A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 5: Spinning Silk and Playing Cards

Months had passed, and Michael's swarm had grown beyond anything he'd initially imagined. The three-block range around Strangefellows had expanded to nearly six, and within that space, millions of insects answered his call. Ants, beetles, spiders, cockroaches, flies—they all formed part of his network, each contributing to the intricate web of control he'd built.

But it wasn't just about numbers. Michael had refined his abilities, pushing his control to new levels of precision. His spiders had become master weavers under his guidance, spinning silk in vast quantities that he collected and transformed into threads. It was an exhausting process at first, but over time, he perfected it. The spools of silk thread were smooth, strong, and shimmered faintly in the dim light of his attic apartment.

When he finally had enough silk to sell, he ventured out to find a buyer. The Nightside was a place where almost anything could be traded for the right price, and luxury materials like silk were no exception.

The store he found was tucked away in a shadowy corner of the market district, its sign reading Wright's Fine Fabrics and Materials. The shopkeeper, an older man with sharp eyes and a faintly shimmering aura—likely a minor magical ward—looked him over when he entered, clearly trying to size him up.

"What can I do for you?" the man asked, his voice calm but curious.

Michael reached into his bag and pulled out a spool of silk thread, setting it carefully on the counter. "I've got silk. Quality stuff, if you're interested."

The shopkeeper picked up the spool, examining it with practiced hands. His fingers ran over the thread, testing its texture and strength. He raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "This is good. Very good. Where'd you get it?"

"I've got my sources," Michael said vaguely. "Let's just say it's fresh."

The shopkeeper chuckled, setting the spool down. "Fair enough. I can give you 300 pounds for the lot."

Michael's face didn't betray the disappointment he felt. He knew the silk was worth more—probably twice as much—but right now, he needed the money. Arguing or holding out for a better deal wasn't worth the risk of losing the sale.

"Deal," Michael said, nodding.

The transaction was quick, and Michael left the shop with a pouch of cash weighing down his pocket. It wasn't a fortune, but it was a start. The silk production had potential, and with enough time and effort, he could make it into a steady side hustle.

But silk wasn't going to be enough on its own, not if he wanted to prepare for what he knew was coming. The Nightside wasn't just dangerous—it was unpredictable, and Michael had a sinking feeling that his quiet life wouldn't stay that way for long. He needed resources, better tools, and a way to build up some savings.

That was where poker came in.

Michael had always been decent at cards, but now he had an edge no one else could match. With his insects stationed discreetly around the poker tables, he could see through their eyes, watching as his opponents checked their cards. It wasn't perfect—there were still risks involved, and he couldn't make his wins too obvious—but it was enough to give him a consistent advantage.

He started small, playing in backroom games where the stakes were low. He'd let himself lose a few hands to avoid suspicion, but over time, he steadily built up his winnings. A few hundred pounds here, a little more there—it added up.

One night, as he pocketed his winnings after a particularly tense game, one of the other players gave him a long, appraising look.

"You're lucky," the man said, his tone neutral but edged with suspicion.

Michael forced a grin. "Beginner's luck, I guess. Don't expect it to last."

The man didn't reply, just shrugged and went back to his drink. Michael exhaled slowly, forcing himself to remain calm. He knew he couldn't push his luck too far. The Nightside wasn't kind to those who cheated—or even to those who were suspected of cheating.

Between the silk sales, poker games, and his job at Strangefellows, Michael managed to scrape together enough money to start planning for the future. He bought supplies he hoped he'd never need—extra food, basic medical kits, and a few items with more… unconventional uses. The Nightside was full of surprises, and Michael wasn't about to be caught unprepared.

As he sat on his attic floor one night, sorting through his earnings and his growing collection of supplies, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of satisfaction. The job at Strangefellows paid the bills, but now, for the first time, he had a little breathing room. He wasn't just surviving anymore—he was building something.

And in the Nightside, that was no small feat.

Michael sat cross-legged on the floor of his attic apartment, his fingers idly tracing patterns on the worn wood as he thought through his plans. The faint hum of his swarm in the back of his mind was a comforting constant, but it did little to quiet the larger ideas spinning in his head.

