* This story started out as a short story that you can find on Circlet Press (I've posted it here but it, unlike this particular story, is an erotica story, so consume responsibly). After I finished that story, I loved the characters so much that I really wanted to know more about them, so I expanded it into a full length novella. I hope you enjoy their story as much as I do!CONTENT WARNING: This story contains a humanoid spider, allegorical prejudice, and hate-based violence and terror, but is ultimately about community, belonging, and building your own happy endings. Again, consume responsibly.
Listen to an Excerpt
My human father told me once to be careful; that people will rise and fall to my expectations of them, so I should set them wisely. If I expect people to act their best, they’re more likely to do so than if I go in expecting their worst. But that was, of course, before my arachne aunts ate him, so I’ve always taken that advice with a grain of salt.
As you and I walk down the crowded, dinner-time streets, I can't help but think about that particular piece of parental advice as I see you frown at the gasps and the stares of the people around us scuttling away. I wonder, if he'd lived with my mother long enough to...well, live in this world — to walk in it, the way we have — if he'd still believe that.
Juggling armfuls of boxes and bags, we both turn when we hear a choked cry. A slicked-back guy in a nice suit shields his girlfriend, her tiny fists clutching and crushing his lapels’ crisp lines. He glares at us. At me. As if it’s my fault his date scares too easily. Gripping the box I’m carrying, I smile tightly, flashing my fangs fully, the long curved lengths sharp against my bottom lip, and blink innocently. All six, pitch black eyes. I can practically see the breath leave his lungs as the boyfriend’s peach-colored skin pales and his arms grip vice-like around the shivering girl even as his knock-kneed legs wobble in the finely woven linen.
Believe it or not, I’m not the scariest thing walking around the world. But it’s better for everyone if that’s what the world believes. It’s not openly talked about — not in polite company, anyway; certainly never in mixed — but the real reason the government restricts the sale of glamours to magical creatures with a history of...shall we say, appetites that run counter to human interests is that it makes the rest of humanity feel more in control of their world, if they think they can see the danger coming.
And, you know? That’s fine. I’ll be the boogeyman paraded out into the light that makes the children feel safer, in order to keep the truth in the shadows where it belongs. It doesn’t bother me.
But it bothers you. I can see that it does. Your pretty hazel eyes dull as you try to block it all out. With an indignant sniff, you tip your head back so your blunt-cut bangs part like a black curtain as you look past the pedestrian-packed streets and up at the smog-hidden sky.
I try to do the same. I really do try to ignore it and pretend my father's pretty advice could somehow — like magic words — re-shape me in the eyes of others but, scenting the couple's fear combine and swell, my joints inevitably shake. The sensitive hairs along all my limbs raise at attention as my articulated legs and arms twitch as if to pounce. I lick my lips and feel my heart race.
“Aida, don’t.”
I look to you, the corners of my lips uncurling. My face flushes hot at your censure. I hate the smug looks on the faces of people in our earshot. They think you’re putting me in my place. Keeping the monster on its leash.
I know you’re not.
As if you could. You’re strong enough. For a human. Broad-shouldered with sleek muscles over a slim yet sturdy frame, you look tougher than you should be. Like life beat you down, until you learned to beat it back. It’s one of the things I love most about you, Frey.
So, yes, I understand what you’re saying, even if no one else does.
Don’t. Such a small word that can mean so many things. Right now, it means Don’t be the monster they want you to be. Don’t prove them right. Don’t reinforce the humanity-first stereotypes these people already hold against arachnes and vampires and gargoyles and gorgons and anyone whose existence, for centuries, has been relegated and reduced to the public’s nightmares. That tone in your voice, that look on your face, it all screams, begs and pleads with me, to not feed their worst fears. Don’t make my own life, the lives of others like me — not to mention your life — worse for a fleeting feeling of pettiness.
No matter how good it might feel.
Fine. For you, Frey. Because it bothers you. And because I love that you’re not bothered by a girl with six eyes and eight limbs. For you, I’ll be the better being.
Besides, you’re right. We have more interesting things to deal with tonight than distressed damsels, stink-eyed suits, and pettiness.
Shifting a garment bag to your other arm, you reach your hand out to me. I pout and fidgetingly tap my fingers against the cardboard between my hands, listening to the jewelry inside jangle with the jostle.
You love public displays of affection. Not just because you like to touch and be touched, part of you loves to flaunt us in front of people. You’re proud to be with me and you don’t care who knows.
I am...less thrilled about it. The way people stare at us. Still more used to living in the shadows, I don’t like being looked at.
But they’re staring already.
