Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
P erhaps it would have been wiser to stay away from Clio until he got a letter back from Stuart Forth, but to be honest, Joss didn’t wish to. He was very much afraid they would be parted soon, and selfishly, he wanted to spend every moment with her that he could.
On top of that, his plan was working. Clio had begun to be added back into the warp and weft of the Night Market community. He didn’t exactly understand how she’d been cut out and left dangling outside, but the process was reversing. He could see it. And he desperately hoped the friendship and support would sustain her in her dealings with the Hagans.
He'd used an apt analogy, it turned out, because tonight Clio took him to meet Audra, the weaver who created those diaphanous shawls he’d seen draped to advantage when he first arrived. Clio made the introductions, and he followed as she went around the stall, exclaiming over the deep-hooded cloaks, the fur-lined capes and especially the lovely shawls.
“They look as if you spun them from silk and moonlight,” he told her, impressed with the unique beauty of her garments.
Audra looked pleased. “Well, you are partly right. It is silk I weave for those particular wraps. Spider silk.”
Joss blinked. “Hold a moment. Spider silk? Truly?”
“Truly. I’ve developed several spells that make it possible for me to work with it like other natural fibers.”
A chill tried to sweep through him, but he pushed it away. “Your spiders must be of an incredible size.”
“They are of varying sizes. Come,” she beckoned. “I’ll show you.”
Joss hesitated, but Clio was already following, stepping behind a colorfully woven curtain at the side of the stall. It’s an old fear , he told himself. Already faced .
He stopped when he saw the wall of glass cages. At least a dozen of them, all sizes, and each filled with a distinct habitat, from grassy, to lush and wet and green, to desert sands.
“Different spiders supply different sizes and types of silk,” Audra was saying. “They are not pets, but partners. They have different requirements. Some live in colonies. Others must be isolated. They have individualized living conditions and different sorts of live prey. I provide for them and they provide silk in return.”
Clio was staring at the largest enclosure. “Is this one in hiding?”
Audra’s face fell. “No, that one is empty. Unfortunately, I lost my Gossamer spider. She was of a very special breed, one developed by witches who live on an island in the Bristol channel. Gossamers are cave dwellers and are completely translucent. They produce the thickest silk, one that changes color with the light. It was a sore loss. Sometime I will have to travel to the island to procure another, but it will be quite an undertaking and require someone to watch these, as well as other preparations.”
“Where, exactly, is the island?” Clio asked.
“Just off Portishead.”
“It would be easier if the Market spent a couple of days in that vicinity.”
“Oh, yes. It would, rather.”
“Then I think you should say it out loud.”
Audra looked puzzled. “Say, what, exactly?”
“Just make a statement that you would like it if we ended up near Portishead for a few days.”
“Can you make that happen?” Audra asked, her eyes wide.
“Not me,” Clio said. “But the Night Market sees us. Hears us. Sometimes, it just knows where one of us needs to be—and there we go.” She shrugged. “I’ve seen it happen before. It’s worth a try.”
Audra stared a moment. “It would be so helpful if the Night Market spent a couple of days near Portishead, in Somerset.” She looked to Clio. “That’s it?”
“Now we wait,” Clio said. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”
Audra glanced back to where Joss was still standing near the curtain. “You are very quiet, Mr. Hagan. Do my spiders unnerve you?”
Joss sighed.
“He told me they are not his favorite,” Clio offered.
“You are not the first person I’ve known to have a fear of them.”
Joss let his gaze wander over her collection. “I did fear them at one time.”
“But no longer?”
“No. I was forced to face it.” Endure it . For a moment, he lost himself in the memories, reliving the terror, the horror of finding himself reflected in the lens of eight eyes, the feeling of suffocation, the screaming?—
“Joss? Joss?”
He started, and realized Clio had been speaking to him. He shook himself. “What’s that? I’m sorry.”
“No, do not apologize,” Audra said gently. “Fear is a powerful thing.”
“It’s true,” Clio said, watching him anxiously. “My greatest fear?—”
“No!” Joss said sharply. “Keep that to yourself,” he ordered. “Do not give anyone the sort of information that might be used against you.”
“He’s right,” Audra said. “Fear can be a terrible weapon. It’s perhaps the most dangerous of human emotions.”
“No,” Joss rasped. “Not fear.”
Both women looked at him, questioning.
“Appetite. That is the most dangerous human trait.”
Audra stared. Clio frowned.
“Appetite,” he insisted. He looked at Clio. “That draugar, the one that killed my entire village in a night? It was once human. But that person died. It was resurrected and became nothing but a walking appetite. Unending hunger is the only human characteristic that remains.” His tone grew rough. “And who did it? Who cast the spell to create such a monster? A witch or warlock with an appetite for something—revenge or power, likely.”
“Joss,” Clio whispered.
“I’ve seen it. Up close. And it is the ugliest thing a human can become—so infused with the hunger—for money, influence, acclaim, any of it—that they sweep any other consideration away. There is no thought for consequences. No care for others. They are transformed into monsters themselves . . . or worse, garbage.” He knew he likely sounded unhinged, but he wanted Clio, especially, to understand. “No longer a person, but garbage,” he insisted. “That is what you become if you put your own hunger before all and become blind to the incredible value we all bring. If you always put yourself first and no longer have respect or concern for others.”
