False Gods (Sins of the Father 2)

“Give it up,” I called out, barely containing the laughter in my voice.

Beatrice smiled. “Never.”

She thrust her hand out, fingers splayed apart, and out of the end of each sprayed a fine, almost invisible filament that looked very much like spider silk. My muscles stiffened, then I bent closer to the ground, ducking behind my shield, prepared to slash at the shimmering threads. But they weren’t headed for me.

Florian cried out as Beatrice’s silk ensnared him, wrapping each of his limbs and a good portion of his torso in gleaming threads. One last thread wrapped itself lovingly around his neck, like a noose. I hated the echo of what was happening, this reversal, how this was almost a mockery of how he liked to fight and entangle others with his own vines.

Beatrice pulled. Florian choked.

“No.” I dashed straight at Florian, using my shield to bat away the last of Beatrice’s needles, cutting sentient cloth to ribbons. Beatrice meant business. She was actually strangling him, his skin turning blue.

Her eyes glimmered with an awful, distant rage, as if the woman we knew was somewhere far, far away, at least mentally.

“Stop this. Beatrice, stop this, or I’m going to have to do something drastic.”

No response. Her teeth were bared and clenched, the corners of her mouth hitching. Part of her was enjoying this. I had to end it. With my sword upraised, I approached. She was too focused on keeping Florian entrapped to really notice me, or so I thought, until I attempted to bring my sword down like a guillotine.

I aimed for her wrist.

Beatrice shrieked. She twisted away at the last moment, her fingers just narrow inches away from the edge of my blade as it bit through her silks. It took a second swing to really sever them. Beatrice fell over in the process, retreating farther behind her counter, but I managed to cut every cord sucking the life out of Florian. He gasped for air, the silks coming loose from his limbs and his throat. His eyes were wide as he lifted his head, heaving and wheezing.

“Are you okay? Florian?”

He didn’t answer – probably couldn’t – but he nodded.

Anger flooded my chest again, and even through my clothes the light of my sigils flooded the darkness of the workshop. Around me the moving swathes and fabric and flying needles fell gently to the ground, disarmed and harmless. And behind the counter, her knees pulled to her chest, was Beatrice Rex.

I raised my sword at her as I stepped closer, a warning and a promise, but she flinched, then yelped. This wasn’t the Beatrice from before, not the ruthless seamstress witch with the fucked up and oddly specific telekinetic powers. Her eyes were different, no longer distant. She was crying, too.

“The workshop – you guys – my things. I’m so sorry.”

Sighing, I placed my sword on the floor, not even caring that it might have scratched the perfect parquet. Come on, Beatrice had much bigger things to worry about. I slumped to the ground, sitting cross-legged just a foot or so away from her. In my mind, I told the sword not to return to the Vestments. Just – just in case.

34

Beatrice Rex wiped under each of her eyes, more frustrated than anything, her hair in disarray. I breathed deeply and brought the back of my hand across my forehead. To say that the fight made me break a sweat was an understatement. I studied her face as her eyes flitted from me, to Florian, then to the surrounding devastation of her workshop. She sniffed, her gaze falling to the ground.

“So,” I said, massaging my temples. “Would you care to explain what happened here?”

Her eyes were wet as she looked up at me, and I could see the glow of the runes in my skin fading as she paused to form her words. It was hard to stay angry knowing that the attack wasn’t completely Beatrice’s fault. Something had taken over back there. Something different, and angry.

“Do you remember how we met?” She wiped the last of her tears away, then raised her nose, regaining her composure, dignified. “The spider silk that you helped save from that thief?”

I nodded. I remembered. It wasn’t so long ago. I was out in the Black Market looking for an enchanter to help me with a cloaking spell when I ran into some dude who had stolen something from Beatrice Rex. Well, I didn’t run into him, exactly. He ran into a mace that I just happened to be holding at chest level.

“That lace I showed you, the stuff that the guy tried to steal? I’m sure it was obvious that it wasn’t just any old piece of cloth. It was woven from Arachne’s own silk. That’s why it’s so valuable.”

The floor creaked as Florian walked over, his insides full of oxygen again. “So that silk came straight out of Arachne’s butt?”

Beatrice frowned. “No, it didn’t come from – will you listen to yourself?”

“Then get another supplier,” I said. “You have tons. You’ve said so yourself.”

“You don’t understand. I can weave literal magic with it. It’s sturdy, but lightweight, perfect for something like a cloaking enchantment.” Her eyes flitted rapidly up and down my body. “If you could ever afford it,” she added under her breath.

“Hey, now,” I said, glancing at my sword. “This thing is still here. Don’t get all sassy with me.”

She rolled her eyes. Good old Beatrice. “The point I’m trying to make is that y