Curse of Arachnaman (19 page)

"Easy, easy, I got you,” he said, setting her back on the ground. It took her several more very annoying seconds before she let go because she clung like a leech to him even after he set her down. “You're safe now,” he reassured her, prying her arms from his neck. “Okay, let me go, so I can take this guy down."

"Oh,” she breathed, staring at him, wide-eyed. “Thank you."

God. I recognized that look.

"Wow, you're even better-looking in person,” she added, tucking hair behind her ears.

Did she just giggle and blush? Calais smiled back and gave her a reassuring pat on the arm, and, encouraged, she stood on tiptoes and gave him a grateful peck on the cheek.

I sighed. “Hello, helpless victim over here. Very uncomfortable position. Probably damaged innards and ability to produce children."

"Thank you,” she said, her voice taking on a little-girl-like tone. It took the appearance of a police officer to pull her away from Calais, and she trotted off, glancing over her shoulder for one final adoring look before vanishing in the confusion of activity.

"Well, will you look at that?” I said blandly. “I'm the last one to be saved. Yay me."

Calais stood before me, hands on his nicely narrow hips. “I leave you alone for three minutes, and all hell breaks loose."

"Hey, I didn't ask to be attacked! Are you blaming me?"

"I told you to wait by the car, didn't I?"

"Well, yeah, but..."

"Uh-huh..."

I sighed again, drooping. “I just wanted to check out the arcade,” I said. “What's the harm in that?"

"Um...” Calais pointed at my web cocoon. “In case you haven't noticed."

"Look, I was born under a black sign. Can I come down now? This sucks. Oh, by the way, thanks for the Jane Austen moment back there."

"Huh?"

"Never mind.” I frankly didn't know what was worse—seeing Peter/Calais with a girl or with another guy. Either way made me want to puke out all my innards.

Shaking his head, Calais tore at the stuff, and I fell into his arms, which was always a good thing, though it was too bad that he couldn't take me home like this. And there were way too many people around, so no huggy-kissy stuff and all the comfort-me-please things that happened when the hero saved the day.

"Thanks,” I grumbled. Then I gave a start, stiffening. I looked behind me and then gaped at him. “What the...did you just goose me?"

He grinned. “The best thing about hyper speed. I can get away with so much crap with you.” To prove his point further, he momentarily melted in a rush of color and then solidified a fraction of a second later. During that wee bit of time, I actually felt him kiss me, tongue and all. It was surreal. I thought I also felt pressure against my back, maybe from his arms as he kept me from toppling over because of his sudden movement. I was glad he didn't break my neck. “See?” he said. “I've been dying to try that for a while now."

"Whoa. Yeah, I felt that.” I touched my mouth, half-wondering if it somehow got sucked into the vortex caused by hyper speed. Nope. Still there, and not to mention wanting more.

I got over my shock pretty quickly. On second thought, that was pretty damned cool. And sort of kinky. I was about to ask him to do it again, but Miss Pyro appeared, and I had to step away from him. There were definite drawbacks to being romantically involved with a superhero.

"The other stores are okay. Magnifiman's taking care of them right now. They suffered minor damage,” she said. Then she saluted me. Literally. “Hey, how's it going?"

"My date with my boyfriend just went up in smoke, so I'm not exactly doing pretty good here,” I said, picking residual webby stuff off me. My clothes, face, and hair were a mess, to say the least. I couldn't imagine what Mom would've said if she'd seen me like this. God. She'd've moved my curfew down to ten in the morning.

Miss Pyro blushed, glancing at Calais. “Oh, I'm so sorry. Maybe you can still pick up where you left off, later?"

"I'll explain everything another time,” I said, dropping my voice. I sighed and turned to Calais. “I guess I'll just walk home. You guys have a lot of stuff on your plate now.”
Besides,
I wanted to add,
Mom wouldn't want to see us together with you as Calais.

"I'll call you,” he whispered.

I guess I was supposed to be reassured by that, but I sure as hell didn't feel it. Every step taken in the direction of my home felt like I was dragging an elephant back with me, my head spinning with all kinds of things Mom was likely to say.

When I stepped out onto the street, I looked around and saw the general area not only swarming with gawkers and dizzy merchants, but also smoke-filled. A couple of stores had their windows smashed, and a car parked nearby also had its windows shattered. Plumes of black smoke rose from the stores’ interiors, and I had to go to Peter's car to see if it was okay. Thank God it remained untouched, though I had to shoo away a couple of mangy kids who sat on the hood, gaping and picking their noses.

