The bard made her strings cry. It was fitting; for she would never cry again. She had already drunk her last cup, sang her last song. She could live – easily so – but she wouldn’t. They never wanted to be saved. Not when damnation was so beautiful. Not when death came with a cherry kiss on cherished lips.
She watched the bard’s deft hands as they danced across her pale wood harp. Such practiced grace, such perfection in her precision. Her delicate hands and her gentle smile, her soft amber eyes and her scruffy pixie cut hair. It all served a purpose. It all hid the monster within.
They locked eyes a half dozen times throughout the song. Promises were made with simple glances, and moonlit bedsheets glittered behind her eyes. The tune carried a final note. A resonant tear, echoing through the candlelit ballroom. It was a moment of awe, a moment of silence, before the thunderous applause rang out.
The worst part of any song was the applause. Why a crowd of fools thought it necessary to be the loudest thing in the room that had moments before been filled with such quiet majesty is a mystery best left for those who cared to study foolish men.
“Buy me a drink?” the bard whispered. She sat at the other side of the intimate little table and made no secret of her intent. She bore a greedy little grin in the corner of her pink painted lips.
“That would make a change.”
The bard chuckled at that, “Not used to being on that side of the table?”
“Not used to actually paying for drinks.”
“Then I'll not change your habit,” the bard giggled. The noise was false no matter how pretty. She laughed to disarm, to lull. “Darren!” She called out. A young man dashed to their side, a cloth in hand and a smile cracking his cheeks.
“My Lady,” he bowed.
“Yeah, be a darling and get me a whiskey. Oh, and something impressively expensive for the raven-haired beauty here,” the bard ordered. Darren made away without another word, nor regard for the dozens of drunk gentlemen vying for his attention across the halls.
“I didn’t take you for the whiskey type.”
“I’m not,” she chuckled, “I’m just trying to impress you.”
“There’s nothing less impressive than someone trying to impress.”
“Your lips say I'm unimpressive, but you haven’t blinked away from me once. Then again, you haven’t asked my name yet either,” the bard sighed. She leant forward onto the little table. Her amber eyes caught the candle light as they danced to some unsung tune known only to this woman.
“Names mean so little, I know what you are and that’s enough.”
“Then I'm at a disadvantage,” the bard said.
“Get used to it.”
The drinks arrived in iced glasses. For the bard, a double of some near ancient bourbon, a slice of lime on the dish at its side. Then the server placed a crystal flute of sanguine delight. The smell was obvious, though the bard had little chance to recognize it. She took her whiskey and pretended to take a sip as she narrowed her eyes.
“Why don’t you tell me then, darling, if not who you are; then what you are?” The bard asked from beneath her glass.
Smoky black lips touched the crystal flute. Darren had done his job well; it was just the vintage she sought. Rich, decadent and well-aged. It would have been perfect, had it not been a man.
“I’m nothing but a spider in the attic, darling.”
----------------------------------------
The night carried along. The spider weaved her web. This was a part of society she should have adored. The flowing dresses, the perfectly sewn suits. The beauty and grace of dance and song with the raw heat of passion. Had that been what she saw, she’d have lived in ecstasy, but this was as false as she. Men danced with politically convenient women. Women drank not for the love of wine, but for the boredom of company. The dances were rigid, the passion was stale. Everything was flat, even this bard. She needed no effort to wrap this auburn-haired songstress around her finger. There was no sport in it, no thrill. She twirled her new partner across the floor. The green hem of her gown dusted the dancefloor as she spun. She took her hand, and her waist, and held her close enough to feel the bard’s ragged breath on her neck.
She forced herself to imagine amethyst eyes, and snow-white hair. Tan skin wrapped in scarred leather. She imagined teaching the huntress to dance. She’d be awful at it, but she’d love it. They’d twirl and swing, float and laugh. Her snowangel would step on her toes as she learnt the moves, and she would lock her eyes and make her feel human again. They would make mistake, after mistake, after mistake; and it would be... Brilliant.
“Come on,” the bard whispered as the song came to its end. She dragged the spider along by her hand as they routed through the shambling crowds and the lamplit streets. They pierced the haze of night and rounded the final corner to the bard’s cosy little home. It was exactly as Darren had said. Small and unassuming on the outside, lavish and luxury within. It didn’t belong to the bard, but to her masters.
“Make yourself comfortable, I'll get us some drinks,” the bard said with a hushed wink.
