Who: Zari and Aaron Spider-man What: A nice, summer drive in the fog, to bury people Where: A road, the Black Mansion When: Last night Warnings: These two need therapy
She was waiting outside at the stroke of ten. She had already packed the trunk of the nondescript Civic Tomas had (as promised) delivered with the things she knew they would need, and she was (for the first time) thankful of the fog that coated the city. It would make driving dangerous, si, but it would also make it easier to hide. She was not concerned about being seen with an Araña. No, she was concerned with being seen arriving at a murder scene. As a medical examiner, she was a member of local law enforcement, even if she did not have a police car and a shiny badge. This was a risk, but one she felt importante to take.
She was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt from the university of La Havana, and she tugged down the sleeves which hid the bruises above her wrists from her father’s hands. She had left him sleeping peacefully, after they had played a game of chess and shared a mug of hot chocolate. The windows were reinforced and the door barred with a lock only she could open. She never knew what she would find once she returned home.
She leaned against the car hood, and she wished she could see beyond her nose. She hoped this was not a very long drive they were embarking upon, and she touched the medical bag on the hood, ensuring it had not moved. Within it, she had enough vials to take various samples from Black’s padres. Spider-Man was starting to run into walls, and he didn’t like it. For all intents and purposes, he should have loved the fact that his ridiculously hot neighbor - that had kissed him in-costume the previous week - was babying him. He should have been absolutely thrilled that people were worrying about him, caring about his recovery. And he should have felt some sense of unity, knowing that the other Masks now knew what Black was capable of doing and what Black had done to him.
So why did he feel so alone?
Maybe that was why the Weatherman was pissing him off so much. Maybe, despite his urge to tell the other man to just create a LiveJournal account and write some sad poems, he found himself identifying with him more than he wanted to admit. The closer people came, the further they moved away. MK was getting close, too close, and he was starting to resent her for it. Liz had always known too much, though he was grateful that she hadn’t yet brought up the video. It was only a matter of time, though. The ticking of the clock just brought him closer, second by second, to the day when he truly was alone.
Thankfully, these thoughts couldn’t plague him as he web-zipped through the city towards Zaldana’s office. He was focused on trying to see in this fog, his body stretching itself to its absolute limits. Though his shoulder was healing, he was still in a great deal of pain. He had managed to stitch up some of the rips in his suit, though there were a few spots where his pale skin peeked through ragged holes. He felt like a hobo-Mask, a pathetic mimic of the real deal. But what else could he do?
Landing on the roof, he peered down, able to see a large shape in the fog. It wasn’t distinct, but it was enough. Securing a webline to the roof, he flinched as he flipped over the edge. His body was held taut and stiff as he lowered himself to the ground, touching down gingerly. Moving through the fog, he approached the dark blob visible near the hood of the white blob. He was a red and blue vision in the fog, slender and small. Though his body ached, he carried himself straight and tall, shoulders back and head high. If he carried himself well enough, maybe the rips in his suit and the exhaustion in his muscles wouldn’t matter.
“Good evening,” he said, trying to push good humor into his voice. “Didn’t think I was standing you up, did you?” She left the bag alone the second she saw the red and blue approach, and she had taken three steps forward before he had even greeted her. “Dejame ver,” she said, reaching to touch the places she had examined just the day before without waiting for permission to do it. She said nothing while she prodded with her fingers, listening for sounds of paining, watching for reaction. She still thought he should have a CAT Scan, and she felt certain he should be in bed, not here with her. She did not say these things, because she had said them all before. He was stubborn, this Araña. She wondered if he had been a teenager for a very long time, as she had been once. It made her stubborn, her father had always said.
The fleeting thought of her father made her stop what she was doing, and she stood back with a sigh. “We will wrap that shoulder better once we are done, and you will stop swinging from things for the next two days. ¿Óigame?” Hear me? He was not much younger than her, not physically, she could tell this even through the ripped costume he wore. His voice, his extremities, all his physical characteristics indicated a boy who was still growing. She did not feel badly for attempting to extract a promise to rest from him. If she had her choice, she would ensure he slept in the backroom at the office, but she did not think he would.
