I woke up early on Friday morning to watch the first washed-out rays of sun filter across the ceiling of my room. My hair was spread out across the pillow, and my arms were tucked beneath my cheek, the warm sheets sitting high on my collarbone.

The obsidian ring.

I lifted my right hand, flexed my fingers out and stared at the fascinating new addition perched on my ring finger. When Celia had first given me the ring, it seemed slightly warm, but now it felt pleasantly cool on my skin. Nothing had changed about the puzzling depth of that inky crystal, nor the strangely beautiful pinpoint of light at its centre.

This was my personal talisman?

I wondered where Madame Aurora had acquired it. Through the Lucasta line? Or from some exotic dealer? I didn’t know much about my great-great-grandmother, and I was increasingly curious about her powers. Was she truly the psychic and medium Celia said she was? I tried to imagine what her life might have been like, travelling with Barnum and Bailey.

I thought of the key my great-aunt had entrusted me with, and almost before I knew it, I was dressed and slipping out the door of the penthouse. I took the rattling old lift down to the dusty lobby, stepped out and stopped in the centre of the tiled space beneath the broken chandelier. Arms crossed, with one finger at my chin, I studied the space around me.

Hidden passageways?

The oval, high-ceilinged lobby was cool, as always, and I buttoned Celia’s beautiful winter coat up to my neck. I closed my eyes for a moment, collecting myself, and when I opened them again I noticed things I hadn’t seen previously. The tilework of the floor, for instance, was cracked from one side to the other, with several smaller splits spreading out from the main line, not unlike the divided lifeline of my palm. (What would Madame Aurora have made of that?) Though not immediately visible the split in the tiles was significant, and I wondered what kind of movement would have caused such damage. There was also a split up the wall that snaked out into several branches. I cast my eyes over the dusty wall sconces and the spiked fleurs-de-lis of the elaborate lift cage. They were magnificent, if broken in places. Nowhere, though, did I see a door or an entrance I hadn’t previously been aware of. I approached the walls and began looking for gaps or cracks. I confess I even pushed on a protruding tile or two on the floor. I walked up the snaking staircase to the sealed wooden door of the mezzanine, pushed and pulled at it, and then walked down again. It wasn’t exactly a hidden door, but I’d never seen it opened. Perhaps Luke could tell me what was beyond it?

I looked for concealed entrances, levers, buttons. What kind of hidden passageways had Barrett built? I had to think in terms of Victorian technology, I reminded myself. Any special levers might even be broken.

Tonight. Tonight I will explore. And I’ll bring my spirit guide.

I emerged from the subway steps in SoHo to find that the skies had opened up. My black umbrella proved almost too unwieldy to manage as the rain moved sideways across the street in violent gusts, pummelling cars and pedestrians alike. It was in these moments that New York was its most impersonal and cold. Commuters were faceless and hurried. The spikes of passing wet umbrellas battled silently as if jousting. My brolly turned inside out, and I jabbed the ground with it until it flipped round again.

I got through plenty of paperwork and filing during the day as there was no sign of Skye DeVille. It was a relief not to have to brace myself every time her office door opened. I prepared three hot beverages all day – a mere pittance compared with Skye’s inhuman caffeine demands. I also must confess I spent a guilt-inducing amount of time taking advantage of the office’s Internet connection to research necromancy. I’d read about it in my mother’s many books back home, but I had never thought I would find myself considering it as deeply as I was now. Necromancy certainly had a long and motley history across cultures. I wondered what Barrett had hoped to achieve with his experiments. Had he been motivated by prophecy, money, or simply curiosity?

‘What are you doing?’

It was nearing the end of the day, and thankfully I’d heard Pepper coming before she’d got near enough to see the window open on my computer screen. I closed the giant image of the Witch of Endor I’d been looking at, and returned to my inbox.

‘Nothing. I mean, working,’ I responded quickly.

She stood over me, unsmiling and fashionably severe. ‘I need a quote or two from another couple of designers.’

‘For the feature?’ I asked, though it was obvious enough.

She nodded. ‘I want to wrap this up on Monday.’

