Arachna

“He bit his ear off!”

The shout silenced the other children in the room, who’d just been echoing, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

The taste of copper was bitter in his mouth. His ears rang, and the walls closed in. The kid in front of him, cursing and spitting only moments before, was curled into a ball, cradling what was left of his ear.

He spat out the blood pooled in his mouth and wiped his bloodied nose. Fear crawled up his spine as a woman tore through the crowd of kids and knelt beside the injured child. Then she looked at him, fear and anger evident in her eyes. He tried to explain himself, but his tongue was dead in his mouth, for any excuse he had would not change that look on her face. Would she even care?

“I’ll call an ambulance,” the woman cooed to the injured child. She looked at him again, a thick layer of discipline covering the fear in her eyes. “And you… I’ll deal with you later.” The tone of her voice was cruel and cold.

He expected the children to taunt him for getting into trouble, but as he surveyed the kids, their faces showed nothing but fear.

He opened his mouth, but his tongue remained lifeless.

“Monster!” one of the kids shouted, pointing a finger at him.

“Monster!” cried another one.

One by one, each child joined in on the chant, shouting “Monster!” at him, over and over. The chorus echoed in the room, and he covered his ears, tears stinging his eyes as they chanted ceaselessly.

He looked at the woman, a silent plea to make them stop. He tried to tell her that he didn’t mean it, but his tongue was leaden. Shaking his head, he backed away. The fear that clutched the children only moments before dissipated into nothing, and they took a step forward.

What would happen if he stayed here? What would they do?

There was no other option.

He ran.

His feet pounded against the floor, and he burst through the front door of the orphanage. Cold air pierced his skin and stung his eyes, but he kept running.

He ducked into a narrow alleyway and curled into a ball in a dark corner.

He wiped tears from his cheeks with his sleeves, looking up at the starless night sky. He sobbed and curled up tighter. He couldn’t go back—not now, not ever. The closest thing he’d ever had to a home was gone, and he was all alone.

“I’m not a monster,” he muttered to himself, rubbing more tears from his cheeks. “I’m not.”

* * *

Eight years had passed since that night, yet he still woke with a start, the same words spilling from his lips.

“I’m not,” he breathed.

He blinked a few times, looking up at the cracked ceiling. Paint was peeling from it and the walls of his bedroom.

His heart pounded in his chest, and he sighed, running a hand through his long black hair.

He stared at his ceiling, the dream running through his head over and over. He cursed at it, as if it could hear him, as if it would even care. Almost every night, the dream haunted him. Always the same dream.

He took one look at the clock on the wall and groaned. Time to get up.

Maybe after today, he could relieve himself of these dreams.

Maybe.

* * *

“Hi, my name is Lance,” he said, forcing a polite smile. He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Stupid.” He shivered from the cold bath, his clothes clinging to his skin. The dream burned in his memory like an ugly scar he couldn’t hide.

“Hi, I’m Lance,” he said into the cracked mirror. “Do you have the information?”

Today was the day. The question that plagued his mind in the middle of the night would finally be answered. Any modicum of closure he could get would be worth it.

I just hope this isn’t a waste of money, he thought with a sigh. Either way, maybe I’ll finally be able to sleep after this. Of course, that would depend on the answer he was given. But if there was the slightest hope that he could find them—maybe he could start over, transport his life somewhere much brighter, rather than rotting in the slums of this festering city. No more barely getting by with this structurally unsound store. No more going without bedsheets or hot water. Lance hummed at the thought. Hot water… and good food.

Still, his nerves sent his heart racing, even as he kept his breathing slow. He’d never purchased something like this before, and if he didn’t get what he wanted, a refund wasn’t likely. It was a stupid decision, for sure, but answers were answers.

A rusted bell rang in the next room, and after one last look at himself in the mirror, he grabbed an old rag next to the sink and dried his hair. He stepped out of the bathroom and wound through the small hallway into his store. He opened the door and was greeted by a slim, dark man scanning the aisle of snacks.

Lance approached the cash register, sighing at how bare it was. If the man robbed him, he would be sorely disappointed. Surely the population of the slums would know that by now.

“Can I help you?” Lance asked the man, rubbing his tired eyes and not bothering to hide the boredom in his voice.

In response, the man held up a bag of chips.

The man strolled to the counter, the light shining off his bald head. Lance’s gut twisted. Something wasn’t right.

Lance tensed. “That’ll be a dollar fifty.”

The man looked down at a small piece of paper in his hand. “Are you Lance… okay, no last name provided.”