She moved back to her bag, and she picked it up and threw him the keys to the car. “It is going to be dificil to drive,” she told him, and it was an understatement. It would be more than dificil. He should have been prepared for the sudden onslaught of poking and prodding, though he certainly didn’t sound as much. With a small huff, he held his hands up, attempting to fend her off. Of course, it did no good, but the gesture made him feel the slightest bit better. He couldn’t wait for the day that girls would start touching him without his consent for reasons other than checking to see if his shoulder is still sitting in its socket. Being fussed over was decidedly not fun. It was all he could do to stand still as she ran her fingers over his shoulder, unable to even really enjoy the sensation of being touched by a beautiful woman. Somehow, he was sure that this was Black’s fault.
The ultimatum was met with a slack jaw that she thankfully couldn’t see. Letting out a small gasp, he let his arm fall lax at his sides. Maybe he should just see Rescue’s healer. Though given his luck, she would probably try to make him soup before giving him a prescription for hugs twice daily. As the thoughts bubbled in his head, he tried to suppress them, vaguely horrified. When did he start thinking like that? Zaldana was just trying to help, like all the rest of them. That’s all it was - good, kind, help. Even if she might be leading him into another trap. This could be Black’s part two. They show up at the mansion, and then-
“Are you trying to ground me?” Sarcasm was a vacation away from all this, protection from his thoughts. “Because I should let you know now, babe, that this spider doesn’t take well to having two feet planted for very long.” He chuckled despite himself. As she tossed him the keys, he fumbled, finally catching them before they hit the ground. Dangling the ring around his index finger, he opened the passenger’s side door for her, gesturing into the car. “Don’t worry about my driving. Just make sure you buckle up good and tight.” “I would ground you if I could,” Zari admitted, but there was no weight of truth behind it, and she smiled at him after walking around to the passenger’s side of the car. She was just a shadow in the dark there, gray sweatshirt blending into the thick, foggy night air. “Mainly I would just like you to get better before you dislocate this shoulder again,” she added, honestly, climbing into the vehicle and buckling up. She had no idea if he knew how to drive, but whatever he knew was better than her own, limited knowledge. In Cuba, only American dólares purchased cars and gasoline, and her father had never wanted to become involved with el gobierno to obtain them. They had waited in food lines like everyone else, and her thoughts became lost in the memory as he climbed into the car himself.
“Can you tell me what happened, while we drive?” she asked. The video had been short, and she had no details from el Reanimador. “Entiendo if you do not want to tell me, but I would like to hear,” she said honestly. As she slid into the car, he watched her a moment, peering through the fog. “You want me to get better just in time for me to get worse?” he asked, knowing he was stretching her words. It was fun, funny even. “That’s sweet of you.” His voice brimmed with laughter as he shut the door for her, trotting around the front of the car and sliding into the driver’s seat.
After closing the door and buckling his seatbelt, he started the car up. The fog was almost impenetrable, the headlights doing very little to help him see. He squinted behind his mask as he carefully guided the vehicle away from the curb, starting down the street towards the Black mansion. It wasn’t going to be a long trip, but in this fog, it was plenty long enough. Sitting forward, chest nearly against the wheel, he drove slowly and carefully, gaze constantly jumping around in search of obstacles.
At her question, he hesitated, slowing to a stop at a cross-section. For a few moments, he just sat there, the car sitting perfectly still. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to think about it. If he tried to put it in words, it would look like a sob story. If he tried to play it off, he was being a cocky asshole. If he tried to explain, he would falter, and be pathetic. He just couldn’t win. His hands on the steering wheel tensed, his knuckles pronounced beneath his gloves. “I’ve got better stories than that, babe,” he finally said, his voice choked with a strange emotion. “There aren’t many laughs in that one.” After another brief silence, he put his right signal on and turned, still keeping the car moving slowly. She did not want to push, knowing it would look strange if she asked too many questions. She rubbed her forearm without thinking and she tried to see beyond the windows of the car. It was useless, the looking, but she tried it regardless. “This fog is strange. It is terrifying without being threatening.” Oh, si, she knew that it was dangerous to anyone driving, but it did not hurt the skin or break anything without help. “I spend much time with the dead, and they do not scare me. Esto, this, scares me. It makes me feel trapped, as if there were walls and I was alone, when there are none,” she said, the closed feeling of the car making her more vocal.
