Ensnared: An Alien Romance Trilogy (The Spider’s Mate Book 1)
Ensnared: Chapter 1

Moonfall Tunnel was all but deserted as Ketahn strode along it. The soft glow of the spiritcap mushrooms growing on the rough-hewn stone could not banish the dancing shadows cast by the blue-green spinewood sap flames, which burned in bowls carved into the tunnel walls. The only sounds were the soft crackles and pops produced by the fires.

Silk hung from the entrances of the quiet dens in both raw strands and woven fabric, most of it worn thin and tattered. All but a few of those dens were dark inside. Even the crafters’ chambers, which were wider, more open spaces, were deserted.

A breeze flowed over Ketahn from ahead, carrying the merest hint of warm jungle air scented by sweet jesan flowers and damp wood. As always, he would rather have been out there, roaming the Tangle. He favored the twisting roots, gnarled branches, and cloying plants over Takarahl’s carved stone and dim blue light; he would rather cross hungry mires and knots of grappler plants than these echoing passages.

But there was little choice today—it was Offering Day, when the vrix of Takarahl gathered in the Den of Spirits to make their offerings to the Eight.

Ketahn paused at the entrance to one of the dens. The swath of silk hanging over the opening was long, tightly woven, and dyed with vibrant colors in intricate patterns, serving as a display of its crafter’s skill for all who strode down Moonfall Tunnel.

Keeping his barbed spear resting over his upper left shoulder, Ketahn raised a foreleg and extended it, sweeping the silk aside.

Darkness greeted him, but it was familiar darkness. He slipped into the small den, bracing his lower left hand on the stone shelf beside him without looking at it. In all the years Ketahn’s friend, Rekosh, had kept this den, he’d never left a single object out of place. Ketahn could navigate it in the dark by instinct alone.

Ketahn lowered his spear, dropping the coiled rope attached to the blunt end onto the floor and standing the weapon against the wall. Next, he swung his yatin hide bag off his back. He held it between his lower hands as he opened it and reached inside to remove a thick, leaf-wrapped bundle.

After ensuring the rawhide strips binding the bundle were secure, he placed his bag beside his spear, exited Rekosh’s den, and continued deeper into the tunnel.

Though the bundle was light, it bore an implied weight that could not be measured by any scale. To most vrix, this offering would appear generous. Mender roots were rare, and there were few known places in the Tangle where they could be foraged. Medicines made from the roots cured many ailments and eased pain. A gift of mender root was a sign of selflessness, honor, and compassion.

He hoped they’d send a different message to the queen.

Ketahn slowed as he neared the entrance of another den, this one much larger than Rekosh’s—it had been sized to accommodate a female and her brood. Though he did not recognize the wispy strands of silk dangling from the arched entryway, he knew the shape of the stone itself, knew the smooth spots worn into it where his mother used to lean with one of her thick forelegs crossed in front of the other as she spoke to other vrix who had dwelled in Moonfall Tunnel.

He placed a hand upon one of those spots. The stone was cold and hard under his hide, as smooth as if it had been caressed by a river for a hundred lifetimes. He recalled how his broodsister, Ahnset, had always tried to mimic their mother’s stance. Ahnset had been like Ishuun in miniature, right down to the way she’d moved her legs when she walked.

But Ahnset had dwelled with the Queen’s Fangs these past seven years. Ketahn had denned in the Tangle for just as long. And their mother, Ishuun…she had been dead all that time. This hatching den had been granted to a new female years ago, a female who would use it to raise her brood. Ketahn and his broodsister had no claim on it.

Removing his hand from the stone, Ketahn continued onward, striding with purpose. He had not returned to Takarahl to reminisce—though he fully intended to rouse the spirits of the past.

Ketahn found Rekosh and Urkot just beyond Moonfall, awaiting him in a large, round chamber where eight separate tunnels converged. He’d known them since all three were broodlings, but Rekosh and Urkot made an odd pair even in Ketahn’s eyes.

Rekosh was nearly as tall as Ketahn, his body lean and limbs spindly. His movements displayed an effortless grace that was enhanced by his fingers—the claws at their tips were sharpened to fine points to better aid his work. The silk pouch slung across his chest and over one shoulder bulged with what was undoubtedly his offering, and Ketahn could see a few wooden spools of thread and bone needles in their leather sleeves also tucked within.

