11th of Germinal, 1516

The scent of petrichor was thick in the air. Shelby ran off the dirt path that led back to their homestead. Alex followed her. The little redhead was known to chase after flocks of birds and butterflies, but today she hopped along with a procession of bullfrogs. They led deep into the marshes. Their mother had instructed them to stick to berry picking when the weather got dreary like this; their father was much more stern with his demands of coming home early. Alex, instead, encouraged his sister to follow the frogs—he was never eager to get home.

As Shelby hopped along, the occasional raspberry and strawberry would topple from her wicker basket; Alex didn’t mind, between the two of them, they had enough for their mum to use in her special jams. Given how chilly it was outside, their mum was probably making bread at this very moment. The only part of Alex that did want to go home was his stomach—fresh bread and jam were hard to pass up.

Shelby hopped through a couple of bushes and let out a loud “Woah.” Alex pushed his way through to catch up with Shelby; before them was Lake Porter, a “glorified puddle” as their father would call it after failing to catch any fish after several days of attempts. At some point during the previous night, lightning struck nearby waking up everyone at the house, now they found what was struck—a yew tree. Lightning sheered the tree’s trunk in half with the top now laying in the water. Despite their father telling them explicitly not to, Alex had attached a rope swing to one of the branches and he and his sister would jump into the lake all the time. The siblings were disheartened to see it in its current state.

The rain started to pick up again. Oleander didn’t mind being soaked as much, he would routinely jump into the lake without taking off his clothes—much to his mother’s dismay. The ground around him was also drenched, his bare feet completely sunk into the ground. “Alex!!!” Alex’s spine froze up as he heard a shriek that he could never forget.

*****

1st of Fructidor, 1535

Oleander shot straight up in his bed and instantly felt tightness in his lower back. Sweat dripped down his face and his right arm felt like a lead weight. He tried to shake his head clear of Shelby’s echoing screams. The monster hunter slid the unused pillow under his back to give him more support as he sat up.

“Rough night, Herr Swine?” Moira asked. She was sitting by the window surrounded by crumpled pieces of paper with a somber look on her face.

“It’s nothing,” Oleander grabbed the half-empty bottle of laudanum off the dresser, chugged it, and almost immediately spat it back out.

He retched as he tried to keep the bitters down. Despite laudanum being a mixture of ethanol and morphine, it reminded him of the worst drinks he would get with Cormag during their pub crawls.

Moira explained, “The physician offered to give you a syringe and a bottle of pure morphine?”

“Needles and I don’t agree,” Oleander remarked.

He saw Moira's arm was in a sling, and it was the most the physician was willing to do since the intricacies of spiderkin physiology are lost on most people.

“If you want, I can pop that arm of yours back into place.”

Moira asked, “You can do this with only one hand?”

Oleander paused, “When I’m back to full strength, I can give it a try.” The monster hunter rolled out of bed. “And you know what? Injuries be damned, we’re celebrating a job well done.” He stumbled at first—even though most of Azephra’s venom had passed through his system, he still had a large bite wound on his thigh.

“I am not one for drinking,” Moira replied.

“Nah, no drinks,” Oleander peered back at the empty laudanum bottle, “That little prick killed my appetite for drinks right now.” He looked around and noticed his favorite goblin was missing, “Where the hell did Cormag go?”

“He left two hours ago,”

“Where? What for?”

“Said something about buying ink and getting more things for Signomancy,” Moira replied.

“Damn. Well, he knows to meet back here when he’s done.” Oleander looked out the window to gauge the time of day and grumbled. He then went to put on a shirt.

“What’s all that on your back?” It appeared that the monster hunter’s back was covered with old burns in oddly straight patterns.

“Dragon attack. Blackburn Hollow. I was trapped under some burning debris—” Oleander quickly rolled his shirt on. “—Anyway, since we’re in Sterling. Let’s go get some seafood at Admiral’s Wharf.”

*****

With Moira’s disguise burned away, Oleander was worried most people would be terrified—he was partially right. Human reactions varied from fearful to curious, but everyone chose to stay away; the Kassedians on the other hand couldn’t get enough of Moira. The word “Rinisa” was thrown around enough that Oleander had to track down a bilingual tourist just to have it explained. Rinisa was the character in a popular Kassedian book written by an aloof writer known simply as Mumbkins. As they passed a small corner bookstore, they found the book in question—it had a cartoonish-looking spider woman on the cover clad in specialized armor wielding a spear.