‘We’re still going ahead with the knitwear spread? Even with all the, uh, news?’ I said. It seemed incredible that the piece wouldn’t need to be reworked. Or even put on hold.

‘Fashion doesn’t stand still just because of some disappearances. Here are the addresses. Or you can just call.’ Pepper handed me a scrap of paper. Both were in the Garment District. Again, the fashion industry’s sense of concern was really moving. Pepper was almost as sympathetic to the plight of those designers as Victor Mal had been. Until he became one of them.

‘No problem,’ I told her, putting the paper into my bag. ‘I’ll go in person. I might be able to get more that way.’ As always, I was eager for an excuse to leave the office.

‘I don’t need you getting into this whole scandal, okay? We want to steer clear of it. Keep it about the fashion. The rest of this stuff could be old news by print time.’

Could it really? Could three missing top designers be old news? Even if they turned up by the time the magazine came out? ‘You don’t think it would be a bit of a glaring omission to not even acknowledge . . .’

Pepper glowered at me.

Okay. My views are not wanted here. I get it.

I nodded obediently. ‘I’ll keep it about the fashion.’

Once she was satisfied that I wouldn’t ruffle any feathers – as I clearly had the last time I’d used my actual brain to do a bit of reporting for her – Pepper let me be. I packed up my satchel and coat, turned my computer off and breezed over to Morticia.

‘You’re leaving early,’ she commented.

‘Yeah, Pepper gave me an errand. I’ve got to go up to the Garment District to speak to a couple of designers. See you Monday.’

She nodded. ‘Any hot dates this weekend?’

‘Nah,’ I said, but thought of my Civil War crush.

‘Me neither,’ she replied, and pouted. ‘It’s depressing. Hey, would you like to see a movie? That new Johnny Depp one is out.’

‘Oh. That’s a good idea.’ It was one I wanted to see, and I had been hoping to get to know Morticia better, but I was unsure I could spare an evening so soon, considering all I was learning about Lieutenant Luke. Was he really my spirit guide? What did that mean?

‘I’ll be a bit busy this weekend but maybe next?’ I suggested and scribbled my cell phone number on a piece of paper. ‘I finally have a phone, but the reception is pretty awful where I live, so if you don’t get through, leave a message.’ Of course, Morticia couldn’t know that there was no reception where I lived because it was a suburb that didn’t exist – to phone companies, anyway.

‘Cool,’ she said. ‘I’ll put you in my phone.’

Finally I was forging a normal friendship in this new town. I smiled. ‘By the way, I don’t know if I ever mentioned this, Morticia, but I really like your name,’ I added.

Morticia was a weird name and I guess it had made me feel closer to her from the first day we met. My name had always made me stand out, and not always comfortably.

‘Your parents must be cool to give you a name like that,’ I continued. ‘They must be big fans of The Addams Family.’

I noticed Morticia frown. ‘My parents? Oh, no. My parents named me “Bea”. Can you imagine? I changed my name the day I turned eighteen.’

She sure didn’t look like a Bea. I’d never considered changing my name. It might have been weird, but then so was I. ‘What made you change it to Morticia?’

‘The obvious, I guess. My parents weren’t happy about it, you could say that much. Yeah . . . we don’t, um, get along,’ she said, and I saw a flash of sadness in her eyes. ‘I moved out last year and we don’t see each other much.’

‘I’m so sorry, Morticia.’ I felt terrible for bringing up the whole subject.

‘Yeah, well . . . I guess I’m not what they expected. Or wanted . . .’ She took the scrap of paper with my number on it, and played with it listlessly. ‘It’s cool,’ she finally said. ‘You have a good weekend.’ She offered her lopsided smile, but it didn’t quite disguise the hint of sadness in her features.

‘Let’s catch that movie soon,’ I said.

‘Cool. Oh, and look out,’ Morticia added, as I headed out the door.

I stopped in my tracks and turned.

‘It’s a full moon tonight. The crazies will be out.’

The closer of the two addresses I’d been given was for the brand Smith & Co. I recognised the name. Their headquarters were announced by a stylishly understated sign on a doorway on W36th Street, next to an alley. I looked up and saw banner advertising in the first floor window above, confirming that I’d arrived at the correct location. The door on street level was unlocked, and I walked up a clean but nondescript stairwell to reach the glass door of the office and push my way inside.

