Page 140 of Promise of Darkness
The three of them freeze, bodies slowly undulating before the enormous loom. Their heads turn toward me as one, and the first one sniffs the air, letting out a hiss of delight.
“Sisters three, what have we here?” it asks.
“Smells like… dinner.” One of them scuttles toward me, its reddened lips wet with saliva, and I wave the torch at it threateningly. Fire’s the only thing that can keep them at bay. All that spider silk would burn like a whirlwind of flame.
The Dreamweaver forges fate in her grasping hands. The web she sees can only be woven by the Threadcutter, and the Shadowbinder is the one who manipulates the fabric of the future.
“I come seeking answers, O Great Ones,” I call, because a little flattery never hurts anyone.
“Answers, sisters,” whispers the first one. “It wants answers. To what questions, one must ask?”
“A thorny curse,” chortles another.
“A deranged queen.”
“A heart left shattered.”
They fall silent, quivering with anticipation as they watch me. Well, now. That was creepy.
“Ah, it is surprised,” one whispers. “Did it not know we see all? We see the past.”
“We see the future.”
“And we see the now.” The last sister inches toward me, pincers abstractedly weaving what looks to be a net.
I wave the torch in front of me, though I have no idea what I’m going to do if they attack. My magic’s unpredictable at best. “Stay back.”
“Did you bring the price of a reading?” asks one.
“Hot and warm, I can smell it,” whispers another.
“The blood, the blood, so sweet and wet.” The last sister traces her clawed chelicerae over her lips as if she can already taste it, and if that wasn’t enough to make my gorge rise, then nothing else will do it.
“I brought your blood price,” I call, holding up the leather flask and praying my nerve lasts. “But in return, I want answers three.”
Thiago told me what to ask for.
And whatever you do, don’t run,he’d added.
“Answers three.”
“It’s a bold, greedy little thing.”
“It dares much.”
They creep closer, lips drawing back from sharp teeth.
“Ithas sharp iron,” I call back boldly, “and fire.”
“Fire dies.”
“Iron rusts.”
“And bodies bleed.”
“All true.” I swallow hard, lifting my hand. Magic, don’t fail me now. “But this fire can’t be quenched.”
A snap of my fingers and the spark inside me ignites. Flame whirls into life, chasing the crisp nothingness of broken webs and dreams.