“Rinisa” Moira mumbled. The little blue bow added to the character’s head instantly triggered a memory, “That’s my sister Maritza.”

“And she’s in a Mumbkins book too, that’s bizarre really,” Oleander remarked.

“You are aware of this Mum-beh-kins,” Moira remarked reading the name phonetically off the book’s cover.

“He’s written a bunch of like collections of stories—”

“Anthologies?”

“That’s the word. I know one of them was a bunch of ghost stories, another was about fairy tales—”

“—Are they any good?” Moira asked.

“I don’t remember, it's been twenty years since I've read one.”

Moira purchased the book with what little silver pieces she had. This was the first thing she knew of that depicted a Spiderkin in any capacity so she was curious to see what it was about. They then continued to Admiral’s Wharf. The noon sun shone brilliantly on Lake Dunnock. Day-trippers from Raema were stepping off the boats and crowding the pier. Although Oleander would’ve enjoyed a quiet meal outside, seeing everyone muck about only showed how good a job he and everyone else had done with subduing the puppeteer and the devil.

Moira sat down at a table and watched the cormorants dive into the water and rise back out with their catches of the day; she also spotted storks perched on the piers that would occasionally snatch any unsuspecting crabs. One stork, in particular, caught her attention; it was standing on top of a shop, staring off into the distance. It barely moved, but when it did, its legs bent in a very angular way as if it didn’t have actual knees. The feathers on its body looked off. As Moira attempted to climb up to get near it, its head turned directly towards her. It looked her up and down before immediately flying away. It sounded like pieces of paper fluttering in the breeze.

“Oy!” Oleander called.

Moira looked down, she was halfway up the side of the shop.

“What’re you up there for?” Oleander asked.

“Nothing, I thought I saw something.”

“That puppeteer has you seeing things, she’s gone now, no worry to you anymore,” Oleander explained as he balanced all the food he bought between his left arm and his chest.

The two took their seats at the table Moira selected and Oleander spread out his haul. Much to Moira’s surprise, some of it smelled decent. Each of them had a decent amount of fish and chips served in wrapped-up newspapers—like a fried food bouquet—and a small paper container with fried soft shell crabs. Oleander slapped down two smaller cups of tartar sauce.

Oleander immediately tore into his fish and chips, while Moira eyed the soft shell crabs. She carefully started pulling apart its legs and carapace to get to the flesh inside, like how she would do for a live stag beetle or grasshoppers.

“No, no like this,” Oleander demonstrated by eating a crab in its entirety. Moira expected to hear a loud crunch, but Oleander made little noise as he chewed. “It’s called ‘soft-shell’ because they recently molted.”

Moira followed the monster hunter’s example and ate the crab whole. The crunch was the biggest thing that caught Moira, it wasn’t bitter—much like most of the insects she ate—but a bit salty like mammal blood. The meat was buttery smooth and not stringy in the slightest. It was quite enjoyable. She remembered her younger days of being served human food and finding it disgusting—maybe she never found the right dish. “It’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad, ah well shite, I might as well take’m off your hands then,” Oleander put his hand on Moira’s box of food, but she pulled it closer to her.

“I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself by eating too much,” Moira replied.

Oleander snorted and chuckled as he grabbed a handful of chips. It was a beautiful day out, but Moira found herself feeling down. Darcy weighed heavily on her mind.

“You alright?” Oleander asked.

Moira tapped on the table for a moment trying to gather her thoughts, “I just wish I could’ve done more to protect Darcy’s soul.”

“The puppet lady’s name was Darcy?”

Moira nodded.

Oleander raised his eyebrows, “What happened down in that tunnel, anyway?”

The Spiderkin explained to Oleander her fight and subsequent discussion with Darcy.

“Even after what she did, I still wanted to help her, in some way,” Moira remarked, “I felt…I don’t know.”

“Did you sympathize with her?”

“I suppose. My mother had an encounter with Azephra as well.”