‘Good afternoon. How may I help you?’

The waiting area was small and modern. An attractive, slim young man wearing a close-fitting top and fashionably retro black-framed spectacles sat behind a wooden desk. As with Victor Mal’s studio, there were ads decorating the walls of the waiting area. The Smith & Co ads were much more understated, however, and seemed to include only the latest campaign.

‘I’m here for a quick interview with Mr Smith,’ I told the man at the desk.

‘Pandora magazine?’

‘Yes, that’s right. I hope this is a good time.’

‘It’s nice to meet you.’ He stood and shook my hand. ‘I’ll take your coat and umbrella. If you’ll please take a seat, I’ll just see if Laurie is ready.’

‘Sure thing. Thanks.’

The receptionist relieved me of my coat – which he hung on a designer coat rack that looked like a small, flattened tree forged of stainless steel – and he popped my umbrella in a red plastic umbrella stand while I took a seat on a low-slung minimalist leather lounge that probably cost more than everything I owned.

I waited.

I lifted my hand and examined Madame Aurora’s obsidian ring once more. I’d been doing that a lot through the day. I loved objects with history. No doubt it was a trait I’d picked up from my late mother, the archaeologist. Perhaps that was why I was more interested in vintage fashion than the latest offerings. I liked the idea that things were lived in, that they had stories to tell. This ring would have seen a lot, I guessed. I didn’t really know if I believed in talismans, but if so much was possible in the spirit world, so much that the world did not acknowledge or believe in, the existence of a real talisman was not such a stretch.

‘He’s in the atelier, if you’d like to go in,’ the receptionist said when he returned to the waiting area. ‘He’s working on a new collection.’

‘Wonderful,’ I replied, and sprung up.

I was led into a long, narrow, high-ceilinged space – obviously another warehouse conversion – to find Mr Smith smiling and walking towards me. He was tall and he sported artfully dishevelled hair, like a kind of fashionable Einstein figure. He wore a chocolate-brown suede blazer over a thin knit top that seemed like a masculine version of the Smith & Co clothing I’d seen on the shoot. I guessed he was mid-fifties. Several half-dressed couture mannequins filled his workshop. Lining one wall were hip-height tables layered with textiles. A large bulletin board was tacked with images, sketches and cloth samples.

A diminutive Chinese–American woman slipped past me to the door. ‘Goodnight, Mr Laurie,’ she said on her way out.

‘Goodnight,’ he said, and then whispered to me, ‘that woman can do anything.’

I perked up. ‘That’s impressive,’ I replied. ‘I’m Pandora English, from Pandora magazine. Thanks for taking the time to talk to me this afternoon. I won’t keep you long.’

‘I’ll likely be up all night anyway, I think. New collection.’

‘Yes, your receptionist mentioned that. How is it coming along?’

He swept his gaze over the room. ‘It’s coming . . .’ He pulled up a chair for me, and cleared it of layers of half-constructed garments. ‘So, your real name is Pandora?’

‘Yup. That’s me. The lady who let all the evil into the world.’

‘I thought that was Eve,’ he said.

‘She’s the other lady who let all the evil into the world. I was the one with the box, apparently. Actually, I think originally it was a jar.’ Celia had told me that my name meant ‘gifted’ or ‘all-endowed’, but it was the ancient Greek myth of the woman with the jar (or box) of evil that was most remembered. Why was it always women’s curiosity for opening jars or eating apples that was blamed for everything wrong in the world?

‘Was the magazine named after you?’ Laurie Smith asked.

I wasn’t sure if he was joking. I was hardly a nineteen-year-old people named things after. ‘Not at all, I’m afraid. Mere coincidence.’

He cocked his head and smiled. ‘I don’t know if I believe in coincidences.’

There was a light knock on the open door of the workshop, and we both turned. The attractive bespectacled receptionist held a beautiful parcel, immaculately wrapped in bows of black and green. I’d seen something like it before, I thought. Recently.

