rid of the forbidding feeling that had my teeth on edge. My grandmother used to say that the feeling was caused by someone stepping on your grave. If she was still alive, she would’ve read way too much into my dream. Instead of coffee, she would have me drinking some horrible homemade herbal tea that could supposedly protect my soul from the devil. No doubt I would be sleeping with lavender under my pillow and lining my window sills with salt. I missed that crazy old bat and her superstitions. They’d really livened up an otherwise depressing childhood. I’d never really believed that killing a spider in the house would bring rain, or that you didn’t speak the names of the dead, else their spirits would be drawn back to the world. I’ve always been a pretty big skeptic, which is funny, considering I can kill people just by fucking them.

I don’t kill them outright. It’s not like we’re having sex and they suddenly drop dead of a heart attack mid-thrust or anything. In fact, there’s nothing about their deaths that can even be linked to me. I’ve read hundreds of studies, done hours of research, and still haven’t found one single shred of scientific evidence that explains why every person who has ever so much as kissed me has either gone insane or died horrifically within days of it happening.

It started all the way back in the fourth grade when Kevin Vanbrite kissed me on the lips at recess. A week later, he’d been moved to a special school after he pulled out and ate all of his hair. During a game of spin-the-bottle at a high school party, I’d made out with Tyson Grant. Two weeks later, he’d been admitted to a psychiatric facility, having suffered a psychotic break due to what they thought was early-onset schizophrenia. Heather Detante and I went to second base on a dare during asleepover later that year, and she’d overdosed on her mom’s pain medication and spent our senior year in a coma. A few rumours had started about me by then, so my love life effectively dried up until I moved away to college.

After one too many beers at a frat party, I’d ended up losing my virginity in the back of some guy’s car. The act itself hadn’t been that memorable, but seeing him on the news only two days later was - apparently he’d walked in front of a train. Back then, I thought it was still a random set of horrible coincidences. But after two more hook-ups ended abruptly and violently - on their part - I couldn’t ignore the common factor any longer. For whatever reason, my touch made people crazy. So, for the most part, I stopped touching people.

I’m not a bad person, and I don’t want to hurt anyone. However, I figured out through careful trial and error that just a small amount of skin-to-skin contact could encourage people to do things for me. If my fingers brushed against the baristas as they handed me my coffee, suddenly I didn’t need to pay for it. A quick handshake, and now my apartment is $300 less a month. A graze of my skin, a little prompt or ‘nudge’, and an interaction I was having would lean in my favour. I figured it was my cosmic right. If I couldn’t get laid, I could at least get a free coffee or two. Nobody was getting hurt by that, right?

Despite the horror movie vibes surrounding me like a menacing shroud, I managed to get through my day at the lab without anything going horribly wrong. That’s a good thing, since my work is centred on highly venomous spiders. Usually, I had the whole place to myself, only crossing paths with two other faculty members over the course of the day. I didn’t have any friends on campus, or really, anywhere, for that matter. It was hard to be close to someone when you could hospitalize them with a hug. I was polite with my colleagues but distant, andeventually, everyone I met just got into the habit of leaving me alone.

I was beginning to feel the lack of sleep when I finally called it quits for the day. The walk home was a lot busier than it had been earlier this morning, and I had to actually pay attention to avoid bumping into anyone as I trekked down the sidewalk. Restaurants were already starting to fill up with happy hour guests, and I dodged around groups of smokers on the sidewalk as I tried to make it back to my apartment.

My gaze focused ahead of me, I nearly tripped as something ran under my feet, scampering across the sidewalk. I caught myself before I ate shit on the pavement, and watched in disbelief as a small black cat bolted into a nearby alley. My grandmother’s voice echoed through my head, screaming at the glaringly obvious omen. I walked over to the alley entrance and spotted the cat sitting on the dumpster, eyeing me cooly, as if I’d tripped over it on purpose. I’d noticed a lot of stray cats around here over the years. Most were the result of students who adopted them when they came for school and then abandoned them when they graduated and moved on. They seemed to live well enough on scraps and whatever mice I’m sure lived here as well, but I always felt bad for the orphaned felines. It wasn’t their fault their owners left them behind.

I fished around in my purse until I found a small can of tuna. I always kept one or two in my bag now, just in case I found someone who looked particularly hungry. Plus, if this little creature was a bad omen, maybe feeding her would get me back into the cosmic good graces. I opened the can carefully so I didn’t spill any of the liquid on my slacks and I set it down beside the dumpster. The bad omen stared at me for a moment, assessing my motives, and then jumped down gracefully and started sniffing around the can. Once she began eating, she seemed to relax somewhat, and I crouched down beside her togive her a few gentle scratches behind her ears. Looking past her into the alley, I caught a glimpse of something strangely familiar behind the dumpster. Letting curiosity get the better of me, I moved closer until I could make it out. There was a set of stairs leading down from the alley to a dank and unlit doorway.