Since the arcade wasn't that far from home, I didn't have to suffer the embarrassment of people staring at my messy state or calling the cops on me or anything. I just made sure to hurry and pretend as though I were homeless and look like I'd just gone dumpster-diving. With the threat of Mom freaking out hovering above my head, it turned out to be one of those rare times when I actually prayed for acid rain to piss on the city and wash the webby stuff off me.

I turned the corner onto our street and saw that Dad's car and Liz's truck were still out. That was good—two less people to avoid. Of course, that also meant that the one person I wanted to avoid the most was at home somewhere.

The cosmos took pity on me because Mom wasn't anywhere when I entered, and tiptoeing past the master bedroom, I saw that the door was shut. I bounded up the last flight of stairs to my attic bedroom, taking two steps at a time.

I shed my clothes and jumped into the shower, heaving a sigh of relief.

By the way, the places that were targeted today were the arcade, the adult store, and the New Age bead store. From the looks of things, Arachnaman knew absolutely nothing about having fun. So now we had those to add to his list of victims, and I was still totally clueless about any kind of common thread linking them. Damn. I wasn't good in this analysis stuff. I wondered if it had something to do with my suckiness when it came to Geometry.

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As expected, I lost Peter again, with him throwing himself completely into detective work and stuff. I was once more a superhero's widower, which goes to show that I'm destined to live out a tragi-comedy type of existence. Althea continued to be low-key, which made me wonder what exactly kind of training she'd been going through with the Sentries’ help. She hadn't harassed me about bingo night in a while, and she hadn't haunted my computer, either. Peter told me that she was up to her ears in training, superhero work, and school, which pretty much left her with absolutely no time beyond sleep and daily meals.

Of course, Peter just had to reassure me with this one time: “Don't worry. She knows you're still up for bingo night. In fact, whenever she remembers, she asks me if some blueberry jam from Mrs. Horace's kitchen, on top of the usual strawberry jam, would be enough to compensate you for the trouble."

Oh, damn it. Why did people always have to work on my conscience like that? Why couldn't I be mean for once and get away with it? Sigh.

At any rate, I was boyfriend-less and friendless, with Freddie being my only lifeline to something that could pass for a social life. Even then, more often than not, he wasn't available to hang out with because of some undercover work he needed to do for the Sentries. I suppose the only good thing about all this was the fact that, with the heroes all up to their ears in Arachnaman terrorism, I didn't have to worry about playing innocent kidnap victim for their training sessions for a while. Score.

I took a quick break from journal writing and indulged in some leftover cheesecake. I didn't bother to check the expiration date on the box, but I figured that anything frozen had a better chance at longevity. I mean, I'd fed my family old frozen stuff before, and we were all okay. Except for Liz, but that had always been par for the course when it came to older siblings.

Since Althea wasn't about to cyber-haunt my ass, I spent my post-journal time surfing the ‘net, and guess what I found.

The Unofficial Calais Fan Club, V.2. Yeah, no kidding. Since the Trill, I'd sworn off any involvement, even as a lurker totally engrossed in train wrecks, in RPG communities. Nope, no more role-playing creepiness for me. Stumbling across this fan club, though, was like experiencing inter-dimensional whiplash.

I gaped at the screen. How had that happened? No clue. A bunch of enterprising fans of my boyfriend in spandex just decided to whip up a website dedicated to him. They had the usual home page with the introductory welcome: “Thank you for stopping by the Unofficial Calais Fan Club! Here you'll find all kinds of goodies on our favorite Vintage City superhero, complete with a gallery of pictures of His Royal Hottie, accounts of real-life rescues, and fanfiction and fanart! Before leaving, please don't forget to leave a message for Super-Cool, Super-Hot, Super-Sexy Calais in the guestbook!"

I stared. And stared. And stared. And stared. I felt like Edward Gorey's Yawfle from his
Utter Zoo
book. All I needed to do was sprout long, shaggy hair all over till only my eyes showed, and then sit in a corner and stare. And stare. And stare. And stare.

I think my finger hovered above the left button of my mouse for ten eternities before I mustered up enough courage to click on the “merchandise” link.