Lance’s heart skipped a beat, but he kept his face relaxed. This was it. This had to be the man he’d contacted. Now he understood why a glint of fear had shown in the eyes of the customer that mentioned his services.

“Who’s asking?”

“You inquired about our services. Information on some family members, correct?”

“Yes!” Lance blurted then composed himself. He cursed himself internally as the man raised an eyebrow. Be cool. “Yes,” he repeated and cleared his throat. He instinctively brought his hand toward his mouth to bite his nails, but he interrupted the action by crossing his arms.

The man folded the piece of paper and slid it into his pocket. The slight movement showed off the slim muscles underneath his black shirt. “Do you have the money we agreed upon?”

Lance eased to the doorway behind him.

“Sure… just stay right there,” Lance said, keeping his voice as steady as possible. He couldn’t look timid in front of a man like this, despite how he towered over him. He puffed his chest out slightly and raised his chin. “I’ll go get it.”

The man crossed his arms as Lance slinked from the store and into the small hallway, deflating his chest as he walked past the bathroom and into the adjacent room. His room. His bare mattress lay next to a pile of dirty clothes.

Lance walked to one corner of the room and pulled out a loose piece of the drywall, revealing a hole concealing a small case. Steadying his breath, Lance reached his clammy, pale hand inside and grabbed the ragged leather case. I can do this. This is just a simple transaction.

Lance readied himself, but when he turned, he flinched, unable to hide the action. The case nearly slipped from his fingers.

The man was standing in his doorway, arms still crossed.

So much for trying not to look timid.

Lance swallowed the curse that nearly slipped out of his mouth.

“This is the amount agreed upon,” Lance said, opening the case and showing him the money inside. As the man eyed the money from across the room, Lance scanned his body for any signs of hidden weapons. Then he scanned the room. The case would make a good enough weapon in a pinch. I really need to get a damn gun.

The man took a few silent steps forward and eyed the money more closely. Lance tensed as he took a stack out, weighed it in his hand, then placed it back snugly within the case.

The man shrugged. “Looks like everything’s here.” His voice was deep and rich, powerful and unyielding.

“So you’ll give me what I want?” Lance asked, shutting the case a little too hard. His own voice was so light and shaky in comparison. He deepened it just slightly as he continued, keeping his face unbothered and his body casual. Don’t look weak. “I’m… paying a lot of money here, so I hope you got something good.”

The man nodded. “I’m afraid the terms of our agreement have changed.”

Lance blinked. “O… okay? In what way, exactly?” He gripped the case so tightly his fingers hurt. If the man made one wrong move, he’d swing it at his head. He hadn’t been in a fight since… that night. Shit, I am so dead.

The man took a step closer. “My boss specifically told me to bring you to him. He wants to meet you. Don’t ask me why.” The man reached into his back pocket and removed a black hood. “Put this on. I can’t have you knowing where I’m taking you.”

Lance scoffed at it. A shiver went down his spine, but he refused to show it and raised his chin. The man on the pay phone had mentioned nothing about this.

And with all the kidnappings in this part of town…

“No thanks,” Lance said, his voice shaking again. The urge to bite his nails twitched his fingers. “In fact, I think I’m having second thoughts. Sorry to waste your time.” Lance dug his nails into his sides.

The man either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He sighed and pocketed the hood. “Listen, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.” He said it so casually, but it didn’t stop a cold drop of sweat from trailing down Lance’s forehead. He wiped it away.

The man took out a new piece of cloth. “Which is it going to be?”

The man offered the cloth to Lance, who frowned at it. Whatever it was, a sweet smell emanated from it.

“What is this supposed to be?”

“The hard way,” the man said. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Are you crazy?” Lance gripped the case tighter.

It was a trap. The man closed in on him, and Lance threw the case at him. He shoved the man aside, rushing out of the room and into the bathroom. He locked the door and backed against the wall.

“Shit… Oh, shitshitshit,” Lance muttered. He caught a glance of himself in the mirror, of the fear glazing his green eyes over and paling his face. He ripped a shard from the mirror and angled it at the door.

Monster, the word echoed in his head.

Shut up, he thought to himself.

His heart was beating out of his chest, his legs shaking, and his breathing was heavy and uneven. Stupid. So stupid! He should’ve known this whole thing was a scam. He never should’ve trusted that customer. He was so desperate to get answers, and now he was going to die in this rathole of a store. The shard of glass shook in his hand despite his attempts to steady it. Blood dripped from his hands, but he felt no pain.

