The Spider Pt. 11

It was also the place he wrote for, he had been a reporter there for thirty years. In his time at the Journal, he'd seen the City go from being the leading light of the nation, brimming with the promise of American power, to a burned out husk of a city, filled with dark pockets of crime and misery.

And he'd reported on every single day of it. There was nothing about the City that Steven Longstreet didn't know.

Steven took a pull off his glass of bourbon, finding comfort in the warm burn. He reached for his beer, decided against it, letting the bourbon blaze on his tongue until it faded.

He read an article about a recent murder, another Korean, another man with close ties to whatever the Korean underworld was doing in the City. Same situation: found hanging, ripped apart.

Red Eyes Strikes Again, the headline said.

"Steven Longstreet?"

Steven looked up, and saw a tall man with a completely shaved head, sharp features hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.

"I'm Detective Stern," the man said, holding out his hand. "Thanks for meeting me."

Steven stood up as best the booth could allow, and shook the Detective's hand.

Cold. Limp.

"Good to meet you, Detective," Steven said, indicating the booth. "Have a seat."

The Detective sat down.

"Thank you for meeting me."

"Of course. Can I get you a drink? I'm having bourbon, because, well... what's there to lose, I guess. Who knows how much time anyone has, you know?"

"I do," the Detective said. "But no thanks. Nothing for me. I just have some questions for you."

The Detective slid his tall, narrow frame into the booth opposite Steven. He kept his sunglasses on. He looked down at the paper that Steven had open in front of him.

"Red Eyes strikes again," the tall man said. "Your paper isn't giving us much patience about that."

"Well..."

"It's OK. That's not my problem. Not why I'm here- I'm not handling Red Eyes."

"Really? With all due respect, there's been over two-dozen of these killings. I have to wonder what they have you working on, and how it could be more important than the mass murders that whole City is living in fear about."

The Detective smiled.

Well, not quite, Steven thought to himself. That's not quite what a smile is.

Kind of more like what someone who had never seen a smile before would think a smile was, if they'd only heard about smiles somehow. That's what the rictus that spread across the Detective's face was. But not a smile, exactly.

"Anyway." The Detective said. "I'm here to talk about the Spider. You know the Spider, I think. You used to write about her quite a lot."

"Back in the day."

"It's said that you gave her a lot of information, also. They tell me that you helped her to break up quite a lot of criminal activity, by giving her information that she needed to be able to learn about her prey."

"Well."

The Detective leaned forward, the light of the bar shining harshly off his bald head. Steven could see a distorted view of himself in the Detective's mirrored shades. The man stroked his long fingers together in a way that made Steven feel uncomfortable.

Everything about the man made Steven uncomfortable.

"It's important that I find the Spider," the Detective said. "You know her, personally, I believe. I need to know where she is, and how I can speak with her."

"I don't know who the Spider is."

The Detective leaned back in the booth, and again did that thing with his face that was supposed to be a smile.

"That's not quite true, is it, Steven Longstreet."

Steven smiled back.

"I'm afraid so, Detective. I'd love to help. I'm always one to support local law enforcement. But I just don't know who, and certainly not where, the Spider is. She may not be anywhere anymore. She hasn't been seen in a few weeks. It's possible that she left the City altogether. It's possible that she's... dead."

The Detective said nothing, just looked at Steven with a blank expression.

"I knew her a long time ago, and yes, I gave her information," Steven went on. Why was he saying this? Babbling. Nervous. The man across the booth scared him. "I gave her a lot of information. But I never knew who she actually was. All I knew her as was the Spider, same as the rest of the City. That's all."

The Detective stroked his fingers back and forth, not unlike what a praying mantis would do, it occurred to Steven.

"But that's not quite true either, is it, Steven Longstreet."

Steven threw the rest of his Maker's Mark down his throat. His eyes watered.

"I don't know what to tell you, Detective," Steven shrugged.

That smile again.

The Detective reached up, and pulled his sunglasses off, folded them, and put them in his shirt pocket.

Steven gasped.

The man- if it was a man- sitting across from him didn't have eyes. Not human eyes, anyway. There was nothing in either socket except shining, black orbs, no pupil. No iris. Nothing. Just black orbs, with the faintest flashes of red slashes barely visible in the blackness from time to time.

Steven recoiled in his booth.

"I need to find the Spider, Steven Longstreet," the Detective said. "I know you know more than you are telling me. That's OK. That's OK. But it's important that you tell me, it's important that I get to speak with her. I need you to understand that."

The Detective attempted a smile again. It was worse, somehow, coming from the eyeless face looking at Steven.

The attempt at a smile failed. The Detective's expression went blank again.

"The thing about being human is, Steven Longstreet, that you never know how long you'll have on this earth. Everyone's clock is ticking, always ticking, but you don't know how long it will tick for. They tell me that is the beauty of human existence, Steven Longstreet. They tell me that is the magic that makes it all worthwhile, the uncertain nature of life. That it makes one make each moment count."

The Detective shook his head. He fished his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket with those awful, spindly fingers, and to Steven's relief, put the glasses back over the black and empty orbs that were where a man's eyes were supposed to be.

The Detective stood up.

"Your clock, Steven Longstreet, is now known to you. It is forty-eight hours long. No more, no less. You should be happy! You have some knowledge that most men never get to have. Make the most of it!"

The Detective turned to go.

"You have forty-eight hours, Steven Longstreet, to tell me where I can find the Spider. It all goes black after forty-eight hours. The clock is ticking, always ticking. But you? You can hear it now, can't you?"

Steven nodded, mutely. It seemed that somehow he could.

The Detective turned and walked out of the bar.

