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

The Tangle breathed around Ketahn. Leaves rustled, branches creaked, and vines swayed lazily, moving as though the air were as thick as mire muck. Twigs fell here and there, snapping and cracking and shaking more leaves. Unseen creatures made their calls of warning, of mating, of hunger.

Shafts of orange-tinged light pierced the canopy in places, but few managed to reach all the way to the jungle floor. The shadows between the mighty tree trunks and their jumbled roots and branches were already deep. The sun would light the sky for a while longer, but inside the Tangle, it was all but sunfall.

Ketahn crept along thick branches high over the ground, knowing full well that neither height nor distance could cleanse the unease that had festered in him since the events in the Den of Spirits earlier.

He was no longer in Takarahl. He could breathe easier now, could fall back into the life he’d chosen, the life he found most fulfilling…

But he couldn’t help envisioning long threads, each thin and delicate, glistening silver in the failing light, running from his arms and legs back to the city. He could almost feel their pull. Long ago, there had been many more of those threads, and they’d been strong together—just as sticks were stronger in a bundle.

Zurvashi’s threat was nothing new. Ketahn had always known his connection to Takarahl—through the vrix he cared for—was at the queen’s mercy. Yet the reminder had been a smoldering coal in his chest as he’d navigated the intersecting corridors on his return to Moonfall Tunnel. It had persisted as he’d gathered his belongings from Rekosh’s den, and it had only strengthened when he’d departed from his friends and strode toward the nearest exit from the city.

Even now, after traveling hundreds of segments away from Takarahl, he’d not shaken the feeling.

Tucking his barbed spear’s shaft along his forearm, he leapt off the branch, throwing his arms forward to grab a nearby bough. His lower half swung beneath him, dangling briefly in empty air.

His stomach sank, but he hauled himself up, hooking his rearmost legs around the underside of the thick bough to find additional purchase. His claws sank into the bark, and he paused to allow his mind to clear. Any distraction out in the Tangle, even if it existed only in his mind, increased the danger eightfold.

Ketahn forced himself onward, selecting his path along the wide branch with care. His den was not far; he’d traversed half the distance between it and the city already. The wisest choice would have been to go there and rest, allowing the solitude and isolation to soothe him until he could shed his worries.

Today did not seem a day for wise decisions.

He continued deeper into the Tangle, beyond his isolated den, to seek solace in the hunt. The shadows thickened rapidly as the sun, hidden from Ketahn by the dense jungle growth, continued its fall into the realm of spirits and darkness.

New sources of light appeared in the sun’s absence, first in the deepest hollows and recesses and then spreading with the onset of night. Ketahn’s vision sharpened. Vrix eyes were best in the half gloom of the nighttime jungle, drinking in the soft light.

Jesan flowers emitted their pale purple light as they bloomed to the darkness, staining the leaves of their vines with new color. Clusters of mushrooms glowed in greens and yellows on the ground and along tree trunks. The broad leaves of spiritsong trees gave off their deep blue light, bright enough only to distinguish themselves from the deeper darkness. Like the crystals in the Den of Spirits, those trees were said to hold spirits within them, and vrix avoided damaging them—an angered spirit was a dangerous thing that could not be overcome with any weapon.

With the sky gone black, the trees and their branches were like the walls and ceiling of a vast cavern choked with plants—but they lacked the oppressive air of Takarahl’s tunnels.

Ketahn stalked along the branches, eyes sweeping his surroundings ceaselessly, and listened to the Tangle’s night sounds. The darkness had been ushered in by droning calls of reclusive creatures, and beasts that did not normally stir during the day now added their voices to the night.

The air hung heavy and still, and the whisper of leaves overhead was muted. Ketahn had spent so many nights like this in the jungle, so many nights in warm air under peaceful skies, so many nights of quietly appreciating the world around him. The towering trees and their mighty roots served as a reminder that there were always bigger things—the vrix, male and female alike, were small compared to the Tangle. The overgrown brush and vines, the leaves and branches, the mushrooms and flowers, were all in their own ways signs of something more.

Perhaps they were signs of the Eight, who, according to the tales, had wrought this world. Perhaps they were signs of life’s perseverance. Perhaps it was both. The answer made little difference to Ketahn.