The lock wriggled, and after a few hour-long seconds, it clicked. Lance swore as the door opened, and he lunged, swinging the shard of glass wildly. His attack was blocked by the man’s arm, and the world spun before he landed hard on the ground.

Head spinning, Lance coughed as the impact knocked the air from his lungs. The man grabbed him.

“Don’t touch me!” Lance yelled.

But the man shoved the piece of cloth against his face. Lance gasped as his lungs allowed him to breathe. He kicked and writhed for what felt like forever, but his vision darkened, and he relaxed.

The man spoke. “You better hope he doesn’t charge you extra for this.”

* * *

Lance groaned as he blinked himself awake, nothing but darkness all around him, save for the hint of an orange glow peeking through whatever was around his head. The sound of crackling, the smell of burning wood, and the warmth blanketing him revealed it was a fireplace. His chest tightened, and he tried to get up, but his hands were tied to the chair he was in. He struggled more in a vain attempt to break the rope, but it barely gave.

He muttered a curse, panic setting in. He couldn’t risk shuffling the chair, not when he could barely see anything around him.

So he wasn’t dead, but at this point, whatever the man had planned for him was surely worse. Lance’s heart jumped to his throat when muffled voices approached. The voice of the man that had kidnapped him rang out clearly, but there was another one. A woman’s voice, soft and sweet, yet laced with the sharpness of a knife.

A knife that would likely find his heart if he didn’t get out of there.

He took slow, deep breaths and listened. What they said was indistinguishable, and the crackling fire didn’t help.

A door opened, and Lance gritted his teeth as he prepared for a knife to the throat. He would’ve slapped himself if he could, allowing himself to be put in this situation for the sake of answers. He should’ve known better after living so long in the slums. Am I even still in the slums?

The bag flew off his head, and he blinked away the pain in his eyes as they tried to adjust to the bright fire across the room. Between him and the fire sat a ten-foot-long dining table made of dark polished wood.

The man that had kidnapped him walked around his chair and sat on the left side of the table, tucking the black hood into his pocket. “He’ll be here shortly.”

Lance gulped at the sight of him, his eyes watering. He looked down at his stinging hands, bandages wrapped around his palms where the glass had cut. He furrowed his brow.

Two black curtains hung on the walls to his left and right. Surely a window sat behind those curtains—a chance to escape if he could just get out of these ropes.

A clock hung on the wall, ornately designed with webs and spiders carved all over it, but it was hard to tell what time it showed. Lance squinted at it until he could barely make out that it was somewhere around midnight.

No more than an hour had passed since he was taken.

Lance glanced again to his left at the man that had abducted him. “What do you want with me?” he asked. His voice trembled, and fear laced his words. So much for not looking weak. Putting on a tough face worked well enough with the customers in the slums, or so he told himself. But this was different. He couldn’t bring himself to harden his features, panic blurring his thoughts. He willed his shaking hands to still.

They didn’t listen.

The man met his eyes for a few long seconds before folding his hands together. “Calm down.”

Lance tensed. The silence gnawed at him worse than the rope around his wrists.

The woman was nowhere to be seen, and Lance nearly opened his mouth to ask, only to shut it before the words could escape. He wouldn’t get an answer anyway.

The clock was silent, only adding to the tightness in Lance’s chest and the rate at which he darted his eyes to those windows. The faint clicking of the clock was maddening. The crackling of the fireplace only worsened it.

A few deep, slow breaths later, Lance willed his face to look casual and eyed the room for a door, for any other chance to escape if the windows didn’t work. He couldn’t call for help. If he was in the slums, any passersby would ignore the noise, and the attempt wouldn’t be worth whatever consequences came as a result.

He flinched at the sound of high heels clicking against the polished wooden floor, distant at first but rapidly approaching. A door opened to the right of the fireplace, and in walked a narrow-faced woman, the hem of her red dress sliding against the floor. Her eyes were yellow. The grace with which she padded across the room was nothing short of catlike. A murderous smile played at her blood-red lips. Her frame was small, yet Lance felt a shiver of fear crawl down his spine at the sight of her, more fear than he felt when confronted by the man, even.

With a glass of wine in her hand, the woman sat in the chair across from the man and took a long sip. She didn’t acknowledge Lance’s presence, sparing him her piercing gaze.

The man’s square face focused on the hall, where another sound emerged. This sound held no grace. It was clunky and rushed. Two footsteps then a clack.

A man with a long black coat walked in through the same door, a dark cane at his side, its handle obscured by his long, slender hands. His shoulder-length blond hair clashed with his black fedora. With a carefree smile, he planted himself in the chair right in front of the fireplace.

