Spider's Lullaby Read Online Free PDF Page B

and black, the fire dead in the tip. He placed it in his mouth and took a few careful puffs. The tip began to glow reddish orange as a cherry of heat formed. White smoke billowed out of the sides of his mouth. I never met a dragon who didn’t smoke.
    â€œI am not telling you any more than I have. I am Were-kin. Similar to Were, but different.” His hand waved dismissively. “Is complicated.”
    Charlotte turned and leaned around Tiff to talk to me. “Long ago, Zmey saved the Were-spiders from extinction at the hands of a very bad man.”
    â€œHow long ago?”
    She turned and looked at Ivan.
    He blew out a stream of white smoke. “Over one thousand years now.”
    â€œSo this is a story you tell to all the little Were-spiders when you tuck them into bed?”
    Charlotte shook her head. “No, they all know it from birth. It is locked in the genetic memory of every spider that is born.” She reached out and patted the Russian’s hand. Her palm just covered the black tattoo that spilled out from under his sleeve and curled onto the back of his hand. This was his dragon form stored in his skin like a tattoo that wound around his left side, going from his ankle, up his body, over his shoulder, and spilling down his arm.
    She left her hand there and kept talking. “He did it to save one of our kind, a woman named Setvanya.”
    â€œShe was very beautiful. I loved her very much. Count Drasco bring army to kill her and her people.” His face grew even more somber, hardening like granite. “I spill much blood that day.” He shook his head. “I do not want to talk about it. Is too painful.”
    Maybe Ivan and I were more alike than I knew.
    He picked up a glass decanter that sat in the middle of the table. It was a plain glass bottle, unadorned except for a small gold cross that was affixed to the cap. The liquid inside was rich amber reflecting back the low lighting. Tiny bursts of light twinkled like they were shining from inside the bottle. Around it was a row of shot glasses. Cigar clamped between his teeth, he turned up three glasses and began to fill them with the alcohol.
    â€œWe don’t have time for a drink, Ivan.”
    â€œBah! Is always time for drink. Besides, must try. Best scotch in world. Brewed by Saint Andrew himself.” Saint Andrew was the patron saint of whiskey. Every good Catholic knew him. We picked up the glasses, raised them in the air, then tossed them back.
    The scotch hit the back of my throat like a hot match, my tongue scorched along the way. The alcohol tumbled down, splashing inside my stomach where it sat, warm and inviting. My vision slid sideways for a second as the alcohol content spiked in my blood. I was left with the strong taste of scotch in my mouth. Heady and rich, it lay on my tongue with the oaken flavor of earth. My lips tingled ever so slightly.
    Saint Andrew, patron saint of whiskey, made a helluva good scotch apparently.
    Charlotte took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. Her eyes were closed as she absorbed the experience of the shot.
    Tiff looked as if someone had surprised her. She sat, eyes blinking rapidly, breath coming in short huffs. I had seen her drink, but never straight whiskey. It takes a different level of drinking to shoot whiskey, especially something as hard as scotch. There was a long second as she worked through it.
    Softly, I reached out and touched her leg under the table. I was going to ask if she was okay. That was my plan. Her skirt was higher than I thought and my hand came down on the bare skin of her thigh. It was warm under my palm, smooth and firm. Supple.
    Heat pushed through me, driving out any thought I had of speaking, and I found myself leaning toward her. She turned and looked at me. Cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded, she looked sultry. Gorgeous. I leaned in closer.
    Ivan slammed his shot glass on the table. His smile was broad, stretching from ear to ear. “Is