The Tangled Web We Weave (short story)

“... Senator Laveaux remains in critical condition following what is believed to have been an assassination attempt at Oridin City Hospital on Fondor…”

Thelma blinked, pulled from the intense focus she’d had on her sewing. The modest holo projector she kept at the back of the shop was tuned to the local news. Details of the developing story continued to stream in, and she wanted to listen… but she had so much work to do, and only tonight to do it.

A customer had rushed in right before closing, begging for last minute adjustments. She said she needed the skirt to be cut higher, though looking at the strain on the fabric of the bodice, it seemed the whole gown ought to be a size or two larger. But Thelma didn’t ask questions. She just did as asked, inserting pins to shorten the hem by a couple inches.

Turning off the holo, she bent her head to resume her work. It was quiet save the hum of the sewing machine and the rain falling against the roof. She had designed this gown herself, a stunning number in black and cobalt blue silk with gold threads embroidered in elaborate patterns. It had taken her more than six months to complete. It would likely be worn only once.

The door to the shop was suddenly flung open, bringing with it a crash of thunder. Startled, Thelma nearly pricked her thumb. It was late; the sign outside said closed, but clearly it hadn’t stopped this unexpected visitor. Booted feet crossed the shop in rapid strides, giving her just enough time to rise to her feet and grab a weapon from a nearby drawer before they reached her.

“Thelma,” her visitor said gruffly. “Put that thing away. It’s only me.”

She knew him. Byron Devorak, the top enforcer of the most powerful crime lord on the planet, stood before her. She was taken aback by the state he was in. His posture was slouched as if he had some injury which pained him, and his face was haggard. His magical Cloak hung in tatters from his lanky frame. He removed it carefully, passing the bundle of colorful fabric to her as if it were a newborn. “Can it be fixed?” he asked.

That’s right—he only ever came to visit when the Cloak needed her deft fingers and steady hands. If the Cloak needed her, Byron needed her.

Thelma sank wordlessly into a chair, spreading the Cloak over a table. The damage was the worst she had ever seen. Five layers of shell spider silk, known for its durability, nonetheless bore scorched holes from blaster fire… and a lightsaber. Her touch lingered on the distinct burns, tracing the slashes and stabs of a fearsome duel.

“Well?” Byron’s impatient tone pierced her thoughts.

“I will mend it,” she answered, reaching for her loom. “But it will take time.”

He sank into a chair, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. “We have all night.”

She opened her mouth to protest about her other obligations, but shut it without saying a word. As if he had read her thoughts, he suddenly asked, “What were you doing before I got here?”

Thelma gestured to the half-altered gown, explaining that it was for an actress to wear to a gala. Byron snapped his fingers in recognition at the name. “I saw her in a holofilm years ago. Don’t remember the title, but she played a thief who’d had a rough childhood. The audience was meant to sympathize with her. I hate it when they do that. Just let the woman be bad.”

She offered no response to his satisfied smirk, silently weaving threads through the loom. The Cloak required a special sort of mending to ensure its ancient power lost none of its potency. Each layer had to be balanced, every color present in equal amounts. There weren’t many weavers that could accomplish such an exquisite task. Thelma happened to be one of them. The old women of the Citadel had taught her the art centuries ago.

Byron may have been a criminal, but he had saved her life on Nar Shaddaa. She got herself into that mess. Lyli Dragi , the woman who had rescued her from prison, wanted her to continue her Jedi training, but Thelma couldn’t bring herself to complete the Trials. She couldn’t bring herself to do much of anything, really. She couldn’t even eat half the time. So she ran away, disappearing on Narsh as so many had done before her. Until she encountered the Sangnir, she had wondered if she was just waiting to die. Only when her life was threatened did she realize how badly she wanted to live.

Byron came in a storm of fire and ash. He drove off the Sangnir and brought her to his hideout, where he tended to her wounds and told her about his “lord”, Mr. Han Werdegast. Before she knew it he had arranged a meeting between them, promising that she would earn his favor, his protection, simply by being one of their same kind.

Mr. Werdegast’s stately mansion, so unlike the decrepit castle where she had grown up, was modern and cozy. Byron had to lead her by the arm into the parlor, where Mr. Werdegast was sitting in a high-backed chair. He was the very portrait of elegance, smartly dressed in a gray suit with his raven hair slicked back. Yet her gaze was drawn first and foremost to his cane, with its handle of pure silver in the shape of a wolf’s head. Some vampires couldn’t stand the touch of silver. Werdegast always handled it with gloves.

“Welcome, Miss Goth,” he greeted her with a warm smile. “Please, make yourself comfortable. So long as you are my guest, you are to be treated like family.” A pause. “Perhaps we are related. Many of the old Houses are linked.”

He pressed a button on the side table, which then projected a three-dimensional family tree. Their eyes traced along branches heavy with important-sounding names, but they found no relation of hers.

“It seems there is no connection between us after all.” He stared intently at her, his eyes shining in a shaft of moonlight. “Yet you remind me so much of my daughter Luna. Only she was not a redhead. Her hair was black like mine…”

The meeting ended with her gaining a license to open a shop in his territory. So long as they remained on good terms, her little establishment was under Werdegast’s protection. All because of Byron. The least she could do was mend his Cloak whenever he asked it of her.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?”