Now both women were staring.
He was uncharacteristically adamant, but if Clio was soon to meet his great-uncle, he wanted her to recognize him for what he was. To realize she would never mean anything to him, save for what he could gain from her. He would never see her value as an intelligent, incredible, giving person.
He started as his name was called somewhere nearby.
“Droose?” He turned and pushed past the curtain. “Droose! What is it?”
“The letter you were waiting for!” Breathing heavily, Droose waved a bit of parchment. “It has arrived!”
“Thank you!” Joss took it and looked back where Clio had followed Audra out. He went to squeeze her hand. “It’s late. I need to go and see if this answers our questions, but we will talk. First thing in the morning? Yes?” He waited for her nod before rushing out, heading for his tent and hopefully the information he needed.
Clio pushed through the crowds. Night had fallen and the Market was in full swing. She’d allowed Joss to leave Audra’s tent without a fight, but she would be damned before she waited until morning to find out what he’d discovered. She would go to his tent if she must. But first, she would check on Maret.
She found her mentor shuffling around her cluttered tent, muttering in agitation.
“Maret! What is it? Are you well?”
“Yes, yes.” The old woman waved the question away. “I’m just . . . uneasy. Something feels . . . not right. But I cannot tell what it is . I cannot see like I used to.”
Clio glanced toward the dragon and the lantern.
“Yes, the Market is restless, too. It’s been tugging at me, trying for more power. Have you felt it?”
Clio paused. “No. I don’t think so.” She threw her hands up. “I’m not sure. It’s been an uneasy day, all around.” She put her arm around Maret’s thin shoulder. “Come. Have you eaten?”
“Oh, yes. I’m just tired. I should retire early, perhaps.”
Clio saw her settled. Sitting on the side of the bed, she smoothed the blanket. “I am just a call away. If you need me, you know I will hear you.”
“No, no. I am sure it’s just an old woman’s notions. I’ll see you in the morning.” Maret shot a glance toward the lantern. “But perhaps you will take a walk through the Market before you sleep?”
“I will,” Clio promised. “Goodnight.”
She did as Maret had asked and moved through the lanes, keeping her senses tuned for trouble. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, however. Finishing her search, she stopped at her tent, intending to freshen up before she sought out Joss to inquire what he’d found out.
She reached for the pins in her hair as she stepped inside—but froze when she realized someone was there before her.
An older man with exquisite tailoring and greying hair stood caressing the verbena that grew in a pot on her bookshelf as he examined the titles in her collection.
“Excuse me,” she said frostily. “Who are you? This is a private tent, as marked, not a part of the Market.”
He turned, his gaze running over her in avid curiosity. “Ah, there you are. I’ve been waiting for you. Miss Clio, I presume?”
“Yes. Waiting?” she asked pointedly. “Uninvited, in my tent?”
“My name is Wilmot Hagan,” he said, undisturbed. “I understand you have lately employed my great-nephew?”
“Joss.”
“Yes.”
“Yes. We have. He’s signed a short-term contract with one of my vendors.”
“Has he not mentioned me to you?”
“He has. He told me a little about the family who raised him.”
The old man heaved a sigh. “I assume he was not complimentary when he spoke of us.”
She lifted a shoulder. “We barely spoke of you at all, actually, but I am sure he will be glad to see you.” She stepped aside, gesturing. “I will be happy to take you to his tent.”
“Actually, I have come to see you.”
She stilled. “Why?”
His gaze narrowed. “Ah. He did speak ill of us, then. I suppose he told you about the damned spider.”
She looked up sharply.
“Listen, it was a prank.” He sounded impatient. “Boys do this sort of thing. Joss was not permanently harmed. He made too much of it all. My wife got there in time. He should just let the past go.”
Clio’s lips pressed together. “I’m sorry. Joss hasn’t mentioned any of this to me.”
“Oh. Well. Good, then. It’s not important.” He walked over and lit the collection of candles on her desk with a snap of his fingers. “I assume you are familiar with the bauble that accompanies Joss?”
She only nodded, not trusting herself to speak. How could she convince him to tell her how he acquired it?
“I gave it to him, you see.”
“So he said. A family heirloom.”
He watched her closely. “Did Joss tell you that he and the bauble were meant to be looking for someone?”
“He mentioned a mission.”
“I sent them out, along with others, to find someone lost to me.”
“Who?” she asked in a whisper.
“The man who created that bauble.”
Her heart was pounding. “His name?” she asked.
“He was called Finn. Finn Hagan. My son.”
Clio staggered back a step. Reaching out, she clutched a chair as thunder cracked overhead.
Wilmot Hagan glanced up.
“Oh, that explains it,” she said weakly. “Approaching storms always give me the worst headaches.”
The old man stepped closer. “Clio, I would like to invite you to my home. We would like to have you visit.”
She dropped her head into her hand. “I’m sorry. I think I must lie down. Are you staying in Bath? Perhaps we can speak tomorrow.”
He stood, and she turned away to hide her pounding heart, the rush of fury in her blood. “Please.”
Hagan looked thoughtful. “Very well.”
Clio sank down into the chair and pulled in one deep breath after another. Control.
She waited long enough for Wilmot Hagan to have left the Market, then she stood and stalked out, intent on finding Joss.
She was not in control, and for once she didn’t care.