It took Steven a good ten minutes before he could make his legs work well enough to get up to the bar to order more bourbon.

"Make it a double," he told the bartender.

******************************

Anna curled up next to Heather, warm and safe in bed after a pleasant day. Anna sucked on Heather's large nipples, they grew thick and hard in her mouth. She sucked and sucked, closing her eyes.

"You go to sleep, little babygirl," Heather whispered, sliding her fingers past Anna's underwear, and into the tight little pussy there, now sensitive from the pounding Heather had delivered to her earlier on the floor. But Heather was gentle with her fingers now, soft, slow caresses. Anna whimpered as Heather stroked here there under the covers.

"Yes, Heather," she whispered back in the darkness, greedily clasping her lips back on Heather's tits again.

"You have good dreams, babygirl," Heather slurred, sleepy herself. Heather sounded drunk. She was drunk. She'd made Anna cook and serve her a nice meal, pouring glass after glass of sweet wine for her.

Heather had made Anna pour the wine and serve, but most importantly, to listen to the new rules that would govern Anna's life until otherwise stated.

"I live here now," Heather told Anna. "You, and everything in this place, belong to me. You got that?"

Anna had nodded, and poured more wine. Heather cut a little piece of the chicken cutlet Anna had prepared and took another bite.

"You will serve me in whatever capacity I see fit. If you don't? If you don't? I'm going to punish you in any way I see fit. Whip you. Make you sleep on the ground. Hurt you, make you sleep in a dog cage, I don't give a fuck. You got me?"

Anna smiled. Yes.

"You don't go anywhere- anywhere- without my permission. Every second of every day, you are mine, and under my control. If you want to go to the store, you ask me. If you want to see a movie, you ask me. If you want to take a shit, you ask me. Understand me?"

Heather shook her glass.

Anna rushed over to fill it. Sorry.

"You understand me?"

"I understand you, Heather."

Later Anna had been allowed to eat her dinner on the floor at Heather's feet.

Heather kept rubbing Anna's pussy underneath the covers, gently. Anna sucked and sucked on Heather's breasts, spreading her slim legs open to the rubbing, until she finally orgasmed one last time, a quietly whimpering as she came, thank you, thank you, Mistress Heather.

"That's a good babygirl," Heather whispered, kissing Anna gently. Heather wrapped Anna up tightly in her arms, and went to sleep.

Soon, Heather was snoring quietly.

Anna felt warm, and safe, and happy. She closed her eyes, and began to drift off, a safe and happy babygirl in her Mistress' arms. She wondered what she was going to make for breakfast tomorrow. Better to plan something good now, so that Heather didn't have to wait and be hungry. Maybe an omelet would be good-

Her eyes opened wide, suddenly. Something was wrong with this somehow.

Anna slipped her legs out from the warm comfort of the blanket, and quietly, gently, slid out from Heather's arms.

She stood there for a minute, looking down at Heather. Heather snored softly into the down pillow. Anna thought she looked beautiful there. She thought that she probably loved Heather, loved being her slave, loved being obedient to the other woman.

Anna padded noiselessly across the carpet. She made her way to her picture window, high above the City. Anna put her hands to the glass, and looked out at the glistening snakeskin of the streets down below. She looked up at the full moon, cascading cool light down.

Anna slid the door open. Clad only in her panties and a t-shirt, she stepped into the cool wind of her balcony, high above the City. She could hear the noise of the traffic below now.

She took a deep breath, breathing deeper than she had since the Mercenary cracked her ribs in the warehouse. She could smell it all, the joy, the fear, the love, the hate. All the things that made the City the City. All happening now. Down below.

Anna took a couple of steps forward and put her hands on the railing of her balcony. She looked down at the City. The big City.

Her City.

The wind blew strong, high above. Her sheer t-shirt fluttered around her narrow waist. She looked back into her apartment, thinking of Heather, and the warmth, and the love, and the control that was back sleeping in bed, waiting for her. It felt good to be under Heather's control, even now, some part of Anna demanded that she return to the warm bed, and let her Mistress wrap her up in her arms, and drift off into sleepy dreams there, safe and secure in her Mistress' strong arms.

But she didn't return to the warm bed.

Anna spread her arms, and leapt off her balcony, and into the cold, dark night.

******************************

John lay in bed, his eyes red, his head pounding.

He wasn't asleep. He didn't know when he had slept last, couldn't easily tell the waking times from the nightmares anymore.

He got up, and peered out his glass into the brightly lit rest of his house. He peered through the smudged fingerprints.

His doorbell rang. He started, terrified. He took a quick step back towards his bed, but stopped.

There's no safety in bed, John, he told himself. You aren't a child anymore.

And it's not like Red Eyes is going to ring the doorbell before it rips you into pieces.

He steeled himself.

He entered his fingerprint into the keypad, and the security door slid open silently.

John stepped out of his bedroom. A single step, taking more courage than he'd had in a long time.

He went through his hallway, through his living room, telling himself not to run. Not to panic. Not to break. Reminding himself that there was nowhere to run to, no real way to escape.

He made his was to his front door, and opened it up.

And there she was, standing in the light of his front porch, framed by the high moon and all the stars around her. She had her hands crossed in front of her, looking more beautiful than anything he had ever seen in his entire life.

"You came," he croaked, his throat dry from the scotch he'd been pouring down his throat.

She put a hand to his cheek, touching him gently. He almost broke down at that moment. She came. She was strong. She could help him.

Things might be all right, now that she was here.

"They will be, John," she said. "I'm here now, and things will be all right. You'll see."

He stood there for a moment, taking strength from the simple touch of her hand on his face.

"Thank you," he said.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?"