Urkot was nearly a third of a segment shorter, but his body was thick and powerful. Since he’d been a broodling, other vrix had jested that Urkot was sculpted like a female—had the sculptor been working with half the usual amount of clay. He always seemed firm and grounded even though the absence of his lower left arm should’ve made him appear off balance. The lower portions of all six of his legs and all three of his hands were coated in a layer of stone dust that paled his black hide to white.

Mandibles spreading wide, Rekosh lowered his jaw and snapped it shut. His red eyes gleamed in the glow of the chamber’s crystals like eight bloodstones. “We shall be fortunate to reach the dais and make our offerings before next Offering Day by now.”

“I made haste,” Ketahn replied, stopping in front of his friends. He extended his forelegs; Rekosh brushed his own against one while Urkot did the same to the other. The tiny hairs on Ketahn’s hide picked up his friends’ scents; silk and stone.

“Had you denned understone yesterday, we would already have finished our part in this,” said Rekosh.

“I cannot sleep understone.”

Rekosh’s mandibles twitched, and he tilted his head. “Cannot or will not?”

“Ketahn cannot sleep without fresh leaves stuffed in his slit,” Urkot said, thumping the floor with one leg. He dropped his left hand to the satchel hanging at his side and adjusted the bag, producing a clack of stone against stone from within.

Ketahn snapped his mandible fangs together. “Better leaves in my slit than rocks.”

Urkot chittered. “Pebbles in places they do not belong is a small problem. Barely notice them anymore.” His humor faded quickly, and his eyes—glowing the same blue as the markings on his hide—hardened. “You should not have come, Ketahn. I would have made an offering in your stead.”

The weight of Urkot’s words formed a lump in Ketahn’s chest, but he would not waver in his purpose now. “She made her wishes clear.”

“Has that ever mattered to you before?”

Ketahn tapped the side of his foreleg against Urkot’s. “I would not have you risk your life on my behalf.”

Urkot’s mandibles rose and fell hesitantly.

“You must be warned, Ketahn,” said Rekosh in a low voice. His markings shone red, contrasting Urkot’s blue. “There have been whispers along the web while you’ve been away.”

“Are there not always whispers?” Ketahn asked. The roots in his hand felt heavier than ever, but he ignored their weight.

“She means to take a mate.”

Ketahn glanced down the adjoining tunnels, each of which glowed with the gentle light of crystals and spiritcaps. Takarahl seemed ominously still and empty.

“She has taken many males,” he said. “It does not concern me should she take another.”

“A mate, Ketahn.” Rekosh narrowed his eyes. “It is whispered that she desires a brood of her own. She lacks only a mate worthy of siring her eggs.”

Clenching the bundled roots, Ketahn turned his head to stare down Heartsthread Tunnel, which led to the Den of Spirits. He had known this news would come eventually. It would have brought him to sever the final threads binding him to Takarahl long ago were those threads not so strong and meaningful.

Queen Zurvashi had never hidden her desire for Ketahn in the years after her war against the thornskull vrix of Kaldarak. If ever he might’ve felt honored or prideful due to her attentions, the chances of it were as dead as his mother, sire, and eight of his nine brothers and sisters.

Urkot bent his forelegs inward, scraping the hooked claws on their tips across the stone floor. “You still mean to go?”

Ketahn raised his hand to display the leaf-wrapped bundle. “I must make my offering to the Eight. Zurvashi would want nothing less.”

Rekosh eased forward, dipping his head until his face nearly touched the bundle, and drew in a deep breath. His eyes widened, and he straightened quickly. “Mender root?”

“Ketahn, you fool,” growled Urkot.

With a chitter, Rekosh spread his forelegs and sank into a shallow bow, all four arms spread wide. His long black and red hair, woven into a thick braid, fell over his shoulder. “As ever, Ketahn, time spent with you proves nothing if not thrilling.”

“You should not encourage him,” Urkot scolded. “The queen is unlikely to replace humor in this.”

“She is not meant to replace humor in it,” Ketahn replied.

“It is not worth her wrath.”

“Zurvashi has made clear her wishes,” Ketahn snapped, gnashing his mandibles, “and I am obeying!”

