“Would you prefer to have that property?”
Ladybug blinked, her laughter dying at his serious tone.She briefly entertained the notion of her infirm tenant forcibly evicting Lettie Slade, the aged werecat next door, deciding he must have a very droll sense of humor that she didn’t understand.After all, there’s precedent for that.
“No, I quite like my house, it’s been in my family for ages.And besides, the Slade house is very haunted.I would always wear all of my banishing charms when we would attend the Halloween seance.I didn’t go last year, but I think this year I might ...but I’m very happy with my own house.”
She wondered if Anzan might attend the annual seance at the Slade residence with her this year, if she was invited.She imagined walking him through the ceremony beforehand, explaining what to expect, gripping his hand tightly at the table as the spirits in the grand home weighed heavily on the room, poor old Lettie beseeching her departed Ezra to give her a sign that he was one of the shades roaming the halls, Anzan a silent, steadfast presence at her side ...Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s the quiet ones you have to look for?Ladybug shook away the ridiculous thoughts, as well as the voice of the hairstylist.Was virtue even something that people fretted over?Surely not in this day and age?Bodies were sacred, vessels for the life they carried, but there was no one act that was revered in the craft, not in the way she knew virginity was prized in other cultures—a silly thing, in her opinion, but in any case, it didn’t matter.Anzan kept to himself.And now he’s outside trying to take a walk around the yard and you’re bothering him.
“Anyhow, I didn’t mean to disturb you.It’s such a nice afternoon ... please enjoy your walk.If there’s anything you need, I’m just a knock away!”
Heat suffused her face once more as she turned back to the house, cringing at her forced cheerful tone.Maybe shewouldtry the werewolf-owned salon.They wouldn’t put such ridiculous notions in her head, not the way Zulya had.She wondered if he even fit in the shower upstairs, if perhaps sheshouldoffer hers up.Cambric Creek was full of accommodative architecture, but she’d never seen anything specifically designed for araneaens, not that she’d ever seen another araneaen.If there was an issue, he would have said something by now.The notion of him randomly appearing in her work kitchen to offer assistance during her monthly skyclad observance made her cheeks heat as she crossed the flagstones, vowing to book at the new salon and hurrying indoors as if she might be able to lock the inappropriate thoughts outside.Ladybug was positive she felt the weight of half a dozen eyes on her as she hopped up the steps, certain he could hear her thoughts, would be able to see the impropriety stitched on her face, but she resisted the urge to look back, locking her insensible thoughts in the garden.Continuing on as silent strangers was clearly his preference, and that suited her just fine.
Alone, together.
* * *
August
...Until the nightof the storm.
A late-August storm, which brought rain that pelted the windows and gusting winds that sent felled tree branches scattering across the block.The lights had flickered several times, and she decided it would be easier to retire early, rather than grope her way up the staircase in the dark in the event that the electricity went.She drifted to sleep to the soothing rumble of thunder, the lashing rain an odd lullaby as the streetlights went dark.
The clatter above her head was so startling that Ladybug yelped, sitting up in her bed with her heart pounding in her throat.She had no idea how much time had passed since her eyes closed, but the storm showed no signs of slowing.Holding her breath, she clutched at the sheets, listening in the dark.There weren’t any trees close enough to the house to fall on the roof, but that didn’t mean the storm hadn’t sent something flying.A muffled thump made her gasp, followed by the sound of many legs, skittering across the floorboards, the creak of a piece of furniture.She let out the breath she’d been holding, sagging beneath her sheet.It’s only Anzan.Normal, everyday signs of life from her tenant ...but considering her tenant had been a completely silent presence for the previous four months, it wasanythingbut normal....It’s Anzan!
Pulling herself out of bed, she followed the sound of the scuttling when it began again, moving down the hallway, past the empty bedroom and the room she used for her sewing supplies, into the bathroom at the end of the hall.The movement above her head paused before resuming, leading her back to the hall, back past the closed doors, past her own bedroom, continuing the short distance beyond the stairwell where she paused listening.Twice more she followed the circuit, realizing her seldom-heard tenant was pacing.She wondered if the storm had upset him in some way, or if — horrors!— the old roof had begun to leak.She certainly couldn’t afford to replace any of his possessions that might be damaged and wondered if she ought to knock on the door leading up the attic steps ...but Anzan never came down to report any damage, and at length, she returned to her bed, the pacing above continuing.
