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The next evening . . .
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Shamira was plastered against the wall of Banshee’s room, unable to move. She wasn’t bound by chain or rope of any kind. She was a captive of a fear so pure and primal that it had existed since mankind first walked upright. Across from her, in perfectly maintained glass habitats, was Banshee’s collection of spiders.
The Japanese assassin, who had gotten back earlier that day, actually had a quirk to her mouth. She wasn’t well known for smiling, but she was vastly amused by this reaction. It had been decided that Shamira needed to get over this phobia, and she had shown up in the early hours after dark to start her therapy. And Banshee had a lot of therapy. She had one of each of the ten most venomous spiders on the planet, including North American favorites the Black Widow and Brown Recluse, along with some gems like the Red Back and Funnel Web spiders. Every major continent was represented. After the venomous ones were the spiders that really freaked her out — tarantulas. They were bigger, hairier, and altogether capable of scaring the ever-loving shit out of Shamira.
“They can’t get you,” Banshee explained for the millionth time. “I promise. I’ve never had one break out of its habitat and run a vampire to ground. Not even once. And you’ve never even been bitten?”
Shamira slowly moved her head from side to side. Her skin was trembling and heart was beating involuntarily. She didn’t want to be there. She didn’t understand what had possessed her to even try.
“You do realize that you’re immortal don’t you? Their venom wouldn’t even work on you,” Clara said from the doorway, trying to be helpful. Admittedly, the woman’s arrival did make Shamira feel a teeny-tiny bit better.
“Actually, that’s not entirely true,” Banshee replied. “Some have a venom that causes necrosis rather than invading the blood stream and . . . this isn’t helping isn’t it?” she asked as Shamira tried to physically push herself through the wall behind her.
“No, you’re being the opposite of helpful,” Clara said, moving to Shamira’s side. “Listen, you can do this,” she told her friend. “Mind over matter. You’ve been able to do everything else you set your mind to, so this should be a cakewalk.”
“An evil, eight-legged cakewalk,” Shamira muttered.
“They are not evil,” Banshee replied primly. “Stand over there.” She waited for Shamira to slowly make her way to the appointed spot. Then she opened up one of the enclosures and let a hairy monstrosity walk onto the back of her hand. “This is a Chilean Rose tarantula. I just call her Rosita.” Rosita lumbered carefully up Banshee’s arm. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”
Shamira was willing to bet the devil himself would be beautiful too. One was still supposed to keep one’s distance.
Banshee pointed at another cage. That’s a Golden Silk Orb-Weaver . . . the kind that Shane’s hopefully new acquisition turns into. The web actually seems golden when it reflects the light, hence the name. You’re going to have to get a little closer than that to see it.”
“What part of ‘abject terror’ are you having a problem comprehending?” Shamira asked. ‘Mind over matter,’ she thought. ‘None of them can kill you. Blood-based poisons won’t work on you. You can do this.’ Her mind seemed more confident than her feet, because they still weren’t moving. Banshee seemed to realize that Rosita’s presence in the open might be contributing to the woman’s unease, so put her away. “Would you like to try coming a little closer?”
Shamira willed her feet to move one step forward, and then another. She was a full yard from the wall, and every limb she had began to shake. Her eyes were fixed on that little glass cell with golden webs. The spider itself was a mix of yellow, black, and red, and looked to her like something out of Starship Troopers. It was just sitting there, not moving at all, but Shamira was convinced that one of those beady little eyes was looking at her, thinking about how it would like to bite her pump venom into her system and —
Someone touched Shamira’s shoulder. She screamed so loud that several spiders hid in the back of their habitats, Banshee glowered, and Clara was staring incredulously over Shamira’s shoulder.
“Did I come at a bad time?” Henry asked to Shamira, who was back against the wall and looking unlikely to move again.
“You . . . are . . . an idiot,” Banshee said, poking Henry in the chest.
“I just wanted to –”
“Idiot!”
“Uhm, I think I’ll be going –”
“Idiot!”
“Shamira, Ineedtotalktoyouassoonasyou’reavailable. It’sbusinessnotpleasure,” Henry replied in one fell swoop, then quickly fled the room. Banshee was an assassin, and she’d been doing her job for one-hundred and seventy years, and wasn’t the sort of person you wanted to antagonize.
Shamira started inching her way along the wall towards the door.
“Stay!” Banshee said.
Conflicting fears clashed in Shamira’s head . . . spiders or Banshee.
“Come here!” Banshee barked.
‘Banshee is scarier,’ Shamira thought. ‘For now.’
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