She shook her head. “I am sorry. I blame the fog for my melancolía,” she said, looking back at him with a smile. “Esta bien. Tell me another story. I will ask you for this one again when we arrive.” And she would. She was hoping she would be able to glean enough informacion from the home and the corpses that the picture would paint itself, but it was not always so easy.
“How did you decide to do this?” she asked, reaching out a hand and touching the red fabric on his arm, indicating the suit. Hearing her babble about being trapped made him suddenly hyperaware of the fog pressing in on the car. He bit his lower lip beneath his mask, tightening and relaxing his fingers on the steering wheel in turn. Being reminded of how restrictive the fog was didn’t help his state of mind, but he calmly reminded himself that she was just trying to make herself feel better. This was about her, not him. So instead of getting upset, he merely nodded. He’d have turned to look at her as she apologized, but the idea of looking away from the road scared him too much. He just looked ahead, nodding again. “Don’t be sorry. It’s a melancholic thing, this fog.”
He flinched when she mentioned asking again. Of course she would. “And I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Whether he was being sincere or sarcastic, he wasn’t sure. Hands on the wheel, he steered them around another corner.
Her fingers on his arm sent a shiver down his spine, and at that he did tear his gaze away from the road to look at her. In his peripheral vision, he saw something move - whether it was there or not, he’d never know. At the last second, he slammed on the brakes, bringing them to a screeching halt. Falling against the steering wheel, he breathed, looking back to the road. “Sorry,” he mumbled. Shaking his head, he resumed driving. “And my-” He cut himself off, clearing his throat. “A smart man. In my life. He told me that power comes with responsibility. You can’t have the former without the latter. When I realized that I...had my webs, I saw that I had a power. And one night, I was able to use it. Responsibly. To make a difference in one person’s life.” He shook his head, turning another corner. “I don’t think I can change the world. I know I can’t. But...every once in a while, I get to look at someone and know that their life is just the tiniest bit easier because I poked my nose in their beeswax. That...matters to me.”
At the end of his spiel, he sighed nervously, drumming his fingers on the wheel. Was she judging him? Did she think he was stupid? Christ, he couldn’t tell, and the fact that this bothered him made him more uneasy. She screamed when he slammed on the brakes, coming up hard against the seatbelt in a way she knew would add to her growing collection of bruises. The past few days had left her easy to startle, expecting violence to come from utter silence, and she covered her head without intending to, as if awaiting a previously unexpected attack from the driver’s side of the car. “Por favor-” she began, too quite to be heard above the screeching, and then he was apologizing and speaking.
It took her a moment longer to focus on his words, the English unintelligible for a moment as she calmed. “Entiendo,” she said. “I understand. I was raised by a man who trained masks,” she explained. “Men would come to our home to learn to be heroes, and he said things to them that were very similar when they did,” she explained. She did not think him stupid, and she did not judge him.
Her breath was shaky once she inhaled once more, and she looked out the window he had looked through before slamming on the brakes. “Did you see something?” she asked, reaching for the door handle. She did not know how close they were to the Black home, but if someone needed help, they should see. Hearing her scream definitely took the wind out of his sails. So much for being super at everything. He tried to drive more slowly, more carefully, and did his best to keep his emotions in check. All the other vigilantes made it seem so easy sometimes. Like the Bat. The man was a rock. Why couldn’t Spider-Man be more like him?
As they got back into a conversation, he relaxed slightly, able to focus on the road more. “He’s a smart guy, then,” he replied about the man that raised her. “At least, I think so.” He had to admit that his own point of view was slightly biased. He wasn’t sure if it was the guilt or the love that made him idolize his Uncle George so much, but he had come to accept that it was a nice blend of both.