Nope, fuck that. I’d seen enough horror movies to know how that would end. I backed up immediately, colliding with something behind me in my haste. Spinning around, I realized that there were now two scruffy-looking men blocking the entrance to the alley. My bad omen hissed and took off, and I didn’t blame her. I wanted to do the same. Instead, I just squared my shoulders and gave the men a casual but detached look. “Excuse me, fellas,” I said, going to side-step around them. The one closest to me shifted to block my path, and I took a quick step back before he could touch me.

“What’s the rush, sweetheart? We just want to talk for a minute.” he sneered, his gaze sliding over my body. His buddy snickered, and I saw a flash of metal in his hand, probably some kind of weapon with my luck.

“I’ve got $30 and a granola bar. Take it,” I told them, dropping my purse at their feet. In reality, it was more like $20 and some restaurant coupons, but they didn’t need to know that. My heart sank when they stepped over the purse, clearly not their intended target. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I truly didn’t. But hey, they fucking started it.

The big one who’d called me sweetheart grabbed for me again, his hand latching onto my wrist where my shirt sleeve had ridden up. “Let me go,” I told him firmly. “I’m not worth it, trust me.”

His grip tightened for a moment, then loosened, and I snatched my arm away from him. “Fuck this, she ain’t worth it,” he muttered to his friend and made no further effort to grab me. His friend gave him a confused look, but didn’t seem deterredby his sudden change of heart. Thug number 2 lunged at me, and I tried to dodge him, but he caught my shoulder and I fell back, slamming into the brick wall behind me. He held up the knife, snarling at me like an animal, and as soon as he was close enough, I attacked, dragging my nails down the side of his face. He howled in pain, blood oozing from the gouges I’d left across his face. In my victory, I briefly let my guard down and he struck out suddenly, backhanding me across the face. The force was enough to knock me sideways, and as I stumbled for footing, the ground abruptly disappeared underneath my feet. It was at that moment that I remembered the set of stairs I’d been trying to run away from. Fate had decided that I wasn’t allowed to escape them after all, evidently. I landed roughly, the concrete steps knocking the air from my lungs as I tumbled my way to the bottom. I felt my head smack against something hard, and then the world around me went dark.

Chapter 2

Wyatt

Iheard the aging metal groan in protest as I crawled out onto the fire escape, and I dared it to give way. The three-story fall probably wouldn’t kill me. At most, it would make for an interesting end to an otherwise dull-as-shit day. I sat down on the side of the fire escape facing the street, ignoring more creaks as I shifted to dangle my legs off the side. I cracked open the beer I’d brought up with me, sipping it as I listened to the noises of the street filter down the alley I was currently presiding over.

The view was shit, but I was at least high enough so the dank smells of garbage couldn’t reach me. A spider crawled across the rusted-out railing in front of me, probably out searching for dinner like the people on the street below us. I wouldn’t eat until later, most likely, if at all. Piper was supposed to get groceries this week, but he’d been on one of his benders since Monday and hadn’t gotten to it. We still had beer at least, so that was something. Maybe I could steal his phone and order something for us. He always had a credit card or two loaded in his apps, all of them stolen, of course. Piper’s kleptomania was an ongoing problem that we had yet to solve, but it did come in handy occasionally.

The tattoo studio was closed for the day now. I’d only booked two sessions this afternoon and the last one had finished early. We didn’t advertise for walk-ins. In fact, we didn’t technicallyeven have a storefront. At one point there had been a sign that said ‘Tattoos’ above our door in sad neon letters, but it had been knocked down during a bad hailstorm and we hadn’t bothered to replace it. The only way people knew how to find us was by booking an appointment through the website I’d set up. Once it was confirmed, I sent them the address, and only then could they find me and the studio. Apparently, being hard to find actually made us appear cool and mysterious, so we haven’t had any complaints as of yet. It was better this way. We didn’t need people popping in unexpectedly. That almost always ended poorly, or violently.

I sipped my beer, my head resting against the railing as I surveyed the activity on the ground below me. Catching movement at the mouth of the alleyway, I watched one of the local cats slink toward the dumpsters. We had tons of them around, but as long as they kept to themselves, I didn’t mind. Sometimes I could hear them fighting during the night, usually over a mate or a territorial dispute. Their yowls would filter in through the windows and the next day I’d find some blood or tufts of fur. The alley was like the kitty version of the Wild West.

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