Thelma looked up at Byron. He wasn’t quite smiling. “I wasn’t sure if I could,” she muttered. Usually he was more forthcoming, chattering to her about his most recent exploits without any prompting. “Do you want me to ask?”

“You can ask me anything,” he said sharply. “It’s whether or not you want to know the truth. So. Do you want to know what happened?”

Her fingers seemed to move of their own volition, flying over the rows of hooks and threads. Mindless muscle memory learned in decades at the ancient loom. “Do I need to know?” she inquired, her voice almost a whisper.

He snorted. Thelma’s brow furrowed. She never asked him what he was doing on Nar Shaddaa when he found her near death, the Sangnir lurching over her. Should I have asked? she wondered, too late. Would I have agreed to go with him if I had?...

Byron pulled his chair closer, watching her work. Watching her. She felt his gaze ghost down her throat, tracing over the delicate bones below her neck, before honing in on the heart-shaped pendant hanging just above her breasts. “That is a gorgeous necklace.”

She stiffened. “Thank you.”

“What is that—corusca?” Byron reached out a gloved hand as if to finger the gem, but didn't quite touch her. “It must be worth a fortune. Where did you get it?”

“My mother gave it to me. Before she was locked away.”

His eyebrows rose. He already knew the story of Genevieve Goth, who devoured so many memories and consumed so many lives that she went mad with secondhand fury and sorrow. Thelma felt awkward speaking about her late mother, so she hastily changed the subject. “There’s a story about how it came into our family. The legend of the cruel vampire Prince Sirki and the pure-hearted peasant girl Francesca…”

Sirki kidnapped Francesca from her village and brought her to his castle, dressed her up as a princess and made all the other nobles bow to her for his amusement. He tormented her viciously, but she would not break. Eventually he grew to admire her, and offered to grant her one wish. He expected she would ask for her freedom. Instead she asked him to make her his bride.

“Sounds like something out of a cheap romance novel,” Byron muttered, resting his chin on his hand. She had told him the tale, her hands never idle, the holes in his Cloak closing as she spoke. “Does this story have a happy ending?”

Thelma shook her head. “She thought she could withstand the transformation. But when she was made like him, she changed. She was no longer pure-hearted. The prince mourned. The thing he had loved most about her was lost in the transformation. He had this necklace made in memoriam.”

“Then what?” Byron leaned toward her. “Did he kill her? Or she him?”

“The plague reached them even though they were holed up in the castle. She fled while he stayed to die.”

He scoffed. “It needs a better ending than that. And I don’t believe this peasant girl could have been so ignorant of what becoming a vampire’s bride would entail. She must have been more cunning than the prince realized.”

“We don’t know how we have changed until it’s too late to turn back,” Thelma said. Her hands had gone still. There was still a little more work to be done here and there. But she wanted to ask him something first. “Did you kill Senator Laveaux?”

“No.” He answered without hesitation. “She’s still alive. Barely.”

Thelma pressed her lips together in a thin line. “I made two gowns for her. I know her measurements, the shape of her body.” There was an intimacy in that, she supposed, even though she couldn’t profess to truly know the woman. “I am glad that I won’t have to make her shroud.”

“Not yet.” Byron smirked, then pointed to the lightsaber burns in the Cloak. She had saved them for last. “I fought the King of Alderaan.” He laughed at the look on her face. “Oh yes, Alicio Organa in the flesh. He tried to use my power against me. Clever man. May he live another century, if I don’t get him next time.”

She wondered why they had fought, of course, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask just yet. Her fingers began to move across the loom again. Byron stared at her all the while, and she looked back at him as the Force flowed underneath her hands.

“She knew I was coming,” he said suddenly. “When I arrived there were traps already laid, wards of protection around her room. I couldn’t reach her long enough to kill her. Someone must have known about my plans and warned her.”

Silence fell between them. He already had proof that she was the Senator's informant. After all, he didn't confide in anyone else the way he did in her, the little seamstress who dutifully mended his Cloak every other week and didn't ask questions. Thelma slowly broke eye contact, ostensibly to complete the final stitch. But he grabbed her wrist, holding it tightly.

“She hates us. They all do. If she knew what you are, she would kill you. Don’t feel sorry for her.”

“I feel sorry for everyone.” Her arm slipped easily from his slackened grip, tying the knot and snapping off the thread between her teeth. She held the mended Cloak out to him, but he wouldn't take it. Instead he touched her cheek, then rested both hands against either side of her head. His touch was gentle, yet she had a sudden vision of him crushing her skull between his palms like a walnut. She had no doubt he possessed the power and the will to end her life. He only needed a motive. Despite the deadly premonition, she didn’t shy away from his touch. One of his hands slid down, passing over the golden chain of her necklace as he caressed her bare throat. Still he exerted no pressure. The future dissolved before her half-lidded eyes, growing hazy. She wasn't so sure what would happen after all.

The moment passed. Byron let his hands drop. He took the Cloak from her and slung it around his shoulders, closing his eyes as the familiar, comforting weave of magic surrounded him. “Thank you,” he said. “For everything. I don’t know what I would do without you, Thelma.”

She remained seated before the loom as he opened the door to the shop. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a cool mist. With a sweep of his Cloak Byron disappeared into the shadows. Thelma turned her attention back to the actress’ gown. If she worked until dawn, she would finish it in time.