‘Sorry to disturb you both, but a package just arrived for you, Laurie. It might be the one you were waiting for?’

‘Thanks, James,’ Laurie said. ‘You can leave it on your desk. See you tomorrow.’

‘It was nice to meet you, Pandora,’ James said, and left us.

Laurie sat up on the work table and let his long legs dangle. I noticed him pick up a large pair of work scissors and move them to one side. ‘I’m, um, no good at interviews,’ he said to me finally, and I smiled.

‘I’m not that good at conducting them,’ I replied.

‘No, no. I’m sure you’re fine. Besides, you are young. There’s time.’

I smiled, and pulled the pad and pen from my satchel. ‘Interview starts now, if that’s okay with you?’ I adjusted myself on the little chair and got started. I asked Laurie Smith a few basic questions about the knitwear industry and his latest work. I kept it short and fashion-focused, as instructed, and he didn’t make me feel like an idiot the way Victor Mal had. He didn’t bring up the missing designers, and I resisted broaching the subject. It was possible that he was so focused on his collection deadline that he hadn’t heard the news. Or perhaps Pepper was right, and it just wasn’t appropriate for our interview.

‘You know, I have to say, you seem refreshingly humble,’ I said once I’d filled a couple of pages with my notes. ‘I had to interview someone else for this piece and he said he was the best designer in the world. With knitwear, anyway.’

And now he was missing. It was a bit hard to believe.

‘I used to be like that,’ Laurie confessed. ‘I was the worst of them. I thought that if you didn’t boast the loudest no one would respect you in this business.’ He paused and pointed at my notepad. ‘I hope you’re not going to put that in?’

‘No, I won’t. I promise. Is there anything else you’d like me to add about your collection?’ I finally asked.

‘We worked hard on this one. I just hope people try it.’

‘Very good.’ I closed my notepad and slipped it away. ‘Thanks again for your time this afternoon . . . ah, evening.’ It was almost five, I realised. Perhaps I could get to the next place before five thirty? It wasn’t far. ‘It’s been really lovely to meet you,’ I told Laurie. ‘Here’s my card in case you have any questions, or if you have anything else to add.’ I didn’t have my own card, but I did have one for the magazine. I wrote my name and email on it and handed it to him. ‘Good luck with the new collection.’

Laurie saw me out himself, which I thought was very courteous. Before this afternoon I had been starting to wonder if rudeness was fashionable, but the experience at Smith & Co had made me think differently. I noticed the receptionist had gone home and the office seemed empty. Laurie would be pulling a late night by himself. That was dedication. I took my coat off the strange, flat tree and wished Laurie Smith goodnight, and good luck with his all-nighter.

By the time I stepped out on to W36th Street it was growing dark, and a wind was blowing hard. The air was thick with electricity. It felt like a storm was coming. By my calculations the next address was only a few blocks away. It was possible they might still be in. I was less than halfway there when the first drops of rain landed on me, and I realised what I’d overlooked. Your umbrella! Idiot. I’d only been gone perhaps fifteen minutes, but when I returned to Smith & Co I was nevertheless relieved to find the door was still unlocked. I stepped inside the waiting area and called out, ‘Hello? Sorry, I just forgot my umbrella.’

Then I froze.

Something was wrong. Something was profoundly wrong. That familiar foreboding chilled my stomach. It became more intense with each passing second.

‘Um, is everyone okay?’ I ventured, but there was no reply. ‘Mr Smith?’ I heard a strange moaning sound, and stiffened. From the direction of the workroom there was the hard bang of something falling over. ‘Mr Smith? Are you okay?’ I pushed open the door to the atelier and stepped inside.

What I saw then was hard to comprehend.

In the middle of the workshop a shape was moving violently from side to side, erratically, like a small tornado, knocking into work tables and toppling mannequins over. The shape was like a six-foot-high silky cocoon. The whole thing turned and thrashed before me as I stood frozen at the door. What was it? I had no idea. I thought perhaps I could almost make out the shape of . . . a man? And then I heard another moan and I realised that it was coming from inside the cocoon, and in that moment I knew that someone was in there.