At her question, he shook his head. “No, I...I think I did, but...” Admitting weakness at this point seemed like admitting defeat. “I was wrong.” He licked his lips beneath his mask, squinting through the fog. “We’re almost there. Things look different, down on the ground.” “Si, he is inteligente,” she agreed, letting go the handle, but keeping her gaze on the windows, in case whatever he saw returned. She had not considered that they might be walking into a trap. No, el Reanimador would not return here. He was smarter than this, and she relaxed somewhat as he said they were almost there.
“It is clearer up high, si?” she asked, because it was like that on the isla. The higher you went on el monte, the easier it was to see. In the evening, you could see the lights of Florida from there, and she had always wondered what it was like to live in a country that was so bright. This was not bright, this fog, and she wondered how her father was, if he was still sleeping or hitting his fists against the windows.
She considered asking him if he was frightened to be returning to this house, but she did not. Instead, she pulled her medical kit onto her lap, and she opened it. She began preparing the vials she would use for her samples, taking her time in the low light of the car interior. She did not bother with gloves, and she capped the needle and looked over at him. “How did you know to come here for him?” she asked. Silence filled the car temporarily as he made another turn, straining to see through the fog. He was moving slowly, so slowly, that he knew even web-slinging would have gotten them there faster. Even despite the fact that his body was sore all over. Sitting close to the wheel, he made a small sound at her question. “I can see everything in a way that I wouldn’t normally,” he admitted. “It’s...peaceful, when you get to see all the chaos from far back. It’s easier to watch for patterns.”
As she started to rummage in her bag, the sound of clinking glass filling the car, he hesitated. “What’s that?” he asked with mild alarm. “What are you doing? What’s in your bag?” His hands shook slightly as he fought to continue looking at the road, ignoring her question outright. He had walked into Black’s last trap, what if he was doing it again? His adrenaline spiked, sweat beading on the nape of his neck. Though he wanted desperately to look at her, he stared at the road. She did not recognize the panic for what it was at first. By the time she noticed it, his hands were already shaking. The way he was staring at the road disquieted her, too. What if he already knew about her father? What if this had been a trap? She reached for the door handle again, even though the car was moving. “It is just to take samples,” she said, but her voice sounded uneven and unsure. She trusted him, she reminded herself. She was merely being paranoid because of the costume party and the things that had happened at home. Though he wanted to squeeze his eyes shut and take a few seconds to compose himself, he knew he’d wreck the car if he did. He stared at the road, fighting for clarity in all of the fog, as he took a slow turn. The panic in him urged him to slam on the gas, to go faster, but he forced himself to keep slow and collected. Despite all his mental gymnastics, his hands still shook, and his voice was cracking with fear. “What kind of samples?” he asked, gulping dryly. “Spider samples?” His voice was almost brimming with laughter, but he fought to control it. He was being paranoid. Or was he? She and Black were such good friends, maybe she was just doing him a favor. “Of his parents,” she said, and she realized this was happening because he no longer trusted her. What had he been told? El Reanimador had told her that he would not tell him of her father, but it could have been a lie. Her hand tightened on the door handle, and she shook her head. “I would not take samples from you,” she assured him, though she did not trust him to believe her, not with the laughter that was threatening to bubble from him. It was insanity, or it almost was, and it frightened her. “Stop the car,” she finally said, forcefully, accent thick. It did not matter how close they were. This was dangerous. She could not tell how he would react, and her nerves were not what they normally were. The fog was better than this. The sarcastic part of him wanted to ask her what was the point of making a big show of a respectful burial for people that she was going to pull apart like poultry. He wanted to ask what exactly she’d been telling Black, why the madman seemed so intent on entrusting Spider-Man with her safekeeping. Though he wanted to trust her, he was exhausted and beaten down, hurt and emotional. His fingers tightened on the wheel again, lips trembling beneath the cover of his mask. What if he was driving to his own funeral? That bastard Black would make him do that, he knew it.
