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“Remote is good,” Luk adds. “It means we can focus more and not be distracted. And besides, I’d be the size of a house with so much fast food around.”

Aspen continues to eye the box. She carries it into the kitchen, where I sneak a peek at the return address on the label. It’s a PO Box with a Colorado zip code. My heart rate reduces, knowing it’s something from closer to home. Maybe the aunt who lived with Aspen after Arthur had gone missing. Aspen didn’t have fond words for Arthur’s older sister, but she didn’t say she was cruel, either.

“You made me a coffee, too? Such a sweetheart, thanks, Fox. Come on, Pen. I want to see what you ordered. Unless it’s something boring like birth control or waxing strips.”

“Why would that say samples?” Aspen says, a hint of unease in her tone.

“Everything says samples when they don’t want prying eyes to know what’s in the box. My deliveries say samples because they are. New jars and bottles, and labels. Sometimes a supplier will send me one of everything. Hurry and open the box; we have to go. It’s so warm too; I just want to hug it.”

Aspen takes a serrated knife from the drawer and deftly runs it under the tape. She places the knife back on the countertop, flicking the tape apart with her other hand. Just as the hand that had the knife pulled the box open further, two black legs emerge, then another two, followed by a swollen, black carapace.

“Fuck!” she squeals, withdrawing her hand, but it’s too late. One spider crawls over her fingers and onto the back of her trembling hand. Tali drops her mug, screaming. Scalding coffee splashes our legs and the lower cabinets. I abort the coffee making and grip her forearm firmly, shaking the spider off her just as another one emerges from the cardboard. I will my mouth to move, for comatose vocal chords to wake the fuck up and form Luk’s name. One of us will have to deal with the box and contents, while the other has the responsibility of two hysterical women whose ear-piercing screams are shriller than any fire alarm. Lukaz strides forward, moving Aspen behind him. She’s scratching at her hand with the nails of the other, as if clawing her skin off can remove all traces of the crawling arachnids. He guides her backward around broken shards of coffee mug and toward the bathroom.

“Shower, now! I’ll be in soon. It’s okay, baby. You’re okay.”

I can’t see what she’s doing or hear any more of their conversation once the water is turned on. I’m focused on how many of these ugly fuckers are in the box, and more importantly, how many are uncontained. Luk returns, pulling a clear plastic lunchbox from the cupboard and dropping the box and contents inside before closing it up tight. Major threat negated; now to locate any escapees. One lone black blob is stationary on the counter, half hidden under paperwork. Without caring how important the documents are, I crash my fist down, flattening the spider.

“What the fuck, bro?” he gestures. I gesture back toward the bathroom and a hysterical Aspen who may be under the water or could be rocking in the fetal position in a corner. I’ve never heard a sound like that before and never wish to again. I grunt at him, stomping my foot in the nonverbal yell I want to throw back in his face. She was terrified.

“I’m texting the chat,” he says, pulling out his phone and easing the top paper off the arachnid corpse. It’s flat, legs pointing at odd angles, while a gray-green goo surrounds the corpse like a cloud for death to rest on. The red mark on the underside of the squashed abdomen has panic sliding up my throat like paste. Alaska doesn’t have black widow spiders; it’s too cold for any dangerous arachnids to thrive, given the icy, unforgiving climate. Colorado does, sure. Who would send her fucking spiders in the mail?

“Hey, Doc. Yeah, there’s been an incident. You and the prof need to get to Aspen’s right fucking now.” His features contort with visceral pain while he’s forced to listen to the other half of the conversation when all we want to do is go to her. “No. No, she’s fine—now. I’ll show you when you get here.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Elijah

SOUTHERN BLACK WIDOW (LATRODECTUS MACTANS)

“Where did you find these?”

Our resident entomologist peers through the clear plastic container, his eyes never leaving the black bodies inside.

“They were sent in that package. From Colorado,” I state, not wanting him to open that fucking lid to check, as the label has bent back on itself when the box was shoved inside.

“Are you sure about that, Elijah?”

Am I sure? Yeah, I’m fucking sure. Delivered to Aspen’s dorm and opened by the recipient herself. One of those fuckers crawled onto her before Fox Muir flicked it off.

“Yes,” I hiss out through clenched teeth. “Why?”

“Because Colorado is home to western black widows. These are southern. Out of the three—northern, southern and western—these big girls are the most aggressive and dangerous given their size.”

“So these didn’t come from Colorado? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Not exactly. I mean it’s possible, but they must have transited through there, originating from further south. That’s if the package came from Colorado at all. And I could get a colleague to confirm they’re southern ladies, you’re taking the word of an insect man, not an arachnologist.”

“Fuck!”

“What do you want me to do with the specimens? Do you want them back or?”

“Hell no. I want them nowhere near me. I need them photographed for evidence, and the box dusted for fingerprints.”

My fingers all but tear out hair from the roots. The blows just keep on coming. Let’s move her here to Wyldan, I said. She’ll be safer with us, I said. She’s no safer with us; we’re more likely to steer danger to her.

“Your arachnologist is welcome to them. I don’t want them here. I have at least one traumatized student after this stunt.” Tali and Aspen are still with Fox and Lukaz, both shaking, both silent.

“Given all are southern females, whoever opened this box full of pissed off widows, they’re incredibly lucky not to suffer at least one bite, if not multiple.”