The Nightside wasn't just a place where the impossible was possible—it was a place where survival demanded ingenuity and preparation. And if he wanted to do more than scrape by, he'd need an edge.

That was where the werewolf blood came in.

Michael had read about it in the Nightside books, a detail that had stuck with him since he first picked them up. In the stories, Taylor had used a magical wolf pelt taken from a witch to save Shotgun Suzie's life. The pelt wasn't just any wolf skin; it was enchanted, the magic keeping it fresh and potent. When Taylor squeezed it, the blood mixed with Suzie's, and she gained a healing factor that made her nearly impossible to kill. Later, Suzie had passed that gift to Taylor by bleeding into him, sharing the ability.

The idea of gaining a healing factor like that made Michael pause every time he thought about it. In a place like the Nightside, where death could come from anywhere and in any form, being harder to kill wasn't just useful—it was essential.

But it was a long-term goal, one that required careful planning. For starters, he'd need to find an enchanted wolf pelt, which was easier said than done. The witches of the Nightside weren't exactly known for their generosity, and anything magical of that caliber would come with a hefty price tag. Even if he managed to find one, there was no guarantee the process would work the same way it had in the books.

Still, the potential payoff was worth the risk. A healing factor would mean fewer sleepless nights nursing injuries and a much better chance of walking away from the dangers he knew would come his way eventually.

For now, though, it was just an idea, something far off in the future. To make it a reality, he'd need money, connections, and a lot of luck. Working at Strangefellows was steady, but it barely covered the basics. That was why he'd been diversifying—selling silk threads spun by his swarm and playing poker with a significant edge, thanks to his ability to see through the eyes of his insects.

Michael leaned back against his secondhand couch, staring at the spools of silk stacked neatly in the corner of the room. The enchanted wolf pelt and the werewolf blood it could provide were still distant goals, but they gave him something to focus on.

The Nightside was chaotic, dangerous, and unpredictable, but if the books had taught him anything, it was that those who were clever, resourceful, and prepared could carve out their own fate. He didn't need to be a hero or a legend like Taylor. He just needed to survive—and the werewolf blood was the kind of edge that could make sure he did.

For now, though, he'd focus on the small steps. Silk, poker, and careful planning. Because in the Nightside, survival was just the beginning. Thriving was the real goal.

Michael's eyes drifted to the corner of his attic apartment, where an old, battered mannequin stood draped in the beginnings of a long coat. His spiders had been working on it for weeks, weaving layer after layer of silk to his specifications. The coat was a work in progress, but it was already taking shape—a sleek, flowing design with a hood that would obscure his face when needed. The silk shimmered faintly in the dim light, its unique texture giving the garment an almost otherworldly quality.

It wasn't finished yet, but Michael could see the potential. He didn't want just any coat; he wanted something functional and durable, something that could protect him from both the elements and whatever the Nightside decided to throw his way. Once it was complete, the coat would be as much a tool as it was clothing—a testament to the precision and power of his swarm.

The coat was only part of what he had in mind, though. The Nightside was dangerous, and no matter how clever he was with his swarm, there were times when he'd need something more… conventional. A gun.

Michael knew exactly where he could get one, too: on the Street of the Gods, in a Gun Shop that was infamous for its wares. He remembered it from the Nightside books—a place where John Taylor would one day acquire the Speaking Gun, a terrible weapon forged from one of Lilith's ribs. A weapon with its own voice, its own will, and a penchant for destruction.

Michael shivered at the thought. The Speaking Gun was the stuff of nightmares, a sibling to John Taylor himself in a twisted, biblical sense. But Michael wasn't interested in something so powerful, so cursed. He wanted something practical. A handgun, reliable and straightforward, with ammunition that could handle the unique threats the Nightside offered. Regular bullets wouldn't cut it here—he'd need silver rounds for werewolves, incendiary rounds for the undead, and maybe even something enchanted for the less straightforward threats.

The Gun Shop was notorious, but it was also one of the few places in the Nightside where he could find what he needed. He'd heard rumors about the shopkeeper, a quiet man with an encyclopedic knowledge of weapons and an unsettling habit of knowing exactly what his customers required before they asked. The thought of stepping into such a place made Michael uneasy, but he knew it was a step he'd have to take eventually.

