Spider Soup, Page 2

Jordy’s lids flapped like window shades. A multitude of limbs drummed an uncanny cadence on walls and floor, the ceiling. Pulsing, resonating, the beat sounded rhythmic, contrived. How could it be? Arachnids had no musical skills. The percussion ceased. Was he imagining things?

  “Darce?” A tentative croak. Reclining in a dank vault, he blindly tuned his ears for a response. “Honey?”

  His heart erratically palpitated, anxious for her voice. He had never been so needy before meeting her. He saw this as a benefit, not a weakness. “Where are you?” Eyes adjusted, aided by a faint luminescence through the purls of gossamer embroidery, yet confusion and obscurity prevailed.

  Scratching. What was that? Foundations of bulky objects huddled in his vicinity, random junk they didn’t get around to tossing out. The kind that accumulated over decades. He remembered Aunt Zinnia saying a person would be rich not spending the money on those seldom-used items that ended up in cellars and attics. A person would be richer, he amended, not wasting so many of the priceless minutes that made up a lifetime. All moot points now. A tear wet his cheek. Why did she have to bequeath him this house? It was cursed!

  The scrapes reminded him of claws. What madness patrolled the hellhole? To his dismay, the noises were zeroing in amidst ghastly yowls. An especially virulent roar led to involuntary shudders. “Darcy,” the man wept, thankful she didn’t answer, didn’t see him falling apart. “I love you. So much.”

  He needed to get a grip. It was the kind of tribulation that could render one psychologically cowed, surfing a white froth of terror, but he wasn’t finished. They had to survive. Huskily the man hailed his wife. “Are you okay? Why aren’t you answering? Say something. Please, just say something.” He drew a breath.

  The surface below him quaked. Determination wavered. They were sitting ducks. He corrected the analogy: spiderbait. He was fraught by a suspicion the things had bitten Darcy. It might be too late.

  A presence abided. He heard it. A beast grown too huge to exit its murky lair. Being the spinner of tales and worlds in his career, Jordy was half-fascinated by whatever may have evolved in the crypt-like den and why. They might never know the catalyst. But if his beloved bride were dead, poisoned, betrayed by these wretched fiends, he intended to look their queen or king in one of its glossy eyes and shove his fist as far as he could inside its mangy throat!

  Legs stumped toward him supporting an immense body.

  “Darcy? Darcy, wake up! You have to wake up!”

  No reply. This traumatized him more than the ogre stalking the cellar.

  “Darcy . . .”

  Thorned appendages crashed down to either side of his trussed form. A wicked visage, thick hooked fangs and circular bulging orbs towered over him. Jordy lost his cool, lost it completely. The man hollered so loud, he nearly gagged on his tonsils.