Only out here could he set aside the past. Only out here could he imagine any sort of future.

One beast call rose over the rest, high and undulating, pulsing smoothly between a howl and a whistle.

Halting, Ketahn turned his head to listen, the fine hairs on his legs standing up to better sample the air. With little wind, he could scent only the plants immediately around him. But that call had come from nearby—a few hundred segments at most. And it had been made by a soota; their hides were particularly supple, their meat especially flavorful and tender.

What better way to return to his den than with a fresh soota skinned and carved?

He passed his spear into one of his upper hands, ensured his bag was fastened snugly to his back, and altered his course to follow the soota’s call, angling toward suncrest, the direction from which the sun would rise at dawn to resume its battle against the darkness.

That call had come from near a place the other hunters avoided, somewhere said to be haunted by malevolent spirits that were no friends to the vrix. Ketahn had always found the area around it to be a bountiful hunting ground. At its core was a place the sun would never touch, a place where darkness welled in defiance of light—a huge pit that devoured anything that fell in.

The call sounded twice more before Ketahn glimpsed the soota. It was high in the trees, even higher than him. Its sleek hide, which was covered in soft, blue-gray fur, shimmered in the faint glow cast by the red glands set behind its large, yellow eyes on either side of its face.

Ketahn stopped in the shadow of a tree, peering up at his prey. The soota lifted its front legs off the branch, rearing back on its two pairs of hind legs, and called again, its throat briefly swelling and displaying that red glow as it did so.

The soota eased down again and trundled forward, its hooked claws easily grasping the branches around it.

It was heading directly for the pit.

Carefully, Ketahn climbed higher. As he gained height, diffused starlight broke through the canopy to fall upon him, making his markings glow purple.

He moved in the direction the soota had gone with even greater care, testing each branch and vine before trusting them with even a little of his weight; the plants were more delicate here, not merely because they were thinner but because they were more exposed to the wind.

Soon, Ketahn could make out the edge of the pit below, where the ground jutted up slightly and jagged, moss-covered stones stood like the teeth of a lurking predator.

The Tangle had done its best to swallow up the circular pit. Hardy plants grew from the steep walls amidst the exposed rock and dirt, and thick roots extended out and down into the darkness. A web of plant life had grown across the entire pit farther down, the creeping vines engulfing any debris—or unfortunate beasts—that happened to fall in.

Even when the sun passed directly over the pit, there was only darkness to be seen beneath the tangled growth spanning it. When the rocks Ketahn had tossed into the pit hadn’t been stopped by the plant web, they’d fallen for another few heartbeats before landing—either with a dull thud or a splash.

The boughs of the surrounding trees had strained to span the hole, but it was too wide. The branches only extended about ten segments in the air over the pit, less than a sixth of the way.

As Ketahn passed directly over the pit, he felt a change in the air. Some unseen energy, faint but impossible to ignore, thrummed around him. It had always reminded him of that lightning storm energy, though this was always present, always constant.

Legends told that long ago the vrix had been assailed by a huge, fiery beast that had required all the Eight to overcome. The Shaper and the Delver had dug this pit, and the Hunter had lured the beast here, far away from the vrix, whose injuries were tended by the Broodmother. The Protector and the Flamebearer had used all their might to banish the monster to the darkness below. Then, the Weaver had assisted the Rootsinger in creating the web of plants to keep the creature trapped forever.

Takarahl’s other hunters feared rousing the beast from its slumber.

Ketahn was not sure he believed all that, and he’d been tempted to find a way down to discover the truth of it—but he could not deny the unnatural energy this place emitted, and he swore he had seen a light below on a few occasions, the merest hint of fiery orange.

He flattened himself along a thick bough and searched the trees for his prey. A flash of red caught his attention ahead, only slightly above him now. Leaves rustled as the soota leapt from branch to branch. Ketahn followed.

Glancing down, he glimpsed the soft blues and greens shed by leaves in the darkness, making the pit seem almost welcoming. But there was something beneath it for an instant—that orange glow, like a fire smoldering in the deep, there and gone in an instant.

