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“Her nest,” he said, rather unnecessarily. “But I suspect it is not her only one.”
I swallowed heavily, my gaze on the ceiling and all the critters up there. There was no way in hell I was getting any closer to that room. They didn’t appear to have noticed me, and I had no inclination to change that situation. “What makes you say that?”
“These spiders are larger than the ones who attacked us and therefore more likely to be older.”
That a dark spirit was capable of having more than one cache of babies was something I did not want to think about. I forced my gaze from the creepy-crawlies and studied the body on the bed—although to call it a body was something of a misnomer. The other victims we’d seen might have been little more than preserved skin, but there wasn’t even that much left of Summer. Just some dark hair on the pillow and a few bits of what looked like nails and bone remnants.
A shudder ran through me. Azriel rubbed my arms, but the heat of his touch did little to combat the chill.
“Why would she have more than one lot of babies?” I asked. “And if she does, why the hell aren’t we overrun with spiderlike dark spirits here on earth?”
“I would suggest the reason is because they’re cannibalistic.”
“What?”
“Look at the carpet. It is littered with carcasses.”
He was right. It was. In fact, the remnants of little black bodies were so thick that the gray carpet looked like patchwork. “So she kills the victims to feed her young, but when the young get old enough, they feed on one another? How does that make sense?”
“It would ensure only the strongest of them survive. It is not unusual behavior.”
“Maybe in your world, but not in mine,” I muttered. I knew that there were some animal species where the young did eat one another, but only if there wasn’t another food source, and it was generally rare.
“Children are not as common in my world as yours and therefore somewhat revered.” His voice held a hint of censure. “We certainly would not allow them to harm one another in any way.”
Which wasn’t what I meant and he knew it. But I let it slide and glanced up at him. “I thought reapers lived in big family groups?”
“We do.”
“Then why would children be rare? Do you suffer the same sort of problem that has killed off most of the Aedh?”
“No. Aedh breed only when their death is imminent, which kept their numbers stable for millennia. No one can say what changed, but we think the Raziq had a lot to do with it.”
That raised my eyebrows. “They killed off their own kind?”
“They believe in their cause and would certainly be capable of wiping out all opposition. In this case, that would mean those who tended and believed in the current viability of the gates.”
“All of which doesn’t explain why reapers don’t breed willy-nilly.”
He hesitated. “It is a combination of our long life spans and the fact that our recharge partners aren’t always our Caomhs.”
“Can you have both?”
“Rarely. And if a reaper only ever finds his recharge companion, he will not be blessed with children.”
“And have you any children?” I asked, curious and perhaps a little . . . afraid. Because if he had children, that would mean he’d met his Caomh, which in turn meant there was never any hope for us.
Not that there ever really was.
His expression closed over. “I am not the Aedh, Risa. I do not want or need multiple partners. If I had a Caomh waiting in the fields for me, I would not be with you.”
Summarily—though gently—chastised, I pulled my gaze from his and stepped back onto safer ground. “So what do you suggest we do about these spiders? Do we leave them, keep watch on the apartment, or what?”
“You do not wish to call your uncle?”
I hesitated. “How likely are the spiders to attack anyone who enters that room?”
“Very. Their hunger stings the air.”