“Tell me about that, how this whole spider race came into being?” Oleander asked.

“Only if you tell me about Sean first.”

Oleander dropped his handful of chips and looked right at Moira in disbelief, “You’re still on that?”

“Why are you hesitant to talk about it? Were you close with Sean?”

“No. It’s…it’s everything around it…”

“You mentioned that he shouldn’t have been in the Red Wolves, to begin with—”

“—He was a kid, he was a fourteen-year-old kid who was over his fucking head.”

“Ivy mentioned something about James and Caroline being underaged—”

“—that’s different.”

“How so?”

Oleander sighed, “James knew how to use a rifle, and Caroline could surprisingly hold her own in a bar fight.”

“Those hardly sound like qualifications to join a hunting company.”

“I know. I know. I liked their energy, they reminded me of some of my grade school friends. Even still, Sean had even fewer qualifications than James and Caroline. That kid idolized his older brother, and that’s why Sean was kept around. Just to stroke that dickhead's ego. Me and Murdoch told Garrison it was a bad idea, Sean was too hot-headed for his own good. But the three of us were all so damn stubborn.”

“What happened that night.”

Oleander leaned back in his chair, he knew Moira wasn’t backing down—but he was now equally curious to know more about the Spiderkin. “Alright.”

*****

13th of Prairial, 1532

“Marcel quick! Get us a doctor and the police!” Garrison ordered as he, Oleander, and Murdoch surrounded the body of an unidentified young woman. Marcel dashed off. Oleander and Garrison tried their best to disperse the crowd. Murdoch, while not having much of a medical background, examined the body. Her shirt was ripped open, her chest hacked apart and her heart was missing. There was no doubt that this was the sixth victim of the Butcher of Blackburn Hollow. They were also quickly able to identify the woman as Alice Kipperly, a nearby resident.

Marcel returned with two police officers and the Red Wolves’ personal physician, Dalton Bancroft. The unwanted audience of people was shooed away and the area was sectioned off. Bancroft examined Alice’s body.

“Bloodshot eyes…heavy bruising on the throat. Body temperature is thirty-five degrees centigrade. Rigor mortis has not set in,” Bancroft delicately lifted the woman over and examined her back, “Vague purplish discoloration across posterior.” He stood up to address Inspector Abernathy and Garrison, “My preliminary results: asphyxiation due to strangulation was the cause of death which I would place at 8:30 pm, roughly one hour ago.”

The police inspector turned to his sergeants, “Relay to headquarters that all gates to the city must be shut immediately. Our suspect might still be in the city.”

One of the constables spoke up from further down the alleyway, “Inspector! I found another body! A young man this time!”

The Red Wolves and the police inspector rushed down the alley and rounded the corner. A lanky boy slumped against the side of the alleyway almost obscured by old crates and dirty linens. Black hair with brown facial hair, just like Garrison. The left side of his neck and shoulder were gashed open and his clothes were drenched in blood. Oleander and Murdoch stood in silence; Marcel had excused himself to go vomit somewhere else and Bancroft immediately checked on Sean’s condition. The police rushed in to cordon off this area as well.

They all knew it, but when Bancroft took his hand off Sean’s neck to get a pulse, he confirmed their fears. Oleander and Murdoch looked over at their friend. Stone silence. Shaking with his fists balled up. His eyes were hollow as he looked down at his youngest brother.

Coldy, the leader of the Red Wolves spoke, “I want him dead.”

“We’ll get him. I swear we will,” Oleander replied. He put his hands on Garrison’s shoulder.

“Get off me!” Garrison yelled as he shoved Oleander back. He backed up against the wall holding his head. He started mumbling to himself, “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I told him I’d be there for him like father never could. We were going to make the Graves name mean something!”

Garrison grabbed his morning star and completely demolished a crate that was sitting nearby, “Gods dammit all!” His whole body was shaking now. He couldn’t look anyone in the eye.

“Found something!” Another police officer shuffled some garbage out of the way and found a bloodstained meat cleaver.

Bancroft walked over and examined it, “The blade matches the cuts on Sean’s shoulder. It also feels heavy enough to break through the sternum, and—”

“—That butcher!” Garrison spat out, “The one we interrogated, what was his name?”

