still on either side—the moon-colored pearl, gripped by the tiny silver claw, and the small reddish piece of wood, polished smooth by fingers and time. He didn’t know what they were for, but they weren’t the tooth. He moved on, fingering his shape-changing Solomon Keys—the longer gold one and the short silver one. Despite all the warnings—or maybe because of all the warnings—they hadn’t turned him into a thief. Not yet. A trespasser, yes.Constantly. And why not? When any door could be unlocked, curiosity was hard to kill.
“Cy! Hello?” Antigone elbowed up to the window beside him. “Arachne’s here.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “You all right? Nolan left and you didn’t even notice.”
“What?” Cyrus looked around, startled. Nolan was gone. The rug was back over the grate. No doubt the pale transmortal boy was weaving his way through the heat tunnels, down to the Polygon.
Arachne, dressed all in black, stood in the center of the rug. Her midnight hair had been oiled and was pulled back into an explosion of curl. She had a backpack over one shoulder and a sagging, heavy satchel over the other. Her light blue eyes studied Cyrus and Antigone.
“Hey,” said Cyrus. “I’m glad you’re here. Rupe said we could head out if you were good with it.”
“First things first,” Arachne said, and she lowered her heavy satchel to the floor. As it touched ground, the bag sagged and deflated, spilling spiders like sand. Thousands poured out of its mouth and flooded across the floor, legs whispering like wind on a cactus.
Antigone screamed and jumped up onto the wooden dining chair. Cyrus lunged for the safety of the armchair, but his toe caught on the corner of the rug and he knocked the armchair over and crashed to the floor.
He twisted and tried to roll away.
Arachne jumped forward and put her hand on his head. “Be still,” she said, and Cyrus felt cold pour through him. His skin was suddenly numb. There must have been things on him, all over him, but he couldn’t feel them. He couldn’t feel anything, not even the rough wool of the rug against his skin. Arachne was whispering, singing some strange and hushed spider song.
Then her hand rose off Cyrus’s head, and warmth roared back through him. He scrambled to his feet and looked around.
Antigone was on her chair, biting the knuckle of her forefinger to keep from screaming. Her eyes were on the walls.
“Watch,” said Arachne. “But be calm and silent. They need to hear me.”
Cyrus did as he was told. He watched the spider storm begin to take a more ordered shape as the arachnid army scaled the walls and surrounded the windows, surrounded the mouth of the fireplace, surrounded the door behind him, and then became still.
Rows and rows of spiders had lined up on either side of the window. An even thicker regiment had lined up at the top. Not one sat on the sill beneath.
There were heavy spiders and tiny spiders. Fat-bodied garden spiders, and spiders built for jumping. Gray, brown, black, orange, green, and even white spiders, all still and ready and waiting for something.
Arachne dragged the wooden chair in front of the window, climbed up, and lightly touched four large spiders above the window. Immediately, they swung down on their lines and began to spin. Arachne moved to the fireplace, selected eight spiders, and then moved to the next window.
Cyrus studied the spinners in front of him. The four spiders were working on a single web unlike any normal spider construction. This was a grid. They were simply dropping vertical lines, attaching them to the windowsill, then climbing back up and doing it again.
Arachne stood between Cyrus and Antigone. After a moment, the spiders had finished and resumed their original spots.
“So …,” said Antigone. “They’re just—”
Arachne raised a finger to her lips and then hummed a single note, long and low. The smallest spiders muscled forward on all three sides. She shifted her
“Cy! Hello?” Antigone elbowed up to the window beside him. “Arachne’s here.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “You all right? Nolan left and you didn’t even notice.”
“What?” Cyrus looked around, startled. Nolan was gone. The rug was back over the grate. No doubt the pale transmortal boy was weaving his way through the heat tunnels, down to the Polygon.
Arachne, dressed all in black, stood in the center of the rug. Her midnight hair had been oiled and was pulled back into an explosion of curl. She had a backpack over one shoulder and a sagging, heavy satchel over the other. Her light blue eyes studied Cyrus and Antigone.
“Hey,” said Cyrus. “I’m glad you’re here. Rupe said we could head out if you were good with it.”
“First things first,” Arachne said, and she lowered her heavy satchel to the floor. As it touched ground, the bag sagged and deflated, spilling spiders like sand. Thousands poured out of its mouth and flooded across the floor, legs whispering like wind on a cactus.
Antigone screamed and jumped up onto the wooden dining chair. Cyrus lunged for the safety of the armchair, but his toe caught on the corner of the rug and he knocked the armchair over and crashed to the floor.
He twisted and tried to roll away.
Arachne jumped forward and put her hand on his head. “Be still,” she said, and Cyrus felt cold pour through him. His skin was suddenly numb. There must have been things on him, all over him, but he couldn’t feel them. He couldn’t feel anything, not even the rough wool of the rug against his skin. Arachne was whispering, singing some strange and hushed spider song.
Then her hand rose off Cyrus’s head, and warmth roared back through him. He scrambled to his feet and looked around.
Antigone was on her chair, biting the knuckle of her forefinger to keep from screaming. Her eyes were on the walls.
“Watch,” said Arachne. “But be calm and silent. They need to hear me.”
Cyrus did as he was told. He watched the spider storm begin to take a more ordered shape as the arachnid army scaled the walls and surrounded the windows, surrounded the mouth of the fireplace, surrounded the door behind him, and then became still.
Rows and rows of spiders had lined up on either side of the window. An even thicker regiment had lined up at the top. Not one sat on the sill beneath.
There were heavy spiders and tiny spiders. Fat-bodied garden spiders, and spiders built for jumping. Gray, brown, black, orange, green, and even white spiders, all still and ready and waiting for something.
Arachne dragged the wooden chair in front of the window, climbed up, and lightly touched four large spiders above the window. Immediately, they swung down on their lines and began to spin. Arachne moved to the fireplace, selected eight spiders, and then moved to the next window.
Cyrus studied the spinners in front of him. The four spiders were working on a single web unlike any normal spider construction. This was a grid. They were simply dropping vertical lines, attaching them to the windowsill, then climbing back up and doing it again.
Arachne stood between Cyrus and Antigone. After a moment, the spiders had finished and resumed their original spots.
“So …,” said Antigone. “They’re just—”
Arachne raised a finger to her lips and then hummed a single note, long and low. The smallest spiders muscled forward on all three sides. She shifted her
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