The sounds at night did not stop after the storm, as she’d been expecting.Each night brought more of the same — a heavy drag, and the scuttling sound of legs moving back and forth across the floorboards.It was a heavier tread than she expected her frail, underfed tenant to possess, although, she considered, perhaps he wasn’t as underfed anymore.
She’d been uncertain of her stew efforts as the pot simmered, weeks earlier, filling her kitchen with the rich, metallic tang of blood and vinegar.She’d filled the araneaen recipe with root vegetables that were more familiar to her, hoping he’d not mind her additions, in addition to the meat of the freshly slaughtered goose whose blood made up the broth, purchased from one of the local farms.She’d carefully carried the lidded pot up the side staircase, finding, to her surprise, a grocery delivery left on the landing, evidence that hedid, in fact, eat.
The washed pot had been returned to her side door several days later, and she’d left it upon the countertop for another several, only finding the carefully wrapped seed pods inside when she went to put it away at last.Fragrant, smelling faintly of licorice and completely unfamiliar to her, she’d exclaimed in excitement, spending the rest of the evening pouring over websites and her vast collection of books until she found what exactly it was — an herbaceous plant whose roots were commonly used for cooking and medicinal purposes in a remote area of a faraway sea.He was very far from home, if that was from where he originally hailed, and the notion that he’d gifted her with something he’d brought with him in his journey to Cambric Creek made something inside her twist.It was unnecessary, for she’d not made the soup with the expectation of receiving something in return ...but she decided to accept the seeds gracefully, planting them in one of her favorite pots, giving it a place of honor near her sunniest window.
The unexpected gifts had not stopped there.She’d come home to a seasonal flowering pot on the front steps a few weeks later, rich red mums that invoked the approaching autumn weather, one that certainly hadn’t been there when she’d left in the morning.The day she’d gone outside with her garden gloves to take care of the weeding, the same week she’d accosted his shadow after her salon trip, she’d found the task already done, with a brand-new pair of colorful gloves and matching knee pads resting on the countertop just inside the doorway of her small potting shed.Her next attempt at araneaen cuisine had yielded an unappetizing grey sludge, but that pot too had been summarily returned a few days later, a beautiful, shell-encrusted trinket box tucked inside.It was too much, too lovely a response to what was likely an inedible meal, but her timid knock on the attic door had yielded no response.Despite the loveliness of the box, it had been the corn dolly that brought her to tears.
Her Lughnasadh celebration had been a quiet, staid affair.The broom belonging to her mother, a brilliant golden ribbon from Authricia’s altar, a green ribbon symbolizing her contribution to the first harvest.Mother, maiden, and crone.The absence of the aunts had felt like a gaping maw that sabbath, the absence of the circle, of the ancient ritual and belonging, and she’d made a poor showing with her corn dolly.The phone had been a shrill, insistent distraction; a client calling in a panic, asking what to put on a burn their child had received ...and when she’d returned, nearly two hours later, the long corn husks had been rewoven.The small figure had a neatly defined head with two long plaited braids, an A-shaped dress and rounded nubs for hands, the exact sort of doll the skilled elders in the cover of her childhood had made.Anzan.Tears had blurred her vision and she’d sunk to her knees on the flagstones, the dark yard lit with flickering fireflies as she lit her candles.She knew he’d not answer if she knocked again, and ate her Lammas bread alone, grief for all she’d lost and gratitude for her silent tenant filling her heart until it overflowed, and she’d returned indoors overwhelmed with emotion.
She wondered, that sabbath night, if he was homesick, if he’d moved away for work or possibly school, if he’d left behind a wife or a family.She didn’t especially like the idea, but reminded herself for the millionth time that she was being ridiculous.She’d gone to bed that night with a cup of chamomile and lavender tea added to powdered valerian root and warmed milk, thinking of the corn dolly, certain she could feel the fingers of a dozen different hands, gently smoothing over her frizzy curls as her tears dried against the pillowcase.
