The lake.

I think of Aron, the way he floated above the water, seething with rage. He didn’t look like my Aron then. He looked like a very angry god…and he almost killed me. I need to talk to him. I don’t remember much about the last few days that I lost to healing up from whatever he did that flattened me, but I know he’s got to be upset and stressed. I want to reassure him that I’m okay. That I’m more resilient than he gives me credit for.

I part the cobweb draped over the doorway and peek out into the hall. It’s empty, and so I step out, ignoring Solat’s protest. The need to find Aron is throbbing through me, almost as overwhelming as my hunger. He’s a craving, and I wonder if it’s a natural one or more of our strange bond. It doesn’t matter either way.

I move down one hall and then another. There are no stairs, just a gradual elevation as the hall twists along the edge of the tower. Occasionally, I’ll pass by a cobweb-covered parapet that leads outside, but I don’t go out there. There’s nothing inviting about it, and all it shows me is that we’re very, very high up. I pass a few doors, but when I try the handle, they’re locked, so I keep going, hoping for something new. All I see are more cobwebs, in some places so thick that they look like clumps or bubbles.

No spiders, at least.

Not yet, my brain helpfully reassures me.

I go endlessly up the empty hall as it winds up the length of the tower, and just when I’m about to turn around and find Solat, I hear something. Humming. Not like an electrical hum, but the faint strum of a million harp-strings played a great distance away. Curious, I pick up the pace, and up ahead, past two more twists of the hall as it winds around the great length of the tower, I see an archway. There are no doors, just more of the thick cobwebs that hang over the place like curtains. But behind them, there’s a faint golden glow, and the melody of all those strings.

So I part the “curtains” and go inside.

The room itself is much bigger than it seemed in the narrow hallway. The ceiling slopes up so high that it’s hidden in shadow, and the room’s walls are completely rounded, as if we’re in the center of the tower itself. Here, the spiderwebs are so thick that I can’t see the stonework, and it feels a bit like I’ve walked into a cocoon. The music starts again, the notes not a melody but still somehow beautiful, and I realize that the center of the room is a gigantic, glowing spiderweb made of millions of strands. Unlike the walls, these glow and hum with life, and they don’t seem to be connected to anything at all. It’s like the web is anchored on nothing but thin air. The strands themselves stretch into the darkness and descend down into the musical tangle at the center of the room.

I’m drawn to it despite myself, fascinated at the hum, at the gentle glow. As I move closer, I can see the individual threads. There are thousands—no, millions—of them here, all interweaving and crisscrossing without a distinct pattern. Each thread looks slightly different from the others, with this one darker and smudged, while another glows with brilliant light. Fascinated, I reach out to touch one of the brightest strands.

“Do not do that,” a cool voice echoes in the room.

Goosebumps prickle up and down my back and I straighten, quickly turning around. As I do, I see a man standing in the doorway behind me. The spiderwebs along the wall shiver and something twitches, and I get the impression that I just missed seeing the world’s biggest spider. Gross.

“I’m sorry, I thought I was alone.”

“I know.” He stares at me, but even as he does, I get the impression he’s not seeing me, which is strange. It’s like he’s only turning toward me out of courtesy.

There’s no denying he’s beautiful, though. The man wears a long, colorless robe that flows to the ground and pools at his feet. The sleeves are long and his hair is equally as pale and long. The face that stares out at me has bright, unnaturally silvery eyes, but his face is as gorgeous as a model’s, right down to the pouty mouth.

I turn away from the musical web, unsure if I should extend a hand or what. “I’m Faith—”

“Yes. I’m aware.” He blinks slowly, as if unaccustomed to it. “Are you looking for your strand?”

My strand? What’s he talking about? I can’t tell if he’s accusing me or trying to be friendly—he’s so emotionless it’s hard to decide. “I actually was looking for something to eat.” I smile at him. “You must be the Spidae.”

I mean, there’s really no one else he can be, and I feel stupid the moment I say it aloud.

“I am one of three, yes.” He blinks slowly again.

“Pleased to meet you,” I say, and decide to extend my hand anyhow, taking a few steps forward.

“Are you?”

Er. I pause. How do I answer that? Do I tell him I actually find him creepy and unnerving? Do I point out that I’m Aron’s anchor? That Aron and I share secrets? Or do I run the fuck out of the room and hide like a little girl?

Choices, choices.

The Spidae—one of three, as he liked to point out—blinks in my direction again. “If you are hungry, I can retrieve you something.”

That’s an odd way of phrasing it. I debate my answer for a half second, but my fiercely growling stomach makes that choice for me. “Food would be great.”

He closes his eyes.

I grimace, because did I just pick wrong? “You know, I’d really just like to see Aron—”

“He is busy dictating his wants to another of my Aspects and will be busy for a time.” The Spidae opens his eerie silver eyes again. The wall behind him ripples, and this time, I see it. A spider, as big as a pony and as pale as the gossamer strands it steps on, descends from the wall. It moves to the Spidae’s feet and then drops a bubble of webbing on the floor.

Oh ew. Now I see what he meant by “retrieve.” Just like that, my hunger dies.

The spider scuttles back into the web, gliding up the wall and disappearing back into the shadowy ceiling, and I fight the urge to scrub at my skin. Instead, I watch as the pale god standing before me bends down and picks up the cocoon, then holds it out to me.

Well, shit. I guess that’s mine now. “Yummy,” I manage, and take it from him. Whatever it is in my arms is the size of a football, about as heavy, and doesn’t move when I hold it. Thank fuck. “I should probably get going.”

“Leaving?”

I’m not sure how to answer that. “Possibly yes? I don’t want to be a bother.”

For a second, his mouth ghosts up into a hint of a smile. “After I took the time to keep Aron occupied so we could speak privately?”

Well that’s completely unnerving. “You…did?”

“Are you not curious about how you got here from your world?”

My mouth hangs open. I’m shocked. Of all the things I thought we were coming here for, that wasn’t on the list. But it’s a piece of information I’m desperate to have. “How did you know I’m not from here?” I clutch the webbed football to my chest. “Did Aron tell you?”

He gestures at the singing web, his weird, unfixed gaze on me. “I know everything. He did not tell me. He would not share a secret that would compromise you.”

For some reason, I take that as a compliment. It just reminds me that Aron’s surprisingly decent when he wants to be. “So you know how to send me back to Earth?” I mean, if he knows everything, he’ll surely know that. “You know how I got here, and how I get back, right?”

The Spidae gestures at the web again, his movements elegant. “Come. Let me show you something.”

As he glides forward, I follow after him, careful not to step on his flowing robes. He approaches the web, and as he does, the singing increases, as if welcoming him. He moves so close that it’s almost as if the strands are flowing around him, pulling him into their web. They’re alive around him, whereas when I came closer, they were just strings. Just shiny threads. With him here, though, they’re a symphony of light and color and sound.