Ellen Datlow - The Best Horror of the Year – Volume One

I shrugged off my coat, threw it round the girl's shoulders. Pretty as she was, I couldn't bear looking at those scars. At least on her face there was just the one-even if it did run all the way round the edge.

I kicked Byron until he woke up. When he saw the girl he nearly fainted again.

"Time to go, big fella," I said.

The girl turned to Arachne and beamed. "Thanks a bunch, old woman. What do I owe you?"

Arachne smiled too, but not at the girl.

You don't owe me anything, young lady.

"Come on," I muttered, grabbing a handful of clay and a handful of needlework, "let's get out of here."

Not so fast, gumshoe.

Something slapped the back of my neck. I tried to bat it away but my hand stuck fast. I heard a scraping sound. I looked down: it was my shoes sliding across the floor.

With a glue-tipped rope of pure spider silk, Arachne reeled me in.

Three seconds later I was cocooned. Silk rigging upended me and buried my feet in the rat-tail ceiling. The rats gave way, squeaking in fury. And there I hung, blood filling up my head, watching Arachne stride towards me.

I like my debts paid promptly, she said, grinning to show her rotten teeth.

"All right." At least the cocoon didn't cover my mouth. "You got me. But let them go."

They are free to leave whenever they please.

"Uh," said Byron, "we don't know how."

"Come here," I said. Arachne watched with interest as the golem edged up to where I was hanging. "Collar pocket. There's a zipper."

Byron rummaged in my shirt and took out a grey cube the size of a craps die.

"What's this?"

"Spare dimensions. I keep them for emergencies. You got six to play with there-one per side. It's a one-shot thing though: you only get to use each side once."

"This will get us out of here?"

"Isn't that what I just said?"

"What about you?"

"I'll figure something out."

"No, I mean, how will we solve the case without you?"

"For a minute I thought you cared. Look, you got the girl back. Quiz her. Ask her what happened. Then… maybe you'll figure something out."

Byron stared at the dimension-die. It looked tiny in his huge, clay hands.

"Thanks," he said. His cheeks were going soft again. "I mean it. And I'll look after her."

"Get out of here, big fella," I said.

That's when Arachne set me spinning like a kebab. Through the blur, I saw Byron take the girl's hand. He rolled the die. There was a hollow pop and they were gone.

She let me spin long enough so I threw up. Trust me, when you're upside down, vomit lingers.

How does it feel to be a prisoner? Arachne said when I'd stopped spinning. I groaned. My sinuses had taken an acid bath and the whole world was doing the Peppermint Twist.

"Just… tell me… what you want," I managed to croak.

It's very simple, gumshoe. I want out of this place.

I closed my eyes. This was going to be bad.

"You know I can't do that. Only Pallas Athene can authorise your release. My hands are tied."

In case you hadn't noticed, you're all tied. But that is academic. You can do it. You know you can. And… we made a deal.

"So the only way to keep you sweet is by getting PA pissed? Where's the incentive? I'd rather cross you than her. No offence."

None taken. Nevertheless, what you are failing to recognise is that 'getting PA pissed,' as you so delicately put it, is exactly the end result I wish to achieve. It is time someone taught our so-called mayor a lesson. Pallas Athene may think she's respectable now she wears that fancy shield, but I remember when she was a snot-nosed brat burning kittens with a magnifying glass. No wonder she thought it was a step up the career ladder when she started turning tricks in the back alley of the Hyperion Casino! How she became a public servant I shall never know! All I can say is, behind that porcelain skin and regal gaze lurks the mind of a monster!

Arachne shivered, composed herself.

All of which means that I understand completely your reluctance to set yourself up in opposition to a woman even the Titans cross the street to avoid. So let me put this simply…

Arachne leaned close. The rags she wore fell away, exposing flesh like over-ripe Stilton. Instead of breasts, Arachne had a pair of twitching spinnerets. Silk oozed from them in milky strings. Crimson spider-legs dangled from her waist; they caressed her human thighs like eager schoolboys. The stench of her was unbearable.

You will use your dimensional talents to release me from my prison. In return, I will give you my protection. From your point of view, it is a calculated risk. In making your calculation, I urge you to consider the alternative.

Arachne stroked her spinnerets with her needle-claws. They spurted in unison. Clots of silk rolled down her belly like silver tumbleweeds. She squeezed the spinnerets harder and suddenly the silk was squirting into my face, my eyes. The silk crawled up my nose and into my tear ducts, scoured its way through to the skin of my brain where it latched on, and squeezed.

I felt a billion tiny spider eggs hose into my skull. I felt the eggs hatch. I felt Arachne's babies weave themselves into a living facsimile of my brain, each spiderling a synapse in the gestalt spider-mind. And every single thought the spider-mind had was a hot spear of pain. Then the spiderlings had babies, and the babies had more babies, and my brain swelled up until it was all that was left of me, and it was all made of spiders. But somewhere inside it was still me, and I was just one vast chattering web of pain.

Arachne pressed her spinnerets flat. The silk leaped back out of my head. My sinuses felt like they'd been shot-blasted. It was better when they were full of vomit. I swung there, retching. The rats gnawed at my shoes, lashing their tails in excitement.

So, said Arachne, what is it to be? Will you risk the wrath of Pallas Athene? Or will you consign yourself to being a living host for the insane children of the spider woman?

"Do I get a third option?"

Arachne gathered up her rags and stalked into the shadows.

You have ten minutes to decide.

I wished I hadn't given my coat to the girl. That coat's got teeth. As soon as Arachne's silk hit the hem, the coat would have turned it to confetti. Still, someone had to cover her up.

But thinking about the coat gave me an idea.

I closed my eyes and tried an inter-brane trance. I'm not usually good at psychic connections, but this was my coat we were talking about. We went way back, my coat and me. It had to work.

At first all I could hear was the baying of the boundary wolves, forcing me back. I tried just running for it, but I couldn't get past them-Arachne's silk straight-jacket stopped me doing the moves. I was stuck here all right, just like Arachne.

But even though my body was trapped, some piece of my mind must have slipped through. Because suddenly I could hear a familiar sound. It started faint, in the distance, then it got loud and close.

The gurgle of a coffee pot. My coffee pot.

I tried opening my eyes. But I didn't have any.

I was a coat.

I couldn't see, but I could smell…

… hot java, brewed just how I like it.

And I could touch…

… warm, soft, skin laced through with thousands of tiny ribbed carriageways. I felt a human pulse beating under pliable flesh, felt myself ride across intimate curves and bury myself in tantalising creases, felt the smooth slithering of me over a living, naked skin, which was her skin, of course: the skin of the resurrected girl.

I'm a coat, I thought.

And I was.

I let the sensations rule me. Inter-brane trances are fragile. You just have to relax. The more you immerse yourself, the stronger the link becomes. So I clung to the girl. It wasn't so bad.