Despite the froth of his thoughts, three words came in clear. Stop the car. Even though he was manic, his hands and shoulders shaking with panic, years of training from his Uncle George kicked in. You always treated ladies well, no matter what. She asked him to stop the car. So he did. As they weren’t moving fast, he was able to coast to a stop fairly easily, the car rolling to a dead stop as he gently pushed on the brakes. Hands on the steering wheel, he didn’t look up, finally giving himself the luxury of closing his eyes. His eyelids burned, a small and pathetic sound escaping his chest. He didn’t dare to look over at her, merely keeping his eyes shut as he sank into his own world. She opened the door, and she stepped out into the fog, taking her medical kit with her. Once she was outside (safe), she leaned into the car. She had more control out of the vehicle, even if the fog terrified her, and she had no idea where she was. “You do not trust me,” she told him. “Entiendo. I understand.” He was frightened, and he was panicking. She could see it better from where she was now, when she was not equally frightened that he had tricked her into the claustrophobic car.
“Turn the car around, and go home,” she told him, and she attempted to sound as adult as she could when she said it, all of the force of her position in the county behind the order. “I will continue on, and it will be fine. You are in no condition to be here,” and she wished she would have realized that earlier, but her own senses were not what they normally were. A boy having a panic attack behind a steering wheel would not have frightened her if she was at her best.
She only hoped he could drive the remainder of the way home safely on his own. Hearing her step out of the car, he sighed. He couldn’t even drive someone to a set location. Hell, she didn’t even know where it was. Was she just going to wander around in the fog for hours? Though his blood still ran cold, he wasn’t about to abandon her like this. After a few moments of staring at the steering wheel, he turned his expressionless face to her, fighting to keep control of his voice. “And you are?” There was a part of him that regretted the words, though he kept going. “You’re shaking like a leaf. You couldn’t wait to get out of this car, and you expect me to leave you to wander around in this fog alone?”
He forced himself to release the steering wheel, lacing his fingers in his lap. “You don’t even know where you are. How are you supposed to get home?” He paused, biting his lower lip. “I don’t trust you. You’re right. But I made this commitment. I promised you that I would take you here and get you home, and if that kills me, so be it.” Though his voice trembled with the panic shown by his shaking shoulders, there was a resolve mixed in there that well surpassed his youth.
After a moment, his voice quieted. “If you aren’t okay with me driving, I’ll just walk you. But you aren’t doing this alone.” She straightened, and she turned away from the car and back again, indecisive. He was right in that she would panic more if left here alone, in the open and dark. But if he did not trust her, then she was not safe in the car with him, either. Not when he was acting as unpredictably as he was. She closed her eyes, whispering to her saints in Spanish for protection, and the crackling that always took place when she used her ability was a visible thing in the fog. Sparks of electricity, bright and shining, and she realized too late it would not make him feel any better about this.
She leaned down again, and she attempted to talk through the fade of the magic. “You will drive me there, but then you will go, si?” she said. She did not trust him inside this home they were going to, not anymore. Whatever was there, it would frighten him more than she did. She imagined he would see el Reanimador in every shadow, see his parents in every movement. It was not safe for either of them to be there.
“I will find my own way from there, entiendes? If I get in this car, it is with that understanding.” She rubbed her clavicle with one hand, the impact from the seatbelt a sore thing through the sweatshirt. “Si?” The snap of electricity put him back in that room. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. It was just a memory. The smell of lightning crackle, the sensation of sparks flying up and down his spine, was in the past. He was in control, he reminded himself. They were gone. They were monsters, two monsters, and they were gone. The aches and pains in his muscles gnawed on his mind as he opened his eyes, staring at her through the expressionless canvas of his mask.
“No deal,” he replied, voice stubborn. “I’m not leaving you without a way home. In this fog, that’s cruel.” Though his mouth was running dry and his heart was threatening to break his ribs, he would not budge. Even if he didn’t trust this woman anymore, she still deserved someone to watch her back. Abandoning her here wasn’t going to change things, and it certainly wouldn’t make anyone feel better. “I’m not cruel, Zaldana.” His expressionless eyes reminded her of her father when he did not see her, and she shook her head. “No, and you cannot make me do this. Your distrust of me, it does not make me feel safe,” she explained, her voice turning sad. “I am afraid what you will think once we are in that house, and I am afraid what you will do with that fear.” It was honest, because she did not want to lie to him. “I can call one of the others to come for me, si? Oracle or el Murciélago.” She would do no such thing, for differing reasons, but she hoped it would soothe his concerns.