I sprang into action. ‘Hang on!’ I shouted and sprinted forward. ‘Hang on. I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’ I looked around in a panic. ‘I’m going to cut you out!’

On instinct I grabbed the scissors I’d seen earlier on the work table and I pushed the cocoon against the wall to hold it still. My palms became sticky and for a second I had to struggle to free them. I wiped my hands on my clothes in disgust. The cocoon was some sort of large, sticky web. A web that seemed to have a life of its own?

‘Don’t move,’ I instructed and the person inside moaned unintelligibly in reply. The violent movements were reduced to a kind of wild shivering. I thought it was Laurie Smith in there – somehow – and it was clear that he was suffocating. I needed to get his head out, and fast. At the hollow below the chin I inserted one point of the scissors inside as carefully as I could, and then began cutting the cocoon open. Using all my strength, I pulled it back with both hands. My hands kept sticking to the material, and though it was silky and thin, it was remarkably strong. I tore hard at it, and after some effort Laurie’s face emerged, purple from lack of oxygen. He gasped for air and let out some garbled cries, his bloodshot eyes bulging out of their sockets. The poor man seemed half out of his mind with confusion and terror. Wasting no time, I tore the cut larger, and then had to resort to the scissors again to work down the body. It all happened so fast that I was half kneeling on the floor, cutting a hole at his waist, when I realised that the sack itself was squirming . . .

Spiders were pouring out.

Oh!

I screamed and jumped back, dropping the scissors. Spiders of all shapes and sizes spilled out of the holes I’d cut in the cocoon. Orb-weavers. Tarantulas. Jumping spiders. Wolf spiders. Crab spiders. I stifled a scream. Laurie moaned again, bringing my attention back to him. He slid down the wall into a huddled position. He could not yet free himself. There was no choice but to continue cutting him out.

I hope none of these little fellas are deadly.

I quickly went in again, gritting my teeth. Spiders crawled out of the holes in the sack, spreading across the webbing and over my hands and up my arms in a slow, steady stream. Those that did not crawl on me dropped to the floor and swarmed around my feet. There was a seemingly endless supply. My spider-covered hands shook as I worked away at the cocoon. I worried I might be hallucinating, experiencing some horrific arachnophobic nightmare. Or worse, that I wasn’t hallucinating at all.

Soon I’d cut the body of the cocoon open and helped Laurie out. I flicked spiders off his clothes while he danced awkwardly about the workshop like Mick Jagger on bad acid. I thought the poor man might have a heart attack. Heck, I thought I might. I flung Celia’s coat off and did some awkward dancing of my own to remove the spiders still clinging to me.

‘What on earth happened? What was that? Are you okay?’ I asked in an excited ramble, shaking a fat orb-weaver off my shoe. Laurie didn’t seem able to answer, and I didn’t blame him. I hauled him to one end of the workshop, away from the discarded pile of sticky webbing and the seething mass of arachnids that surrounded it. I brought the chair over and sat him in it.

Okay, breathe, Pandora. Breathe.

‘Have you been bitten? Should I call 911?’ I asked.

Laurie finally spoke. ‘What . . . was that?’

‘I have no idea,’ I said. ‘I was hoping you could tell me.’ But he didn’t seem capable of telling anyone anything just yet. ‘Maybe we should get you to a hospital,’ I suggested and moved towards a phone on the wall.

He shook his head emphatically, and reached out a hand. ‘No. No, no, my partner is waiting for me. I’ll just go home.’

‘I thought you said you were pulling an all-nighter? Do you want me to call your partner for you? Let them know . . .’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘No. I’m fine.’

‘That’s crazy. How long were you in that sack?’

‘What sack?’

‘The sack I just cut you out of . . . with all the spiders . . .’ It sounded crazy to say it, and Laurie’s confused reaction made it seem even crazier.

He touched his fingertips to his forehead. ‘I don’t know what happened,’ he said, seeming deeply confused. ‘I opened that package, and then . . . I don’t know.’

The package.

