The Red Widow spider shrieked in pain .
Behind her , in the background of the glade , the crimson brood was dying — the dozen spiderlings squeezed and crushed one after another by the autonomous shed segments , the brood's disposable ordnance meeting the Choir-Eater's disposable pieces and losing , the small bodies bursting their red venom uselessly into the bloodglow-lit dark . Inside the joined bleed bark , both teams watched , holding the anticipation of a fight whose outcome neither could call .
The Widow did the thing a creature did when the thing eating it would not stop on its own .
She spat web — a great volume of it , onto her own wounded leg and into the open mouth of the Choir-Eater , fouling the draw , clogging the circular aperture with the one substance it could not instantly consume . The suction stopped for an instant . The Choir-Eater's jaws loosened , the feeding interrupted , the mouth working against the silk packed into it —
— and the Widow took the instant .