Both the sergeant who found the body and Murdoch started flipping through their notebooks.

“A name. His address. Give me something!”

“Edwin Randolph Macy. The address is 109 Baker street—”

Garrison ran out of the alleyway at full speed. Oleander and Murdoch chased after.

“Garrison, wait up! Don’t you think this is too convenient!” Oleander yelled out.

“Listen to Alex! This person didn’t leave any evidence behind before, why would he suddenly leave the murder weapon behind now!”

Their words could not stop Garrison. He ran straight up to the Macy residence. After kicking the door down proved too difficult, Garrison demolished the door with his weapon.

“Edwin Macy! Show yourself!” Crazed, The Red Wolves’ leader marched inside.

Oleander and Murdoch reached the house moments later.

Edwin’s wife and child were curled up in the corner; they screamed when they saw Oleander Murdoch come inside. Before they could temper the situation, two gunshots rang out. They ran into the kitchen to find Garrison and Edwin struggling over control of a revolver. Garrison was hit by the second shot, but he pushed through the pain; he turned the gun back on Edwin Macy and managed to pull the trigger. A bullet went through Edwin’s bicep. The suspect pushed Garrison aside and ran outside.

Garrison ran up from behind and swept Edwin’s legs out from under him with his morning star. The suspect tumbled to the ground, but still tried to crawl away.

“Get back here you murderer!” The morning star turned bright orange and the individual spikes started to melt. “Learn this well, nobody fucks with the Graves family and gets away with it!” Garrison brought his weapon down, full force, onto Macy’s right leg—crushing it. He wailed in agony. Garrison wasn’t finished, but Oleander and Murdoch were. The two restrained Garrison and threw him to the ground.

“What’re you two doing! He killed Sean! Seven people are dead because of him!”

“I didn’t kill anyone!” Edwin yelled back. He struggled to pull himself off the ground. His wife and son watched from the doorway horrified. The wife shouted endless obscenities at the three hunters that had just broken into her home.

Garrison jumped up and shoved his two lieutenants aside. “What’s wrong with you two?! He’s the killer. It’s him!”

“Bullshit!” Murdoch snapped.

“Sean’s gone and you’d rather do nothing to avenge his death!”

“Gods dammit, we want to find his killer too! Listen to us!” Murdoch yelled back.

“No! You are my lieutenants—You listen to me.”

Oleander snorted and got up in Garrison’s face, “I know Sean’s dead, but you’ve lost your fucking mind! This isn’t how we do things!”

Oleander saw a bit of humanity leave Garrison’s eyes as he swung his morning star directly into his stomach. He stumbled back towards the front door of the Macy’s house; the wife and son retreated inside, fearing the man with the morning star would start killing everyone else. Oleander managed to avoid severe burns because of thick clothing. Oleander charged forward and tackled Garrison to the ground. They jockeyed for position as they took turns beating the piss out of each other. After Murdoch broke them apart and got them back on their feet, Garrison swung his morningstar once more at Oleander. He expanded the spike ball, but Murdoch caught the handle and stopped Garrison from destroying Oleander.

“Enough!” Murdoch shouted.

Garrison looked down his nose at his lieutenants as he retracted his weapon. “I won’t say this again, you two follow my orders, understood.”

Murdoch sneered at Garrison’s lunacy, “Understood.”

All the commotion they caused brought the attention of the surrounding neighborhood and the police.

*****

“The trial took place two weeks later, there wasn’t much evidence to go on, but the police were desperate—hell we were desperate—for the killings to stop. It was a unanimous decision from the jury, and he was hanged on the 28th of Prairial,” Oleander explained.

“You still have your doubts?” Moira asked.

“The only thing I know for sure is that after Edwin Macy’s death, the killings stopped. I just don’t know if it was Macy the whole time or if the actual killer got scared. That night was a complete embarrassment. I wish I could’ve done more.”

“That fight with Garrison, is that why you’re not with the Red Wolves anymore?” Moira asked.

“That wasn’t the last fight we had…but yeah.”

“I am sorry, Herr Swine.”

“Don’t be, it turned out for the best honestly,” said Oleander.