Spyder's Web
by Jamie Melody Randell

"...White Zombie, with More Human Than Human. Next up: Pearl Jam, Pam Tillis and Paganini. But first, traffic, weather, and a few words from our corporate sponsors. Keep it tuned right here, folks."

Spyder muted the stereo mike, leaned back in her chair as the tech set up the carts for the commercials. So far, things were going well: she hadn't made any major errors on the air, and preliminary feedback indicated that the diverse musical programming (LaCroix's suggestion) seemed to appeal to CERK's eclectic audience -- most of whom listened solely to the Nightcrawler.

But then, up until now, the daytime programming had been erratic, to say the least. Now, more and more listeners were tuning in early, to catch her show...

The phone rang, not the call-in lines but the private one, blinking amber at the edge of her field of vision; and she snagged the receiver with a fluid motion, expecting to hear LaCroix's satiny voice.

Instead, it was another voice, one that (in retrospect) she should have been anticipating. "Spyder Delacruz?"

"Detective Knight," she said, instead of the more familiar Nicholas that insisted on springing to her lips. "How'd you get this number?" Best to play innocent, for the time being.

"I, ah, know someone at the station." Good: now he was on the defensive, instead of the other way 'round.

"Anyone I know?" She was enjoying herself immensely; it occurred to her that LaCroix would no doubt enjoy this game as well.

"Probably not." Nicholas was silent for a moment. "We have a lead on your case."

"Do you?" All thoughts of games were instantly driven from her mind. "Is he under arrest?"

"No, no, not yet. The test results haven't come in yet. I just wanted to let you know that we're making progress."

"Well, thank you -- thanks a lot!" Spyder was genuinely grateful, though not for the reasons Nicholas might think. Arrest, imprisonment: those things were too good for Jason's murderer. But once she knew who'd done it, she could tell LaCroix...

He'd promised her the opportunity for revenge, and she knew it was a promise he would keep.

"How are you holding up?" There was sympathy in Nick's voice, warming her with its genuine concern -- yet a greater part of her remained untouched. Her loyalties lay elsewhere. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Spyder debated for a long moment: ;the temptation was overpowering, and in the end, she succumbed. "Well... I-I could really use someone to t-talk to," she said, with just the right quaver in her voice.

"Say no more. What time do you get off work? I'll come and pick you up."

"Seven o'clock," she told him, just to see how he'd react.

There was a momentary hesitation. "I can be there at seven-thirty," he said; fifteen minutes past sunset.

"Fine," said Spyder; LaCroix wouldn't be in until eight or nine, no chance of them running into each other by accident. "You have the address?" she questioned, just to maintain the illusion.

"I know where the station is," Nick said, rather grimly.

She waited for him outside, watching day fade into dusk, until finally he showed up in his puke-green car. He was really pushing the envelope, for the sky was still vaguely lit to the west, and his dark sunglasses showed that he was sensitive to the glow. That compassion again, evoking a strange tenderness in Spyder. He truly cared, this one did, enough to risk his precious immortal skin so that he might console a total stranger...

"I miss him so much," she said into the silence. "I still can't believe he's gone." This part was neither game nor subterfuge: the pain was all too real. "He was the sweetest kid, y'know? And so young... he never had the chance to live." Like Sheryl. But Sheryl had known the price of her betrayal; Jason had simply made a stupid error.

"It isn't fair!" Spyder seethed through clenched teeth, refusing to allow the tears to take over.

Nicholas glanced sideways at her, pulled the car over to the curb; he reached out and slid his arm around her, let Spyder cry on his shoulder without comment.

She found herself sobbing out reminiscences: the way Jason had smiled, had laughed, had always left the cap off the toothpaste. His exuberance, his youthful charm. She relived her brief acquaintance with Jason, wallowing in grief in a way LaCroix had actively discouraged -- and all the while Nicholas held her loosely, stroking her hair lightly, letting her get it all out.

Afterwards, he dug tissues out of his glove compartment (Spyder caught a glimpse of a driver's license from the fifties; tremendously careless of him, she thought) and dashed from the car to buy her a soda from the convenience store on the corner. As she wiped her eyes and sipped her cola (Diet Pepsi, which she wasn't fond of; she wondered who had trained him to select that brand) Spyder reflected that any mortal pet of Nick's would be fortunate, indeed.

But then, he wasn't the type to keep a human on hand for a ready supply of fresh, willing blood; LaCroix had made it clear in his descriptions that Nicholas was now opposed to such things on moral grounds, though he'd done them often enough in the past.

She wondered if Nicholas realized how much he had to offer: how many doomed mortals, like herself and Jason, would welcome his dark embrace.

He had to go to work, he explained with regret, but he had a friend -- did Spyder remember the coroner, Doctor Lambert? Since it probably wasn't a good idea for Spyder to be alone with her misery, he could take her over there; Nat wouldn't mind...

"Sure," said Spyder, "why not?" Having regained control over her treacherous emotions, she was anxious for resumption of the game, and Doctor Nat was certainly another pawn... or maybe Queen, to the Knight; it would be interesting to find out.

Either way, LaCroix was the King, and immune to the concept of 'checkmate'; as invulnerable in life as he was to Spyder during their chess games, in which she was just beginning to get the hang of how the pieces moved.

Chess wasn't an easy game to play, neither the board version or the psychological one... but LaCroix was a very good teacher.

It had never occurred to Nick, obviously, that Doctor Nat's office might hold negative connotations for Spyder, reminders of Jason's corpse... As he greeted the coroner, Spyder understood the oversight: by the looks of it, this was apparently a happy place, in Nick's estimation, a place he'd come to think of as 'home turf'. She hadn't noticed last time, of course, but now that she had the presence of mind to watch -- the way they looked at each other, talked to each other, their body language, all spoke volumes.

Not lovers, but a hell of a lot more than friends.

'Nat' was as compassionate and friendly as she'd been before, welcoming Spyder as if she'd known her for years (when the truth was, the coroner didn't even remember her from the shelter -- thank goodness!) When Nick was gone, Nat set her work aside, fixed them cups of coffee and sat with her; they chatted amiably, small talk about work and such. Spyder mentioned her new job at a radio station, but not which one: she had the feeling that Nat wouldn't dismiss the coincidence of her employment as Nick had.

It amazed her that he hadn't made the connection -- for a vampire, and a detective to boot, he could be remarkably dense.

She wondered if Nat had the remotest idea of what she was missing, and had the absurd urge to tell her. What it was like to feel the fangs sinking into her neck, the sweet connection of body and soul that came with the flow of blood. The ecstasy of lovemaking combined with that feeding, the electric bliss of vampiric blood on the tongue. Instinct told Spyder that Nick had never taken her in that way; she wondered if Nat would reject that inhuman pleasure, or revel in it as she herself did.

Spyder didn't pay attention to the technician who entered with a stack of paperwork; not until Nat, leafing through the sheaf, said suddenly, "The results of the tests on your case are in," and picked up the phone to call Nick.

She glanced at the sheet in question, memorized the name written next to the damning words 'positive match'; and while Nat was distracted, slipped out of the office with almost preternatural stealth. LaCroix was no doubt at the station by now...

-- continue to next section --