I looked around me. There was little sign of the extraordinary struggle that had just taken place. A few mannequins were knocked over, and the scissors and some scraps of textile had slid on to the floor. I noticed the green and black parcel on the ground, opened and upturned. Black tissue was torn open. Amazingly, the pile of sticky webbing was shrivelling and jerking across the floor where we’d left it. The spiders that had swarmed out of it were crawling away into the shadows, and the cocoon itself was . . . disappearing? The whole mass was shrinking up like burning paper.

I was totally baffled. My mouth hung open. (It seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.)

‘I think I’ll go home,’ Laurie said behind me. ‘I’m fine.’

I shook my head. ‘You can’t possibly be fine. I really think —’

‘My partner is waiting for me. I’ll call him. He’ll come pick me up. He’s not far away,’ he said.

I was tempted to wait until his partner arrived, but I began to get the not-so-subtle feeling that Laurie just wanted me out of there, so I took the hint. I finally backed down. I dusted off Celia’s coat and took my things – including my umbrella – and, after a few last words, left the workshop. If there was one thing I had learned after a lifetime of seeing impossible things, it was that when you saw something clearly supernatural it was best not to insist on talking about it with people who didn’t want to discuss it, didn’t understand it, or flat out denied it. That was a one-way ticket to unwanted psychiatric attention. Incredibly, there was no sign of the spiders or the shredded webbing when I closed the door behind me. It had literally shrivelled into nothing.

Shakily, I made my way down the stairs and out on to the dark streets of the Garment District. My adrenaline was still pumping hard.

What on earth do I do now? How can I not tell anyone?

It had stopped raining, I noticed.

‘You’ve been asking after me,’ a voice said, and I stopped.

The voice was unfamiliar, with an accent I couldn’t place.

I turned, prepared for almost anything after what I’d just seen. A woman was leaning in the mouth of the narrow alley next to the Smith & Co studio entrance. I recognised her. She was tall, swathed head to toe in black, and she had a perfectly chic jet-black bob cut sharp at her high cheekbones, the geometrical fringe framing large, penetrating eyes and a mouth that was small and dark. She had a face like Louise Brooks in the 1920s.

This was the woman from the subway station. The woman who had followed me.

‘Pardon?’ I replied.

I hadn’t been asking around about her, but I was beginning to think that perhaps I should have been. There was an intensity to her presence that was unnatural. It disturbed me, just as it had the two times I’d noticed her before. As she approached, something cold twisted in my belly, and I found myself on high alert again. The tall woman moved to the edge of the alley, the streetlights casting harsh shadows on her face. Though her features were classically beautiful, they were set with unhappiness. I saw faint lines etched into the delicate skin straight as an arrow from her left temple across her cheek to her feminine jaw. But these faint lines did not rivet me. It was something else. As she neared, I saw that her mouth was cruel, despite its even, attractive shape. The wide, dark eyes glinted with bitterness, and her features combined like a beautiful, but warped painting. Louise Brooks on broken celluloid.

I wanted to turn and walk away, even run, but I held fast. This was the third time I’d encountered her. There was a reason.

‘You are Pandora English,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I replied, surprised, and not at all liking the sound of my name on her lips. I gripped my umbrella and satchel. What did I have with me? My phone, subway ticket, map, book, a few cosmetics, hairspray, rice, notepad, pen. The coldness in my belly was so strong it actually hurt, like I’d swallowed dry ice. I was in danger. That much was clear. I struggled with my instinct to run.

‘You’ve been asking around about me,’ she said again.

‘I’m a journalist,’ I said by way of response. I wasn’t sure why she thought I was asking about her.

‘I’ve been asking around about you, too,’ she went on. ‘Though I can hardly believe you’d come in such a pathetic form.’

Pathetic? I furrowed my brow. That kind of rudeness was a bit unnecessary, wasn’t it?

I was just thinking up a suitable comeback when movement drew my attention to her shoulder. I watched with a sinking sensation as thick, insect-like legs appeared, followed by the bulbous body of an arachnid. It was a tarantula, and it crawled slowly across the fabric of the woman’s top and came to sit on the edge of her collar, watching me just as the other one had done.

Wait. Was that the same spider?

‘Why did you take it home? My little spy?’ the tall woman asked me.

The tarantula. It was hers.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I replied.