And then, she began walking. “Is it very far?” she asked, calling back to him in the fog. She could not see the vehicle after a few moments, could not see the lights after a few moments more. She did not expect it to be as thick as it was, and she hoped there would be lights in this house if she stumbled upon it in the dark.
She rubbed her arms, and she waited to hear his voice or the rumble of the engine. It wasn’t a house. It wasn’t anything like she thought it would be. First there was the wrought-iron fence that kept everything out. Then there were the trees, dense and confusing. And finally, once one managed to find the mansion, it would be dark and cavernous, like a wide mouth opening to greet you. Remembering making the trip just after sundown sent shivers down his spine. She wouldn’t find it on her own. Not in this fog, and not this late.
He quickly got out of the car, locking it as he held the keys in his palm. “You won’t find your way there without me,” he called out. “And I’m not just being a stubborn brat.” He moved in the direction of her footsteps. She thought he was a scared little boy, that much was obvious. Maybe a part of her was right. But he didn’t have to be. With frantic steps, he found her side, holding his arms close and keeping a slight distance. He forced his voice into some modicum of calm, attempting to control the adrenaline rushing through his body. “Didn’t you have shovels in the car?” he reminded her. “You can’t dig a grave with your hands, we went over this.” “I never said you were being stubborn,” she said, moving a little further away, but still not far enough for the fog to swallow him up entirely. “You are trying to do the right thing, the honorable thing, but I frighten you, and you are tense because of what you have been through. I am tense, also, because of recent events. It means we are dangerous around one another, especially in a place that is frightening to both of us.”
She dropped back just a little, allowing him to lead. “I will find a shovel there. It is a house, there will be something to dig with,” she said, sounding more sure than she felt. “You will take me to the door, and then you will come back for the car and return home,” she repeated. “The sun will be rising by the time I am finished, and I will find a ride back.” “You were thinking it,” he shot back. Crossing his arms, he walked with her slowly, not making an attempt to move closer. As she went on about fright and tension, he shook his head. It was hard to believe, and a part of him wanted to outright reject it. No, he wasn’t affected by this. No, his skin didn’t crawl and quiver because of his savage Monday night beating. It was water off a duck’s back, nothing to him. And yet his heart was still racing.
So he did what he did best: dodge. “It isn’t a normal house,” he said with no small amount of exasperation. “Just.” He paused, turning to her. “Stay here. Don’t move. I’m getting the shovels.” He half-considered webbing her to the sidewalk to ensure that she stayed put, but instead just turned back, jogging the few yards back to the car. Unlocking the trunk, he collected the two shovels back there, resting them on his right shoulder. He cringed as he closed the trunk, adjusting the weight in his arms as he walked back to meet her.
“Seriously, you’ll thank me for this when we get there,” he said as he resumed leading them through the fog. The spines of the iron fence were close - he could see their ghosts looming ahead. His throat ran dry again as he stared at them, trying to think of anything but a hungry mouth waiting to swallow him whole. She did not move when he left, though part of her feared what he would do if frightened and in possession of the shovels. Her bag contained all the items required for the ritual, and she held tight to it in the fog as she waited. It was cold, dark and oppressive, and her mind wandered in many directions. The man in the hot tub - she could not remember his face any longer, but she remembered how she felt the following morning when she crawled out of Drake’s apartment, ashamed and in his shirt. The costume party - where she could remember every detail, every taste and smell, everything but the faces of the man and woman she spent the tail end of the night with. And her father. She rubbed her wrists, raised a hand to the back of her neck and rubbed the bruises beneath her hair.
Part of her did not want to see this home that was not a home, these people that were no longer people. The more her thoughts raced, the more frightened she became, the more suffocating the fog was. And she started when he returned.