“That is the reason for your late arrival,” said Rekosh. “You were searching the Tangle for that root just to spite her.”

Urkot stared up at Ketahn, mandibles moving from side to side as though he were struggling to keep them from clamping together. The question in his eyes was as clear as though he’d spoken it aloud.

Is this worth your life?

“I have lost most everything because of her,” Ketahn said, keeping his voice low despite the flare of angry heat in his chest. “If she takes anything more, it will be on my terms.”

Urkot released a huff and scratched his chin with the tip of a claw. “If this is what you wish, Ketahn, I shall stride with you.”

“As will I,” said Rekosh. “But the High Claiming will be upon us soon. She is unlikely to forgive a rejection this year.”

“Even queens must learn to accept disappointment.” Ketahn relaxed his mandibles and opened his mouth to let out a huff of his own. The air he drew into his lungs was cold and stale, so unlike the hot, damp, fresh air of the surface. “I do not seek to throw my life away when so many others have been destroyed already. I want only to return to the Tangle and fulfill my duty.”

Ketahn tapped his friends’ forelegs with the ends of his own and tucked the mender roots against his side. “For all you have complained of me being late, where is Telok? He should have arrived before either of you.”

Rekosh and Urkot exchanged a glance; brief as it was, Ketahn knew exactly what it meant.

“Do not withhold what you know,” Ketahn said, letting his mandibles droop.

“The Moonfall matrons bade Telok and the other hunters enter the Tangle to replace fresh quarry last sunfall,” Urkot said, his voice a low rumble. “They are not expected to return until next suncrest.”

Ketahn straightened, curling his hands into fists. He longed to have his barbed spear in hand, though he knew it could do him no good now, that it would bring him no comfort. “The night before Offering Day?”

“Because we have had nothing to fill our bellies but roots and mushrooms these past three eightdays, at least.”

“There is no meat in Moonfall Tunnel,” said Rekosh, “save that rotting on the bones of our neighbors. The rest is spitted over the queen’s cooking fires.”

Anger swelled in Ketahn’s chest. The tiny hairs on his limbs stood on end, and his hide thrummed with restless energy. Though he rarely worked alongside the other hunters, he knew they were fulfilling their duties—they were bringing fresh meat into the city daily, enough to ensure that every vrix had some to eat.

“You speak true?” he asked.

Rekosh bent his arms at their elbows and crossed his forearms in the air in front of his chest, creating the sign of the Eight.

No vrix invoked the gods lightly—and Rekosh rarely did so at all.

“The same whispers come from all over Takarahl. Only those close to the queen have ample meat.”

Even when he’d been a broodling, Rekosh had possessed a talent for gathering information—and gossip. Ketahn was never sure just how his friend managed to know everything that was going on in Takarahl and all the rumors spreading amongst its inhabitants, but Rekosh’s information was rarely incorrect.

The Tangle was nearing the end of the current calm season. With the flood season looming, many of the jungle creatures were in a state of migration, seeking out new dens that would keep them out of the flood waters that would ravage the land. This was one of the most bountiful times of year to hunt—more creatures on the move meant more opportunity for kills.

There was no reason for the vrix of Takarahl to be suffering a meat shortage now.

Ketahn tightened his hold on the bundled roots, making the thick leaves around them creak. “We cannot allow this to continue.”

“You are not the only one who feels that way,” said Rekosh.

“Silence yourselves,” Urkot hissed. His words echoed along several of the nearby tunnels, bouncing back to the chamber in eerie fragments. “We risk enough talking as freely as we have been, so go no further. Her web runs ever wider and is woven far more intricately than yours, Rekosh.”

Rekosh and Ketahn snapped their mouths shut. Urkot’s rebuke did not lessen Ketahn’s anger, but it granted him focus—enough focus to understand the ultimate impotence of his rage.

Ketahn drummed his fingers on the upper segments of his legs. His mandibles were low, but they were unrelaxed. Though he was agitated, he wanted to be sure it was clear he wasn’t angry at Urkot. He brought his forearms flat together, side-by-side, in a brief gesture of apology.

“Come,” he said, turning toward Heartsthread Tunnel. “I must make my offering to the Eight that our queen might better understand my loyalty.”