The spider slung her hand across the stone set marble hearth. Dust. It hadn’t been used in a long while. The bard was further along in her illness than she had realised.
With a flick of her wrist, the hearth erupted in a warmth of fire. A flash of red settled to an orange glow across the marble abode. Her home was designed in the Forgeland way, brick walls and oaken struts. A large cushioned seat before the fire, fit for seating three or more.
She peeled off her black velvet gloves and kicked her boots to the wall before draping herself over the couch like a muse in some ancient masterpiece.
“So, what do you think?” The bard asked from behind her. She circled the couch, her wandering eyes searching for some treasure beneath the spider’s gown.
“Cosy.”
“Indeed it is. Could be a whole lot cosier, though,” the bard laughed. She sat herself on the couch and quickly downed her drink. “That’s... terrible,” she spluttered. “Want one?”
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” The spider teasingly accused.
“I would never be so crass!” The bard laughed. “But it couldn’t hurt my chances, right?”
It was almost a shame. The woman was beautiful, especially under the firelight. She blushed with every drink, but she didn’t wilt away like some ‘proper’ lady. Had she chosen another life, she might have made for a fun night.
“What did the council promise you?” The spider asked.
“Wh- who?”
“Xem Da’ark. What did they offer you?” She calmly pressed.
“I don’t know what that is?” The bard lied.
The spider wrapped a single hand around her neck. The points of her burgundy nails sank into her throat as her palm covered her nape.
“Don’t lie to me, Elisa,” The spider whispered. The girl stammered some falsehoods and benign denials, but sense caught her tongue after a light squeeze.
“How do you know my name?” The bard’s voice broke at the question. She could smell the tears as they welled up in her dove wing eyes.
“I’ve been looking for you. I still keep tabs on the council, from time to time. I know they sent you to kill Donaleaf.”
“I- I-”
“Answers, girl. And remember, I don’t like liars. What did they offer you?”
“P-Power.”
“They were to make you full Vampris?”
“Y-Yes.”
“So you are still a fledgling?”
“Y-Yes. P-Please, I don’t want to die.”
“Yet you wish to become Vampris. To never feel the warmth of sunlight, or the chill of a biting wind again. How is that not death?”
“I-I don’t know, I’m sorry.”
“How were you to kill the king?”
“I- I was invited... To the court. I am to play for his son’s naming. I would poison his wine during the celebration.”
“How terribly mundane. A holy Champion deserves a grander demise,” the spider sighed. She sat herself up behind the bard and wrapped her legs around her waist as she drew herself in towards her slender neck.
“Why does the council want him dead?” She whispered.
“His... His war,” she panted thought her tears, “with queen Vias. He has to lose.”
“Why?”
“Because... The mother. She saw demise wearing a black hand rising in the Forgelands,” the bard whispered with a shiver. The spider drew closer. Close enough that her teeth stroked against the gentle golden skin of this would-be assassin.
“Demise? Of the council?”
“Of the world,” she squeaked. She tried to edge her head away from the spider, but a firm hand held her in place. “She saw a black cloud blot out the sky.”
The spider couldn’t help but chuckle. She wrapped her left hand around the bard’s face and whispered, “Well that’s... Brilliant.”
“But,” the bard whimpered, “you would die with the rest of us.”
“You haven’t met the snowangel. If she wants the world to end, then it’ll end.”
Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.
“You admire she who would bring the apocalypse?” The girl accused.
“I love she who would bring the apocalypse.”
“Then you’re as mad as she.”
“Maybe,” she chuckled, “but what is love, but being happily insane?”
“So, you’ll kill me for your loving insanity? Drain my blood for your insane lover?”
“I’ll kill you because my snowangel needs Donaleaf’s help, but I'll not drink your blood.” She sighed.
“You’d waste a kill? You truly aren’t Vampris.”
“Thank you,” the spider chuckled, “but blood is addictive, and I’ve got a sweet tooth. I can manage a glass for strength, but to drain a beautiful young woman like you? That might send me on a rampage. Now hush, it's time to sleep.”
“No- no- no! Please!”
“Shhhh, it won’t hurt,” she whispered. That much was true, at least. Death on a kiss offered the woman fresh bliss. Death as a Vampris offered this pretty fool an afterlife of raw abyss. To kill her now would be a mercy.