So, on a sigh, I juggle my own bags from arm to arm to arm, and reach out a freed hand to clutch yours. I giggle when you, knowing I like it when you act tough and take charge, tug me forward, pulling me closer to you possessively. Like I belong near you. I lift my chin and let you lead me through the crowd, feeling the strength of your grip, being comforted by it, even as I put more sway into my four-legged gait.
The effect would be better if I was wearing anything but the plain, black t-shirt and shorts I threw on to get ready for tonight. I think about all the amazing clothes hanging neatly in the bags we’re carrying, including my own delicate, self-spun lace dress, that had taken months to finish and that I can't wait to show off tonight. I wish I was wearing that. Sauntering away in that would be a statement. Or at least a better one than the rumpled outfit I chose because, when it comes to setting up shop, comfort comes before style.
Whatever. Screw them. All of them. The whole world. I have you, I have my work, I have tonight, and that’s all I need.
We walk to a nondescript building, a blank-faced, barely renovated warehouse, and enter Preyer Service. When the magical community first came out, those who’ve preyed upon humanity under the cover of darkness and in their nightmares for eons, were the first to be targeted. With hate crimes and lynch mobs, with protests and, finally, laws. And, since prey now overwhelmingly outnumber us, monsters made for surprisingly easy marks. Especially now that the shadows where we used to dwell scare them less and less. The timid, little humans of the past were made brave with blindingly brilliant tech and efficiently lethal guns that our fangs and claws and spooky legends can no longer compete with.
Initially, Preyer Service had been created as a way for the government to capture and contain those on predatory lists. For our own protection as well as the public’s, so they said. In reality, with its vague allusion to religion and higher-powered morality, it was the nice, righteous public face for our extermination. We were quarantined and kept in captivity, those of us lucky enough to survive the raids, all in the name of national security and safety. And we stayed that way until the magical community, joined by non-magical legal support, were able to strike a compromise.
Conditional amnesty was granted for those who agreed to reform and conform to society’s laws and norms. And, for those who could not or would not agree...well, mercy is never meant for monsters.
So, even after the official department of Preyer Service was disbanded, those of us who remember keep it alive. We’ve reclaimed it for our own. Built a community in its ashes, where we make our own safety. Where we’re allowed a small space in this new world to be unapologetically ourselves. Where we can gather, for celebration and survival. Where we are protected by each other. And where we protect each other — even from one another and, especially, from ourselves.
There’s a strange accountability in community. We all know each other’s business. We know each other’s partners and practices. We share our joys. We lighten each other’s burdens.
And we call ourselves out, when we see each other slip. We deal with our own. The world can be cruel; no one knows this better than us. We are predators, by nature. But, after being made the modern world’s prey, we won’t be held at anyone’s mercy again.
So we come here. Our safe space.
I look around the building. Once it became ours, we tore down the bureaucratic cubicles and the government-sanctioned cages. We ripped apart the laboratories and gutted the multi-floored warehouse to its original bones. This is our only home — the gathering place of a messy mix of displaced creatures who all need it for countless reasons. This sacred space, like a phoenix, is near nightly built up as required — for pack-led hunts or unholy rituals or orgiastic feasts — only to be torn down again and made new, waiting for its next demand. There is magic in these walls and tested strength in its foundations.
Tonight, it’s bustling with stands and risers. Racks and shelves stand naked and bare, waiting to be dressed and filled for the Night Faire, a seasonal weekend-long market to show off and sell the wares of the monster world. We’re a small community, often with unusual needs, but the one thing that binds us all together with the rest of the world is cold, hard cash.
It used to be we could hunt in the night for what we needed. Pick off varmints or vagrants, those that wouldn’t be missed. We used to live in sprawling forests or hidden caves, haunted places people knew to avoid. Now we pay mortgages and utilities and grocery bills just like everyone else. We, who used to live for the thrill of the hunt and the kill, now barely survive paycheck to paycheck.
Most of us, despite attempts at anti-discrimination laws, are unhirable. We lack the skills and experience and often the bodies for this world. Talons tend to make for poor typists, touch technology tends to not work well with scales, and no one wants to present the face of their company to their clients if it sports fangs or horns.
So, for the most part, we work for ourselves or each other. We employ from and invest into the community. Supporting each other, since no one else will.
I nod to several people as we make our way through the room. Couples and groups huddle together, talking to each other and avoiding everyone else. Even under the best circumstances, predators, by nature, tend to be solitary or pack creatures. We don’t group well. But an awareness hangs heavy in the room. My feelers tingle with it, sending shivers up and down my limbs. I can feel others watching me, even as I indirectly watch them.