The gates came into sight, and she did not recognize them for what they were at first in the whiteness. “How is it not a normal house?” she asked, even as she stepped forward and touched the gates - huge, looming black spectres in the white. Fear chased along her spine, and she wanted to turn back. She wished she was not where she was just then, with someone who feared her and held shovels, and her fingers closed around the syringe she had secreted into her pocket when he had returned to the car. Deja vu tickled his brain as he rested one hand on the bars, craning his neck to look up. Before, he had just zipped over them. Now, he’d have to climb them. He webbed the two shovels together, quickly making a makeshift “sling” that he rested across his chest. With sticky pads on his fingers and toes, he began to crawl up the fence, making the first trip with the shovels alone. He paused at the top, dropping the shovels over, and crawled back down.
“Normal houses don’t have gates,” he said simply. Turning his back on her, he looked down at the ground. “Come on. I’ll take you over.” His tone was more serious than it had been, fatigue and worry squeezed out. This was the easiest and fastest way to get in - he had no idea where the actual entrance was, and if he did, it was probably locked. The sooner they hopped the fence, the sooner they could leave. She looked uncertain, but she let him take her over in the end, and she tried to see the house from the other side, but she did not have any luck. There was the sense of something looming just out of sight, something watching them, and she repeated the motion from earlier, a prayer to her saints and a crackling of light around her as the air caught the spell - protection.
“Hand me the shovels?” she asked, still determined to go it alone, now that the house was found. With her on his back, he moved slowly and carefully. His muscles ached, every joint protesting, but he forged on. Though he wanted to just jump off once hitting the top, he slipped over and carried her back to the ground with the utmost care. Only once did he hesitate, when he heard the crackling of her spell and saw a flash of light. He had frozen, muscles hardening, as he simply clung to the gate. As the moment passed, he touched down on the ground again, allowing her a smooth dismount.
As she asked after the shovels, he picked them up himself. He was going on autopilot now. Shouldering the shovels, he gestured for her to follow him. “Come on. It should be this way.” He could barely see as it was, with the dark and the fog. Every step he took made him feel as if he were moving closer to Black again, carrying himself to his own funeral. He was not listening to her, which was obvious, and it did not make her feel better about things. Still, she followed. She could feel gravel beneath her feet, and even through the fog she could feel the trees around them. She was sure they reached for her, that she could see their dark and twisted branches as they walked beneath them. She could not, but she thought she could. “This does not feel like a home,” she whispered, because it felt wrong to speak louder here, as if something could hear her voice.
The house came into view, just bare glimpses of the large mass, seemingly huddled in the whiteness that belied the fact that it was night. She dragged her feet. “There is evil here,” she said, more Santera than anything else in that moment. “What did his parents do to him?” It was a quiet question, a thought spoken aloud; she expected no response. Seeing the house made his heart stop. Even without seeing the front door just yet, he knew what it looked like. That woman would still be draped over the front steps like a fucked-up welcome mat, encouraging him to step inside the yawning mouth of the open door. His hand tightened on the shovels as they approached, his heart starting to race again. Every twitch he saw from the corner of his eye was one of the Blacks, come back to finish him off. He held the shovels as if they were a security blanket as they found the front steps, peering into the still-open door of the mansion.
“They wanted to have him sent to a cushy, nice, pleasant mental institution where he’d be comfortable and happy for the rest of his life,” he said with no small amount of bitterness. Stepping over the body of the dead woman - her skin was shriveled and she was beginning to reek - he crossed into the dark main hall, shoulders starting to shake.
The chandelier was where he had left it, crashed to the floor on top of the late Mrs. Black. The late Mr. Black was at the foot of the stairs, still wrapped up in webbing and broken ceramic plates. He walked slowly and carefully, trying to push the ghosts out of his mind. “This is it,” he said with a shaking voice. He gestured to the chandelier. “Mrs. Doris Black,” he said slowly before gesturing to the wrapped-up bundle. “Mr. Frances Black.” The more he twitched, the more nervous Zari became. By the time he motioned the bundles, she was grateful. The dead she understood and did not fear, not like this boy-araña at her side. “Esta bien,” she said. “Help be take them them outside, and I will handle the rest. You return for the car, and return it to where you met me, so it can be retrieved. I will not ride back contigo, so do not argue. When the sun is up, I will walk out and call for a taxi. Ahora, vamos. Quickly, so that you may go.”
With that, she leaned over the smaller bundle, and began to pull it outside.