She broke her flawless golden skin with a single shard-like tooth. The feeling hit her immediately. Their bodies intertwined; their nerves shared in ecstasy. She could feel the bard’s fear melt away in her embrace. Passion, heat... raw carnal pleasure; they lay down and lavished where survival had wished her to fight.
For so many years, she had abstained. She hadn’t been strong enough to resist the urge back then. Now? She was strong, she was powerful. As the first pulse of blood stained her smoky lips, she knew herself to be great enough to feast without regard. The warmth filled her mouth and every instinct within her demanded her to swallow. The spider’s mind justified the sinful gluttony with excuses of greatness and worth. Just one fresh sip, and she could conquer the world. One deep swallow and she would be strong enough to help her snowangel.
What had been the warmth of the bard touched the back of her throat and the decision had to be final. Power, luxury and pleasure; or she could release her prey and return to her feeble state. She could stay in fear of her own greatness, of her own blessing.
“No,” she spat. The assassin was gone, there was no reason to keep drinking. A mouthful of euphoria poured down the bard’s cold and blue neck. The urge didn’t fade, the voices didn’t fall silent. She wanted to drink; she wanted to feast. She needed to be greater. There was no reason not to, it would be so easy.
She released her embrace and let her young victim fall to her grave. She was more beautiful as a corpse than she would have been as a Vampris. Her golden skin had faded to a pale blue, her amber eyes clouded as her spirit made for a merciful afterlife. The spider lifted the weightless cadaver and lay her to rest upon her couch. She draped a blanket over it and fixed a stray hair before she lined the fire-dust to catch and burn down the little home. She knew the Forgelander’s needed a pyre to appease their gods, so she would give her a pyre of marble and comfort.
----------------------------------------
The night air caught her breath. A mist hid the cobbled streets of Ravenfield. The gaslit lampposts emanated a vermillion hue against the sea fog. The city was a marvel, so distinct from the Tenpic shores. Stones paved the long and winding streets. Houses, a single storey high, lined the paths side by side. Every shop had its own building with its own signage. The streets held formal murals, not like the colourful arts of Tenpi, but near real masterpieces. At the side of a bakery, two men stood twenty feet tall within the wall. They presided over some distant battle which an art historian could likely describe in great detail. All the spider could see was the bloodstained blades and the plump men who wielded them.
Raven keep crowned the distant horizon. Green and orange light poured out from within every window, and a thousand tiny marching dots marked its legendary garrison. The Champion of Black would be there soon enough, and she would need every friend she could get. Her huntress wasn’t a politician, and the queen of the castle would eat her alive when she failed to act as a true born lady.
But now she knew a way in. Now a songstress was needed and the spider would become a bard. She strolled along slowly enough. The clack of her heel against cobbled bricks echoed through the ever-lonely night. The lesser moon shone out overhead in her full glory, while her greater sister had already begun to wane.
A man sat outside her home; tall, dark and simple. He hadn’t shed his servant disguise yet. A red vest over black formal wear. Leather shoes trimmed in glass jewels. Darren, her accomplice.
“Tebea!” He called. His voice shattered the peaceful silence and drained away the romance of night.
“You didn’t change, Darren.”
“Oh,” he dumbly smiled, “I forgot.” He rose from the doorstep and beamed an eager grin as she approached. “Is it... Did you?” He urged.
“She’s dead.”
“Brilliant! What’s next?”
“Who was the wine, Darren?” The spider asked without regard for his own question.
“The... at the ball? A nobleman. Matrik, I think his name was,” he hesitantly admitted. He tried to link his muddy brown eyes the violent crimson of her own, but she didn’t think to look at him. Her eyes wandered to the dying roses potted before the white oak doorway. She washed a hand through the desaturated petals before she plucked the worst of them.
“Why him?” She whispered as she admired the corpse of the flower.
Darren considered his words well, “he... struck a young man.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it was a vicious act.”
“How did you do it?”
He looked awfully like a child facing admonishment, though he kept his eyes fixed to hers, despite her disinterest. He pouted and his leg never quite settled as his hand struggle to match the stillness of the night air around them. “I followed him back to his home,” he said, “he was asleep by the time I snuck in. His wife lay in another bed across the hall, so I simply slit his throat and filled a bottle for you.” He paused for her reaction, but none came. She sighed and moved to open her door at last. “Did I do well?” He begged.
“It was an excellent choice, Darren, but you should have asked me first.” She slipped through her doorway and slowly closed it on him.
“Of course,” he said much too loudly. “Tebea, might I do anything else for you?”