“Looks like Jericho brought a new partner.”
I turn to you before eyeing the pretty, young thing hanging on the arm of the vampire in question as the two tally stock. I shake my head. “No, we’ve seen her before. But she lives out of town and only comes to events while on business.”
“Oh yeah.” You nod. “She had blond hair last time; that’s why I didn’t recognize her.”
I shrug, paying less attention to what she looks like — most humans look more or less the same to me — and more to how she appears. Her scent. The sound of her voice. The rhythm of her movements. I turn away, dismissing her as beyond uninteresting.
But there is something interesting here. Someone new. I scan the room, trying to pinpoint the presence.
“Shhh.”
I see it in the corner. A young yeti in a screen-printed t-shirt for The Smoky Case of Dr. Jerky & Mr. Hide, the local werewolf butcher business, is crouched on the floor, his back up against the wall. Even through the cotton shirt, it’s clear his fur is standing on end. Willem, a werewolf in a matching shirt who recently joined the local pack, is kneeling at the yeti’s side, trying to settle him. “You need to calm down.”
He really does. Poor, sweet yeti; he may be a beast, but he’s no monster. His kind had hid in the most remote caves and mountains, hunting deer and rabbits, more afraid of humans than those humans ought to have been of them.
My gaze flicks around the room and sees other eyes zero in on the couple, drawn by the scent, sound, and promise of fear as it mixes with the savory smell of smoked meats. My own body reacts to it, making my mouth water and my blood heat.
In an age-old dance between hunters and the hunted, the yeti instinctively looks up, his ice blue eyes wide as they take in the room’s collective, dangerous gaze. His eyes meet mine across the room and widen. I can’t help but smile, somewhat proudly. Even in a room full of nightmares, I stand out in the crowd.
I grip my box before it slips from hands that would rather grab at prey that already knows it’s mine. My joints feel weak as the scent of his fear blooms stronger, filling the room. As a low rumble echoes hungrily through the space, I can sense countless claws clench and pointed teeth grind. Everywhere, muscles tense in as much restraint as excitement, and any wrong move could tip the balance.
But, then in a moment — for just a moment — the tension eases as San, one of the Preyer Service moderators and a fearsomely powerful witch, leans down and whispers into Willem’s ear, undoubtedly advising he take the yeti and leave, for their own safety as well as everyone else’s. Willem looks sadly at his friend, but nods resignedly. Uncontrolled fear in a gathering like this is like blood in the water.
Speaking of scary, that woman is truly terrifying. San straightens, her beautiful form the picture of serenity in the face of the thwarted bloodbath. Her flowing jewel-toned clothes and dark hair flutter hypnotically around as if she’s moving through some serene sea as unavoidable waves of soothing peace sweep over the room. It’s hard to believe that she’s one of the deadliest creatures in this room — in existence. But we’ve all heard the legends surrounding her. For all her elegance and grace, the blood on her hands could make a vampire weep. That kind of power, that level of legend, is the only way to make a den of hungry predators bend like this.
Taking advantage of San’s enforced clarity, I subtly shuffle my things to stretch out my limbs, trying to rid my body of any residual strain. Others shake their heads, trying to clear the haze of the hunt’s call. Others still turn back to their business and curl their lips in disappointment, in silent longing for the good old days.
I understand that longing. I do. But, with overpopulation and advancement, the world has become too small. There’s no safety in the shadows anymore. We may be humanity's nightmares but, without the alliance with the humans, they would have been our extinction.
We ought to hate them. Some of us do.
But I look at you. And I can’t. I want to. I want to hate them for everything they’ve done to us. For everything they’ve taken from us. For everything we used to be — creatures of myth and legend to be feared and respected — and now, because of them, can’t.
But here you are, hefting bags filled with my creations as you weave past and wave at inhuman creatures. Walking among us like there’s no difference. Like you’re one of us. As if we’re just like you. How do you do that?
If the home is where your heart is, what happens when it’s taken away from you?
Aida, a spider woman, and her human partner, Frey, belong to a community for monsters called Preyer Service, that resides in the middle of a human city. But, after a human child frightened by one of the monsters is injured in an accident, the humans in the neighborhood want to shut it down and push the monsters out of their streets.
As the human and the monster communities clash, Aida and Frey find themselves stuck in an awkward and dangerous middle, facing anti-monster, humanity-first attitudes everywhere they go. Aida and Frey will have to do their best to work with those in their world, human and monster alike, to stay together and rebuild the broken heart of their community.
Spice level: fade to black
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