‘Oh, I think you do. Did you think you could watch me? Did you think you could tap into the hive mind and spy on me? As I could spy on you?’

I may have gawked a little at this. I struggled for a suitable response. The hive mind?

The strange woman looked me up and down. She must have caught my expression of bewilderment, because she cocked her head, her perfect bob falling in a sharp line across one cheek. ‘I think they are wrong about you.’ She folded her arms. ‘You? The Seventh? I don’t believe it.’ She chuckled then. It was a joyless sound that sent icy shivers through me.

The Seventh. There was that title again. Celia had been trying to explain its importance to me, in her way. Her ways were a bit mysterious though and seemed to involve telling me things when she felt I needed to know. There was something important about the fact that it had been one hundred and fifty years since the last Seventh. And the Seventh held a very important role. I had powers. But what exactly? Celia said it would all reveal itself in time, but right now I felt like I needed to know a whole lot more.

I did my best to stand tall. ‘What business is it of yours if I am the Seventh?’

I kept my eyes on her, and she took another step forward. I realised then that her movements were wrong. For a moment I could fool my eyes into believing that what I saw was normal. But there was something disproportionate about the way she moved. Her legs were too long. The black clothing she was wearing appeared flowing and elegant, but it was disguising something. It wasn’t the cut of the garment that created the oddness of movement. It was as if her joints were actually in the wrong places. I gripped my umbrella, thinking I might soon need it to defend myself. With my other hand I fished around in my satchel.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘I won’t let you get in the way,’ she said with a low-voiced anger. ‘Laurie Smith was mine. He deserves my wrath.’

As if in slow motion, the sweeping knits that covered her oddly statuesque form fell back, and revealed the most hideous, confusing anatomy I’d ever seen. Legs – not human legs, but sleek black spider legs – darted out towards me. Even in the harsh shadows of the alley I could see that she didn’t have a torso – not a human one, anyway. She appeared to have a round, distended black belly and several legs . . . six legs, to be exact. Six spidery legs. And now those legs reached out to me.

Oh!

A scream escaped me, and I leapt backwards just in time to stay out of the reach of those horrible extremities. I popped open the umbrella with a quick click and began wielding it like a shield, while with my other hand I found the cool cylinder of hairspray in my bag. I pointed it at her face and depressed the button as if it were mace, causing a cloud of faux lavender to stream into the air. It was a sad excuse for a weapon, to say the least.

One of the sharp ends of the spider legs pierced through the umbrella and narrowly missed my leg. I threw the empty hairspray can at the woman, heard it bounce, and then chucked the open umbrella.

Time to run!

I hit W36th Street fast and passed two older men in business suits and wool coats. They must have heard my scream, and they asked if I was okay.

‘Just run!’ I yelled without bothering to turn around. ‘Run!’

I ran full tilt down the rain-slicked sidewalk and ploughed into a middle-aged woman carrying her shopping. She let out a shocked gasp and her bags hit the ground, potatoes spilling on the sidewalk. Sorry! I thought, but didn’t stop to help her. I just held my satchel close to my body and kept running as fast as I could.

I didn’t pause to look back.

By the time I placed my subway ticket in the turnstile of the first subway station I found, the rain had returned and I was soaked to the bone. I had frozen, shaking hands. I’d not even stopped to look at my map, and I wasn’t sure how far I’d sprinted. I was so flustered that I boarded the first train I saw, before realising it was headed in the wrong direction.

I just managed to compose myself enough to transfer to the green line before I was off Manhattan Island and headed for Brooklyn.

You’re fine. Everything is fine now. Breathe . . .

The 6 train was still packed from the post-work rush when I boarded. Frankly I was relieved to be surrounded by strangers – normal, human strangers. I stood in the crush of people and wrestled with everything I’d just seen.

It seemed I had interrupted the tall woman with the spider on her shoulder. Interrupted her doing what exactly? Why did he deserve her wrath? Who was she? What was she? One thing was for certain. She’d known I was the Seventh and she didn’t like that very much. I had to get home and warn Celia. ‘Something is afoot.’ Something was afoot, indeed. And that something had eight limbs.

A spider woman, I kept thinking. There is a spider woman in New York.