"Oh, for the love of...” My jaw dropped lower. “They have an online store, too?” I cried. Then I backpedaled when a thought hit me. “An online store, huh? Is it part of a committed relationship to make money off one's boyfriend?” I had to remind myself never to breathe a word of that to Peter. I mean, I wasn't quite sure how he'd take to my entertaining the thought of whoring him out.

Further thought convinced me that he wasn't going to go for it. Bummer. There went all my plans for some serious cash earned and saved, which would lead to a nice happily-ever-after, running off into the sunset hand-in-hand, and shacking up in a little house somewhere near a national park. Fresh air, awesome views, with little-to-no noise and absolutely no neighbors within fifty miles of our little patch of paradise. Well, I suppose we'd have to deal with rampaging bears on occasion, but there was time enough to worry about that.

I shook my head and shuddered, clicking the “fanfiction” link. It took me all of five seconds before getting my ass out of that page faster than Calais’ hyper speed. I let go of the mouse as though I'd just burned myself with it.

"Damn,” I breathed, still staring at the screen. And staring some more. Okay, I really did
not
need to see that. What was wrong with fans these days? How stalkerish could they get? They actually wrote stories about my boyfriend! And they did art! If any of those crazies turned Calais into a furry, I'd sue! The site also had a guestbook, which I didn't check out. I had a pretty low tolerance level for psychological trauma as it was.

I sat back for a moment, waxing philosophical over the state of my generation. Fans. Jeebus. They were like a species unto themselves. I drummed my fingers against my desk and toyed around with another thought. Did Joshua Bell have a fan club? I was sure he did...more than one, definitely.

"Is there, like, fanfiction written about him?” Oh, the temptation was too great, but something smacked me upside the head and forced me to get over it. “Don't be gross, Plath,” I said, shuddering. “That'd be no different from all the crazy crap being posted about Calais."

Fannishness should have certain limits. People should stop after the herd mentality and squeeing bit and then be normal beyond that.

Well, speak of the devil. Peter called me about an hour later, and after initial greetings and lovesick exchanges, I had to tell him about his unofficial fan club. He was quiet for a moment, and I kind of felt bad, embarrassing him like that.

"Eric, I've...uh...I've known about that site for a while now,” he said. More like coughed. And mumbled. “And I've read the...uh...guestbook."

"You knew about it for a while? How?” I blinked. Oh, boy. “Did you set up a Google Alert on yourself? Did you, huh, did you?” I was
so
ready to mock him.

"What? No! Man, are you kidding? Only writers do that! No, no. I overheard it in English class sometime ago. Like...I don't know...sometime...ago...” Another series of low coughing followed.

I could barely stifle a grin. “Dude. You're checking up on your own fan site, aren't you? Come on, now, ‘fess up.” Well, I suppose I couldn't blame him. He was smart, hot, and hunky. He earned the right to have his ego stroked. I just wished that it was me exclusively stroking his ego. And more than his ego, anyway. I'd gotten pretty good at stroking.

"I, uh, well...yeah.” Peter cleared his throat. I got him. “Sorry. Moment of weakness. Attention can be pretty addicting, but as far as the updated guestbook's concerned, it was Althea who alerted me to the messages."

"She knows?"

"Yeah, sure. She heard about the site the same time I did. In fact, she was the one who convinced me to check it out after she herself toured the place. Don't ask me what she thinks of it. Just...don't."

"Hey, you're too serious. You're sort of a local celebrity, and you've got fans. They're crazy about you. Okay, so some are crazier than others, but they love you, Peter. Shouldn't that account for something?” I grinned and toyed with the phone cord. “C'mon. Lighten up. This is a date-y kind of thing, even if it's only by phone. I'm not interested in sharing you with creepy fans when we're together, and our time's so short. Don't let them get to you."

He laughed, sounding relieved. “You'll have to get used to it, too, it looks like."

"What? I
am
used to it! And I feel pretty damned proud, watching everyone fall all over themselves for you, knowing that they don't stand a chance,” I laughed. I also made a mental note to keep an eye on that site and the guestbook in case the creepiness factor got out of hand. I'd heard of stalker fans before. Crazy messages left online might be dismissed by everyone as nothing more than ramblings from lonely, insecure types, but I knew better. I figured that it would be the least I could do for Peter, considering how much he'd been doing to keep the city safe.