Priscilla’s Spider Queen name had painted a rather intimidating picture. I’d expected a waifish, ancient, bony woman in black, flowing robes. Instead, I’d been greeted with a warm hug and white-toothed smile. Priscilla Weber, a curvaceous woman in her mid-thirties, did wear black, but that was roughly where the expected visual ended. She had curly brown hair, light brown skin, and tipped her pastel, cat-eye glasses as she winked at me and marched through the sanctuary.
“So, Heaven wants you dead,” Xuân said
“And you’re playing host to demons,” Priscilla added.
“At least one at the moment,” I confirmed, gesturing widely to Azrames. “And you’re…the Spider Queen?” I asked.
She laughed with quick, corrective amusement. “Gods, no. Iworkwith the Spider Queen. Given the hand you’ve been dealt, you could use a little fate on your side.”
I gnawed on the response, knowing the name only frompop culture.
“Are you thinking of DND?” she asked.
I admitted I was.
Her smile was not unkind. “It’s because she comes with many names and forms across cultures. She’s the weaver of fate, the master of fortune and destiny. To the Grecians, she was Arachne. In Scandinavia, she’s the Norns, weavers of fate. In Egypt, she’s Neith, the spider goddess of war, wisdom and creation. In West Africa, she’s Anansi. Ghanaian people brought her to the Caribbean, and my mother brought her here, to the States. And it looks like I’m the first to bring her into this particular relic of Christian rubble. I’m her practitioner, and she is my deity. That is, when I’m not working with the Infernal Divine.”
As a mythology enthusiast, I’d heard a handful of these names, but I had never considered the possibility of them being one deity spanning many cultures. Before I could say more, she’d spied Azrames and brought our introductions to an end.
He was excited to speak to a demonolater, and he said as much.
I still had a lot to learn, but Priscilla’s work with the Infernal Divine in the Ars Goetia was a separate court from the demons I knew entirely. Perhaps if I were given thousands of years to learn names, languages, and religions, I’d be able to shelve my ignorance.
“Your name sounds familiar,” Priscilla said.
He pulled her knuckles to his lips and brushed a kiss against them. “I’m little more than a facilitator,” he said. “You may be familiar with my practitioner’s work.”
Priscilla’s eye contact remained impressively unbroken, so, from over her shoulder, I provided, “He kills violent misogynists.”
Azrames’s lips pulled up in a crooked half-smile. “Violence is subjective. You don’t have to raise a physical hand to forfeit your life. Come, sit with me.”
Priscilla remained collected, but I was confident herreverence was masking something else. She patted the space beside her on the front pew so Xuân might join.
It was then that I realized my mistake.
Xuân said, “I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“Oh!” I rushed with my marker to Xuân’s side. I’d grown so used to seeing Azrames and Silas that it was easy for me to forget that not everyone possessed clairs. “Give me a second. Honestly, Priscilla, I know you can see Az, but you’ll want one, too. Unless you’re purposefully ignoring Silas, which…I wouldn’t blame you.”
Priscilla studied us carefully as I drew on her friend’s forearm.
Xuân said, “I definitely feel an adversarial presence. I’ve never met angels and demons who work well together. There are legions who might cross-pollinate in who they help, but this feels…higher-ranking.”
I completed the flame on Xuân’s hand-drawn tattoo, appreciating her wide-eyed expression. I allowed her a moment to adjust to the room as Priscilla offered her forearm.
“How high-ranking were you, Silas? Foot soldier, right?” Xuân asked.
Priscilla arched a manicured brow. “Were?”
I nodded, focused on the task at hand as I collapsed the arrow and worked through the angular eye. “I guess he hasn’t totally fallen yet, but he’s about to be a defector without a kingdom. Unless he can learn to play nice with demons, I’m worried I may have to adopt him.”
“Caliban would love that.” Azrames chuckled.
“Caliban might not have a choice,” Silas retorted.
I was caught off guard at the boldness in his statement. Priscilla’s sigil was finished just in time for her to catch the tail end of our exchange. She gave my hand a friendly squeeze as she stage-whispered, “Who’s Caliban?”
Nia raised her hand. “I know this one! He’s the Prince of Hell. Or whatever. Since apparently Hell is full of courts.Who knew? Anyway, he and Marlow are a thing, and because of their cycles of sexual tension, all of the gods seem to think she’s going to pop out the antichrist. Also, is reincarnation real?”