His body was no more than a silhouette in front of the fire. Lance gulped. The sight almost resembled the devil himself.

So he was the leader, then.

“Well,” said the man with the cane, smiling through the thick silence that followed. “Isn’t this nice?” He looked at the girl, who stared at her nails on one hand while swirling her wine in its glass with the other.

Then he glanced at the man to Lance’s left, who looked back at him with rapt attention. “I’m sure Derek gave you the proper treatment.”

Lance’s ears thumped with every pump of his racing heart, his stinging fists clenching against the arms of the chair, if only to hide how they shook.

“This is Kaela.” The man gestured with his cane at the girl.

She glanced at Lance with a bored expression, yet her yellow eyes were completely aware, sending another set of chills crawling down his spine, as if the spiders carved into the clock had come to life with a thirst for his blood. She raised her glass then took a sip, as if toasting his kidnapping.

Lance struggled subtly against the rope. It was just loose enough not to cut off his circulation. He made to move his feet then stifled a gasp. His legs weren’t bound. If he could stand and slam against a wall hard enough, maybe he could break the chair.

“And I,” the man with the cane started, dramatically placing a hand on his chest, “am Eric.” His hand left his chest and reached across the table at Lance. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Lance raised an eyebrow and glanced down at his bound wrists.

Eric withdrew his hand with a dark chuckle and placed it firmly in his lap. “Sorry. I sometimes forget not everybody is a handshake kind of person.”

Lance frowned. “So… you’re Eric… You’re the man I talked to on the phone?” His voice hadn’t held such flourish on the phone, but it was certainly him. “Why did you bring me here? Why did you drug me?”

“Yes, I am sorry about the drugging,” Eric said, maintaining his smile as he stood from his chair and stepped onto the table. “But in my defense, you are the one who decided to fight back instead of simply allowing Derek to carry out his orders.” His grin turned wolfish. “Besides, I can’t have you knowing where you are until I know I can trust you. Security reasons, you understand. I have to keep my associates here safe.”

“Okay…” Lance said, his voice not as shaky. What the hell is going on here? He steadied his breath. “What do you want from me? I gave you the money… You said you’d tell me everything I wanted to know about my parents.” He struggled against the rope again.

Eric smiled and eyed his two associates. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your money’s worth soon enough.” His cane clacked crisply against the surface of the table, nearly hitting Kaela’s glass of wine.

She grabbed it and held it to her chest, glaring at Eric.

“I apologize for the bonds.” He laughed. “Wouldn’t want you attacking us with another shard of glass, now, would we? Derek took exception to that, you see.”

Lance couldn’t swallow the lump in his throat as Eric towered over him, and he hoped the dim lighting of the room wasn’t bright enough to reveal the horror in his eyes. “I was just defending myself.” His voice cracked. A flare of anger sparked in him, followed by a paralyzing fear when the room went silent.

A whine interrupted the quiet. Eric removed the handle of his cane, and a blade slid out of its slender body, shining in the light of the fire. Lance didn’t struggle against the ropes or try to scoot the chair away. His arms and legs turned to lead, paralyzed at the sight of the blade and Eric’s twisted silhouette of a smile.

Lance couldn’t resist a glance at Kaela and Derek. Kaela smiled venomously, and Derek just stared, emotionless. The pleas for his life almost escaped Lance’s mouth when Eric angled the blade at him. He prepared for the blade to pierce his throat, closing his eyes and biting back a sob.

The ropes pulled at his wrists, and Lance opened his eyes as the rope around one wrist was sliced. Eric leaned over and sliced the other rope with a quick swipe. The blade tore through it as if it was butter.

“I suppose you’re right. Perhaps it was impolite of me to have you kidnapped. I can get a little ahead of myself sometimes,” Eric said, letting out a small chuckle.

“Sometimes,” Kaela huffed sarcastically into her wine glass and took another sip, ignoring the look Eric shot her.

Lance lost his breath, his head spinning. He rubbed his sore wrists and studied the windows before he could stop himself. He could escape at any time now, yet that blade still gleamed in the firelight. The sight of it kept him firmly planted in his seat.

Besides, he needed to know what had happened to his parents, especially since he didn’t know where his case of money was.

“Look, I just want what I paid for,” Lance said. What the hell kind of business is this supposed to be?

Eric just stared at him with a toothy smile.

Lance sighed. “Please.” The word tasted like poison in his mouth, and saying it in front of strangers was even worse.

