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I shrugged, toeing at the ground. “It never came up.” And truly, it never did. I wasn’t in the habit of going around telling people who and what I was. Who did that? It sounded like a great way to get killed, or captured, or chopped up for parts.
“I should have charged more,” Beatrice said, stewing. The Fuck-Tons laughed in musical unison.
“That’s predatory,” I said. “Or discriminatory. One or the other. Maybe both. You should charge me the same as the rest of your clients.”
She leaned over her counter, one hand flying up to point a finger into my face yet again. I noticed that her palm had left a wet stain in the wood. “I told you, I’m already giving you a discounted rate for the shimmerscale. Listen here, nephyl – nivel – Niflheim.”
“It’s nephilim,” I growled.
“I don’t like you,” she growled back.
“Well, I generally think you’re okay, but right now you’re being kind of a jerk.”
Imperial reached out this time, patting Beatrice’s hand. “Now, now, the two of you, let’s not be so aggressive with each other.” It was interesting, seeing how the two drag queens had such a calming influence on Beatrice. Each time one of them spoke, she looked at them and listened intently, with all the respect and reverence of a child attending to a grandmother. A really, really big grandmother. Two of them.
“We’ll absorb the cost of the destroyed handbag,” Metric told Beatrice, all sweet and motherly. “So you won’t have to worry about it again. We can always make another one, sweetie.”
“That’s true,” Beatrice said softly, her mouth in a pout, her eyes still stabbing daggers into my head.
“Now,” Metric said. “What was the cost that you agreed upon again?”
“Ten thousand dollars.” Beatrice folded her arms with all the gravity of a businesswoman who simply, absolutely refused to budge on her final offer.
“A fair price for something crafted out of shimmerscale,” Imperial said, adjusting her own monocle. “Nephilim, consider this a favor. We will assist Beatrice in creating something suitable for you.”
I stammered. “I, um. Okay, that’s really nice of you. But that means it’d have to be made out of leather.”
Beatrice Rex and the Fuck-Tons smiled at me with huge, leering grins. I knew instinctively that not one of them was related to the other, but the family resemblance was striking. It was Beatrice who spoke.
“What are your thoughts about an enchanted leather thong?”
20
The ladies were joking, as it turned out, which was just as well. Nothing against the lifestyle, I mean, but tiny leather panties did not sound very comfortable to me at all. They meant a thong necklace, one of those narrow cords of leather you wore with a pendant around your neck, in this case, sans pendant.
“I like the direction you’re heading with that,” I said, equal parts relieved and intrigued.
“Oh, absolutely,” Imperial said. “It simply wouldn’t do to have you wearing it as a belt now, would it? The enchantment must be something that clings to your skin at all times. What if an entity tries to pounce on you in the shower?”
Metric shuddered. They weren’t exaggerating, either. I’d heard stories. Entities loved to harp on about etiquette when it came to humans approaching them for favors, but they sure as hell were happy enough to show up unannounced whenever they damn well pleased. Dustin Graves would often joke about it happening to him, so much that I had to wonder if they were legitimate complaints rather than actual jokes.
“A friend told me that Arachne is especially fond of pulling that sort of trick,” I offered. Dustin and Arachne had a special bond, but even then it was kind of creepy, the way she could send her spiders in to visit whenever she wanted.
“Oh, don’t get me started,” Metric said, waving a hand and visibly shuddering again.
“Yeah,” Beatrice said, chuckling, her eyes a little distant. “I’ve heard the same.”
“But that’s how it works, you see,” Imperial said. “The relationships we humans have with the entities, they’re all contractual, all about give and take. The problem is that some of them will feel a sense of entitlement, or maybe even develop a fondness for a particular human. Still, strange as it seems, the risks are well worth it with someone as knowledgable as Arachne.”
Florian looked between the rest of us, then chimed in. “Is she that spider-woman? Comes from Greek myth? Got too cocky about her weaving skills or something, got cursed.”
I smiled at him, impressed that he got something right about mythology for once. “That’s the one.”
“It’s interesting how modern times have shifted the balance of power,” Imperial added. “Arachne was only a woman cursed by the gods, but in a world like ours, where information is so precious, so expensive? Someone who can hear all the secrets holds all the power. And there are very few places in the world that spiders cannot access.”
That got me thinking. Florian and I hadn’t heard from Belphegor since our run-in at the Amphora, and we had no clues about the next weapon Loki wanted, Mistleteinn. I didn’t very much like the idea of getting in touch with a demon prince to check on that, because the last thing you want is to owe one of the Seven another favor. Gambanteinn’s location was a clue freely given. But maybe, despite all the sinister stories – maybe Arachne could help us.
“Hypothetically,” I said. “Theoretically. If someone was interested in getting in touch with Arachne for, you know, a communion. How would that someone go about finding the spider-queen?”