But now the sounds at night had not ceased, and as days turned into weeks, the nocturnal activity only increased.She was loath to knock on the attic door again and certainly didn’t want to cause offense, even though her nights were becoming as sleepless as his own.Maybe he’s actually nocturnal, did you ever think about that?You don’t know the first thing about araneaens after all.It was true, Ladybug rationalized.She knew next to nothing about the spider folk, even after attempting to learn more since Anzan’s arrival.There was scant information on araneaen culture online, save for the numerous sites and articles that pointed out how secretive and insular they were, and for the first time, her expansive inherited library failed her.She was certain hewasn’tnocturnal, but something about Autumn’s arrival had set something off with her quiet tenant, and she had no idea what the reason for his constant pacing at night might be.
Just ignore it,she told herself, staring at the ceiling as the pacing above her head resumed once more.Of course he’s not interested in talking to you, he wants to be left alone.Just be glad that he hasn’t moved out in the middle of the night.
* * *
September, again
––––––––
She’d been standingin the kitchen the first time the smell reached her nose.
Unlike the nocturnal pacing, Ladybug found the smell impossible to ignore.Musky and dense, she was reminded of the incense that had been burned in a large firepit at a Lupercalia celebration she’d attended out of town, several years earlier, the skyclad ceremony ending with the Great Rite being practiced throughout the glade.The smell of sex had mingled with the heady, enticing smell emanating from the fire, the slap of hands on drum skins an echo of skin slapping skin, the ritual chants turning to moans as the ceremony devolved to a frenzied bacchanal—mouths and hands and tongues, dripping cunts and turgid cocks, all clamoring to exalt the goddess and her horned consort; fucking and screaming in divine ecstasy, echoing through the night.She’d been taken by a satyr close to the fire, held aloft in his arms as another devotee of the horned god had pressed to her front, his cock rubbing circles against her clit as the goat-man pumped into her from behind, braying his climax and ejaculating against her thighs as the man at her front spilled across her belly ...
She jolted, stopping short in her recollections, nearly dropping the glass she’d been moving from the dishwasher to its place in the cupboard.These were certainlynotappropriate thoughts to be having in the middle of the day, especially when she needed to mentally prepare for a meeting with a potential new customer that afternoon, a woman seeking an archaic cure for a malady her doctors could not diagnose.Pushing that intoxicating smell and thoughts of past ritual sex rites away, Ladybug determinedly went about her day, but the smell seemed stronger once she was ensconced in her sheets that night—thick and heavy, like a black cloud of licentiousness, pinning her to the mattress and licking up her exposed legs.
The smell was inescapable, and even when she left the house, Ladybug was certain she could still detect it, clinging to her clothes and hugging her skin, caressing her like a lover.The worgen at the bank ducked his head, avoiding eye contact as she stood at his window until her transaction was complete, behavior she noticed replicated in the goblin who bagged her groceries.Ladybug was tempted to drop into Jack Hemming’s downtown office, just to see if the big werewolf’s nose would wrinkle at the smell of her, confirming her suspicions ...but when she returned home, she’d breathe it in, a sense of complacent relief flooding her, and she’d need to remind herself of the waiting order queue and her dwindling client list to keep herself from floating upstairs to her room to stretch out against the duvet and luxuriate in the thick, heavy odor trapped in the fibers.
Her sleep, once she was finally able to fall asleep each night, had been restless since that first day the dark aroma invaded her nose.Closing her eyes seemed nigh impossible as she lay awake in the darkness, listening to the heavy sounds above her, smelling that smell and gripping the edges of her quilt, attempting to prevent her hands from finding their way between her thighs, to smear and rub at the slickness there, an arousal she scarcely understood, arousal borne from that all-encompassing odor.Her nostrils would twitch as she worked each morning, methodically filling her small queue of orders, not realizing she was grinding her hips against the edge of her work stool until her ingredients sat forgotten before her, her hands gripping the edge of the countertop with white knuckles as she chased an elusive release.Her dreams, when she dreamed, were an erotic tumult: the thick, black cloud of that heady musk taking form, stretching her legs wide and filling her, plumbing her body deeper than any ritual lover ever had, settling over her like a veil until it enveloped her completely, leaving her gasping in pleasure and sucking it into her lungs until they were one and the same.She would wake with her thudding heartbeat matching the pulse of her sex as she came down from her orgasm, panting around the thick musk that still invaded her lungs.
It was maddening, and it could not go on.