Though it should have reinforced his misgivings, though it should have lent weight to the stories, that glimpse only intrigued Ketahn. If nothing else, the bottom of a cursed pit would’ve made a good place to hide from Zurvashi and the Queen’s Claw.

Not far away, the soota worked its way along a thin, trembling branch that extended past the rest into the open air over the pit. Throat swelling, the creature released another undulating howl into the night air, as though it were calling directly to those glimmering stars.

Ketahn crept closer, shifting the coil of silk rope attached to his barbed spear into his lower hand. The boughs shook beneath his weight, which was much greater than the soota’s, but he needed only a clear path to make his throw.

The soota howled again as a gust of wind swept over the Tangle, shaking the trees. The dark clouds blocking out a portion of the night sky shifted, revealing the two full moons just over the canopy. The soota’s fur took on a silver sheen in the moonlight.

Ketahn hefted his spear, closing his fingers around the familiar groove worn into the shaft. He waited only for the swaying branches to ease…

A tremor pulsed through the bough upon which Ketahn was perched, faint but distinct from the vibrations caused by his weight and the wind. Pressing the tips of his mandibles together, he turned his head to glance back toward the trunk.

Several dark shapes were moving in the shadows of the leaves. A set of four eyes briefly caught the moonlight, flashing yellow. Those eyes were not directed toward Ketahn—they were focused on the soota.

Ketahn stilled himself, watching as more of the xiskals crossed the broken patches of moonlight. Their tough, mottled hides were covered with long, backswept quills along their spines, and their front legs—four in total—were longer than their rear pair, all tipped with hooked claws ideal for climbing.

This was a small pack—he only counted five—but xiskals were dangerous in any number, despite being only half the size of a full grown male vrix.

The xiskals prowled toward the soota, focused intently on their prey. The surrounding branches creaked and groaned under the new weight, dipping more with every finger length the xiskals advanced. Something tightened in Ketahn’s chest, squeezing with as much force as the queen could’ve mustered.

The soota turned abruptly, fur bristling and long ears snapping up.

That energy in the air intensified, pulsing along Ketahn’s hide. He did not know which of the Eight he had angered—the Protector or the Broodmother, perhaps—in his confrontation with Zurvashi, but it seemed the gods were keen to test him tonight. And he knew with a certainty as solid as Takarahl’s stone what was about to happen.

The xiskals darted toward the spooked soota as Ketahn turned back toward the tree trunk, wrapping the end of his spear’s silk rope around his hand. Branches cracked and snapped, leaves shook violently, and the tenuous support beneath Ketahn fell away.

He threw the barbed spear at the trunk, but he was already plummeting amidst the broken boughs and panicked chitters from the xiskals. Ketahn found himself looking up through a mass of tangled branches, falling leaves, and thrashing beasts at a purple and blue sky sprinkled with stars that looked like glowing larvae dangling from a cavern ceiling far, far above.

Something darted through the intact boughs overhead—a blur of blue-gray, a flash of red—and vanished.

Ketahn might have offered a prayer to the Eight in that moment, as he tumbled backward and the world inverted so he was staring straight down into the gaping pit, but he’d only ever been able to rely upon himself.

The silk rope went taut, constricting his hand painfully. The strain on his arm was immense as it took his full weight. Branches and twigs slapped and raked his hide as they fell around him.

Ketahn swung toward the edge of the pit. His body spun around in time for him to see the pit’s wall rushing toward him.

The rope jolted. The strain on his arm ceased, and his insides lurched as he fell again.

Ketahn hit the wall hard, releasing a pained growl he barely heard over the noise of chittering xiskals and crashing branches below him. He clawed for purchase with his arms and legs, but the dirt and plants were too loose, the slope too steep.

The sounds from the xiskals ended suddenly, along with all the crashing.

Ketahn slipped, knocking loose a torrent of clumped dirt and small stones that clattered down the slope.

From somewhere overhead, the soota made its high call into the night as though nothing had happened.

“Damn your eyes,” Ketahn snarled, uncertain of whether he was directing the words at the soota, the Eight, or the queen.

In a jumble of dirt and stone, leaf and root, Ketahn fell again.