For now, though, he focused on the coat. It was coming along nicely, the spiders working tirelessly in the background while he attended to other tasks. Each layer of silk was stronger than the last, reinforced by the unique properties of his swarm's weaving. It wasn't bulletproof—not yet, anyway—but it was tough enough to turn a knife or absorb a glancing blow.

Michael ran a hand over the unfinished coat, feeling the smooth, almost fluid texture of the silk. It wasn't just a coat—it was a symbol of his progress, a reminder of how far he'd come since stumbling into the Nightside.

The gun could wait. For now, he had his threads, his swarm, and his growing plans. But soon, he knew, he'd need to arm himself. The Nightside wasn't a place that let you stay unprepared for long.

Michael's list of things he wanted kept growing, a collection of ideas pulled from the knowledge he had of the Nightside books and beyond. It wasn't a short list, nor was it realistic in the short term, but it gave him goals, things to work toward as he carved out his place in this dangerous, unpredictable world.

High on his list was The Merlin Glass. A hand-held mirror, unassuming at first glance, but one of the most potent artifacts Michael had ever read about. In the books, Eddie Drood used it to travel anywhere—an invaluable ability in a place like the Nightside, where a swift exit could mean the difference between life and death. The mirror wasn't just a portal; it was a way to see beyond normal perception, to spy on the world, and to move through it without being noticed.

But Michael also knew the truth about the Merlin Glass, a revelation Eddie Drood only discovered late: the mirror's power came from Morgan Le Fay, Merlin's ancient adversary, who was imprisoned within it. The thought of wielding an artifact tied to someone like Morgan was both thrilling and terrifying. Still, the ability to travel instantly across the Nightside—and beyond—was worth the risk. The Merlin Glass wasn't just a tool; it was freedom.

Then there was the aborigines pointing bone, an object shrouded in myth and danger. A true pointing bone, one with authentic power, could kill with a gesture. Its lethality wasn't in brute force but in its spiritual potency, capable of bypassing traditional defenses and striking at the essence of its target. Michael had no idea where to begin looking for one, and the idea of acquiring a fake was both likely and useless. But a real one? That would be a weapon unlike any other, one that could make even the most dangerous beings in the Nightside hesitate.

Another item on his mental wishlist was more futuristic: the alien teleport rings. A set of ten high-tech devices that could transport their wearer instantly to any location. The rings were the stuff of legend, rumored to have come from some long-dead alien civilization. In the books, they had surfaced in the strangest of circumstances, and their potential was limitless. Michael wasn't sure when—or even if—they'd appear in the Nightside's chaotic market of the bizarre, but if they did, he wanted to be ready.

These were just a few of the things he dreamed of having. Artifacts and tools of immense power, things that could make surviving in the Nightside not just easier but almost… exciting. But for now, they were out of reach. Each item on his list would require careful planning, luck, and—most importantly—money.

That was why Michael had signed up for a poker tournament. It wasn't high-stakes, not in Nightside terms, but the prize pool was enough to make it worth his time. It wasn't just about the money, though—Michael genuinely enjoyed poker. It was a game of strategy, skill, and nerves, and his unique abilities gave him an edge most players couldn't dream of. With his swarm stationed discreetly around the table, he'd be able to see every hand, every move, through their eyes.

Still, Michael knew better than to win too quickly or too often. The Nightside didn't take kindly to cheats, and while he didn't see his use of the swarm as cheating—it was simply a tactical advantage—he wasn't about to draw attention to himself.

As he leaned back on his couch, his eyes drifting to the unfinished silk coat on the mannequin, Michael allowed himself a small smile. The tournament was tomorrow night, and he was looking forward to it. It was a small step, but every step brought him closer to the future he was building, one where he wouldn't just survive in the Nightside—he'd thrive.

And one day, maybe, the Merlin Glass, the pointing bone, or even the teleport rings would be within his grasp. But for now, he focused on the game ahead and the next opportunity to edge closer to his goals.