“Go home, Darren. You’ve done your job; I won’t be needing you again,” she dismissed.
“What? But... I killed a man for you! I tracked down the bard for you! That’s it?”
“What would you rather me do, Darren?” The spider sighed. She had no delusion about his hungered desire, but had no intention of sating it.
“I- I thought,” he stammered, “I thought that you would take me in as an apprentice of your craft.”
“An apprentice?” She chuckled. “You want to learn how to sew pretty dresses, Darren?”
“I thought... It's just... if you don’t wish to make me vampris, then at least teach me to kill,” he pled.
“Darren,” she sighed, “I am not vampris. I cannot make you something I am not. The same goes for an assassin. I am a tailor, a spider at a stretch, and a monster come the mood. None of these things are you capable of.”
“But this cannot be it! Before you came, I was naught but a servant. Now I am a killer, a beast. I am so much greater. Do not put me back where I was, I beg you.”
“Your capacity for violence is not tied to me, ser. You will be as much of a killer come your lonely dawn as you are now. I have nothing to offer you,” she insisted. She’d have closed the door on him, had he not pressed his foot against the frame.
“It cannot be this,” he whined. “I have taken lives for you, aided you as you needed. There must be some reward, surely”
“What kind of reward, Darren?” She sighed. Her eyes finally bothered to match his, though he gave no such courtesy back. His gaze fitted the gaze of most men as they tried to daunt her. “It is a foolish man who lusts for a black widow.”
“It would be a worthy death,” he grinned.
“It would be a quick death, no doubt,” she spat. “I’ll make you a deal, give me one single compliment I haven’t heard from someone trying to fuck me, and I’ll fulfil your wish,” she groaned. “Otherwise, I’ll just kill you now.”
He genuinely contemplated his options, the fool. He lapped her up as though she were a somewhat interesting porcelain doll sat on the shelf as he considered.
“I- I love your hair. It’s... luscious. Oh, and your eyes match your dress!”
----------------------------------------
She never once drew pleasure from killing the fools that slobbered over her, but she never once hesitated either. Luckily, he had drawn far enough into her home that the body wouldn’t be spotted by passersby. “Fucking ‘luscious’,” she scoffed as she dragged his corpse along.
The stench of a slit throat filled her home. It lingered in the air, even after she had disposed of the corpse. It was sickeningly sweet. Disgustingly divine. It was the kind of attraction you hated yourself for having. A yearning for something terrible, something she never wanted to touch but absolutely needed to devour. It drove her half mad as she dove into her simple comforts. She wielded needle and thread as she prepared to take on the role of the songstress.
She had to make something that would draw the Sparrow’s eye, but nobody else. Her first attempt came along well. She patched and stitched for half the night until her red thread ran raw. It was all she had used. Sanguine velvet and crimson stitches. It was a mess, a bloody mess.
She tried again but found the same result. Nothing worked, no patterns or designs. She couldn’t bring herself to focus on anything but that damnable smell.
Every window lay open, every candle was lit, and yet all she could think about was that single scent. She could think of nothing but the boy’s blood on the wind, of the bard’s blood on her tongue, the noble’s blood in the flute.
She stitched with fury. She poured every ounce of effort and focus within in her deep into the garb. She moulded leather, fitted it to her frame. She stained satin and stitched cotton with increasingly unsteady hands. Her lips shuddered as though a chill had caught her; her hand shook as though fear gripped her. All of her suffering with one – oh so easy – cure. Resistance seemed so pointless, so fruitless. She pictured that pretty little bard wrapped up in her arms as their nervous systems intertwined. She felt the warmth fill her belly and sate her rabid heart. An orgasm of cruel indulgence.
Sweat dripped from her brow. She felt her makeup run down her face as the sweat pooled on her lips. Her vision faded and her head grew light.
She could step outside, find some drunk fool, and end them with ease. She could be happier than she had been in decades. She could be strong... But that strength came with too great a weakness. If she succumbed to the basest of her instincts; if she let herself become powerful, blood would pour from the streets of every city. The addiction would rule her life, where she had sworn never to be ruled again.
The spider gipped herself. She steeled her will and focused on her promises: she would never succumb, she would never be weak, she would help her friend. The Sparrow needed help; she needed her.
Finally, her vision came unblurred. She looked at the outfit her fever had crafted. Red leather, as thick and padded as armour, with a hole cut out in the belly. It was perfect.