Eric ignored him. “I understand you’re very confused, but I had good reason to bring you here.” He sheathed his blade, and his tone lost some of its drama. “I’m sure it goes without saying how important information is to me. And as someone who loves information, I need as much of it as I can get. Are you following me?”

Lance narrowed his eyes. “No?”

“I have an offer for you.” He winked at Lance. “I want you to join my little dysfunctional family here.”

Kaela choked on her sip of wine and fell into a coughing fit. Eric grinned and patted her back.

“Boss, are you sure about this?” Derek asked.

Eric ignored him.

Kaela finally finished her coughing and slammed a hand on the table. “Are you batshit insane?!”

Eric smiled back. “Not clinically.”

Lance blinked. “You… had me kidnapped and brought here just so you could offer me a job?”

The floor swayed beneath him. Is this some sick, elaborate prank?

“I wanted to meet you in person. You have to admit this is one hell of an interview, eh?” Eric chuckled again, a dark, resonant laugh that chilled Lance to the bone.

Some of Lance’s fear melted away. This was all too confusing, too frustrating. He couldn’t hold back the bite in his tone as he asked, “Who the hell are you?”

“Come now, uh…” Eric motioned to him.

“Lance.”

“Lance, yes. I know you’re tired of barely getting by in that old, decrepit store of yours. I can fix that.”

Lance shook his head. Staring into those dark eyes sent a spike of adrenaline through his body. He ran a hand through his hair. This had to be a fever dream. No way is any of this real. Frustration tightened around his chest, and his voice held a sharp edge when he spoke. “I just want to find my parents. Is that too much to ask?” The quiver in his voice was long gone.

“I’m getting to that,” Eric said through his now faltering smile. “I need another character in my play. Kaela and Derek don’t have any businesses in the slums, and neither’s people like to go there very often. But you have your own store there. The things you see and hear can be vital to me. I know an opportunity when I see one. And I think you could give me some pretty juicy info from the slums, being that you’re a resident of said hellhole.”

Lance’s stomach twisted into a knot. Impatience swelled in his chest, and he found himself biting his tongue.

“I…” Lance paused to compose himself. “I don’t plan on staying at that store once I find my parents.”

Eric’s eyes held no warmth—not brown, but black, as if his soul had been sucked out.

Or given away willingly.

“Tell me…” Lance pushed.

Eric flopped back into his seat. “Your mother and father, names Carrie and Charles, were a couple that lived in the slums of our sister city, Agni. They had a child, you, in 1978. When you were around one year old, they left you at St. Farel’s Orphanage, where you stayed until you were fifteen. After a nasty fight with another boy, you bit a chunk of his ear off and ran away. Afterwards, you went off the grid for a few years until you gathered enough money to buy a worn-down store in the middle of the slums here in Arachna. Years later, you contacted the best and only information dealer in the city.” He smiled and pointed at himself. “The rest is history.”

“Where are they now?” Lance asked, his heart racing as he leaned forward. This was it. Years of wondering, of sleepless nights, of thinking about what could have been.

Eric’s smile faded. “Dead. Overdosed in an alley here in Arachna. If my sources are right, it should have been maybe a few months after they dropped you off.” He cleared his throat and removed a manila folder from inside his coat, sliding it down to Lance. “Here’s a copy of their death certificates, if you don’t believe me.”

Lance reached a shaky hand to the folder and opened it. He’d never seen a death certificate before, but… there they were. His parents’ names stared back at him from the documents. His heart sank, and his mouth became too dry to speak. He looked down at his clenched fists, his knuckles turning white. He fought back the tears pooling in his eyes. He refused to let them see him cry. He dug his nails into his fists to stop from slamming them into the table. More than anything, he wanted to throw the certificates into the fire and watch them burn into ash as his hopes for the future did the same.

“As for the other request you mentioned,” Eric continued, seemingly unaware of Lance’s anger, “you apparently get your eyes from your mother.” He eyed the fire for a moment then looked back at Lance. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry that you don’t have a family… So what do you say to joining a new family? One that won’t abandon you?”

The rage stirred in Lance’s gut as he fumed. Something burned inside him, some little lie he’d told himself, that maybe they would be alive and well, that they would want to take him back and he would have a family again. He had nothing now.

Absolutely nothing.

“Fine,” Lance said, the blood draining from his face, his hands suddenly sweaty and shaky. “What have I got to lose?”

Lance looked at Eric, whose silhouette smiled lazily in front of the crackling flames. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just made a deal with the devil.