Tatters of the King (The Warren Brood Book 3) Page 16

  “Good,” Mark snapped. “Don’t let spacetime hit you on the way out.”

  The Cheshire Man laughed at the remark, and his demeanor softened. “Before I go. Have you heard of You Entertainment?”

  His muscles stiffened. “Heard of them. They’re one of the bilgemongers covering this spider fever nonsense.”

  “Very good.” His voice dropped low, and the menacing tone returned. “Just a friendly warning, Mark. You may want to pay very careful attention to their report tonight.”

  The television set in the room flashed, and Mark jumped as the roar of a commercial split the tense stillness of the room. His gaze darted over his shoulder to the set for only a moment, and he then found himself alone once more. Beneath the jarring sound of the celebrity endorsement, he thought he could hear the demonic strains of the Cheshire Man’s laughter.

  The commercial cut to black abruptly, and the gaudy animations of You Entertainment appeared. Heart still pounding from the confrontation, Mark eased himself down upon the bed and watched the screen.

  Such incredible things have I discovered in my time upon this shore. Long have I now crawled the crypts and recesses below, exploring and wondering upon the arcane machines and artifacts left here in aeons past. That I am not the first to settle here is self-evident. And the more time I spend in those tunnels and shafts, the more I yearn to seek out and understand these relics of civilizations lost.

  What further secrets remain hidden here in the heart of Mother Raxxinoth’s home that I may yet expose and learn from?

  Chapter 11

  Cassandra

  Spinneretta’s volatile mood swung all the way around in the shower. The hot stream of water falling over her shoulders and back melted the knots in her muscles. The scalding droplets played at the gaps in her spider legs. The minuscule expansion of her plating freed her restricted blood flow. Steam filled her lungs and her anticipation swelled, replacing the despair in her heart. The promise of seeing Mark again was almost enough to cure the sickness of the whole situation, ridiculous as it sounded. Just thinking about him was enough to awaken a fragment of the Instinct. It was the part of her unconcerned with fear, guilt, or dread. Her face flushed and fire ran through her veins, burning away the toxic thoughts. Her whole body shivered—even if it lasted for mere moments, she relished the escape.

  At last, she tightened the knobs and shut off the water. Attacking her damp hair with a towel, she headed back to her room. But as she approached, she heard a noise from within she couldn’t quite make sense of. When she opened the door, she found her TV on. What the hell? She hadn’t been using it; she’d shut it off in a guilt-induced panic after the report on Harold Wiser’s death. Her first thought was that Kara or Arthr had been through, but at this hour the house was dead, and they both had their own TVs in any case. Pulse racing in fright, she reached for the remote on her nightstand to turn it off again.

  Before she could hit the red button to end the transmission, the flashing graphics of You Entertainment welcomed her back from commercial break. She paused. Was it masochism? Some portent of doom? Naked curiosity? She didn’t know, but as soon as she heard the first words of the broadcast she was paralyzed.

  “Welcome back to You Entertainment!” the Julie-woman said.

  “Up next, in memory of our good friend Harold Wiser, we’re bringing you a late-breaking exclusive spider fever story sent in by a viewer from Manix, California. This next video aired on the town’s public broadcast station earlier today, and one resident was lucky enough to record it for your benefit.”

  “This time we won’t spoil anything about its contents. We’ll let the footage speak for itself. Roll the tape.”

  The screen cut to black. Gradually, flashes of orange illumination appeared, dancing off the texture of the darkness. Then, the entire image shifted until it was occupied by a horrifying visage. It was a man of indeterminable age. Pale, leathery skin was stretched tight around his face. His brown eyes appeared nearly black in the dim lighting, and sharp, filed teeth stood crookedly in his mouth. Thin, bloodless lips grinned at her. The man would’ve been horrifying enough even without the dark hood that fell, partially hiding his face in shadow.

  “A-hai, Urn-ma Nemo,” the man said. “Those of you who look upon this footage, know our name.” The camera zoomed out and wobbled as the man in the robe spread his thin arms. “We are the Order of the Yellow Dawn. We are the servants of the Overspider—the Weaver of the Mists. We are the servants of the Writhing Malefice. In us, the ancient kingdom of Th’ai-ma is resurrected. Those of you who yet cling to the old order, know that you are our enemies. But we bring you the chance to atone. We bear an ultimatum from the Helixweaver, and hereby charge you with spreading the word far and wide.”

  Behind the figure, the shifting shadows seemed to sharpen. Pitch-black robes with drawn cowls stood at attention. The menacing face of the narrator took on a horrifying glee as he continued his sermon. “Among you, even now, dwell the children of the spider. You have no doubt heard their names spoken in the preceding days. The Yellow Dawn requires these children, and you shall oblige us.” His pointed teeth drew together. “Bring us the spider children. We await them in the central plaza in the town of Manix. If you do not bring them to us by midnight, September thirtieth, then we shall visit calamity upon your civilization. Plague will skitter forth on the legs of the Nothem, and all you hold dear will become ruin. But if you oblige us in our request, then your kind shall be spared. We are the Order of the Yellow Dawn. You have until September thirtieth.”

  With that, the video cut out, leaving Spinneretta in a stunned, horrified silence.

  “It sure seems that Harold Wiser’s death has done nothing to stem the tide of content creation. The very fact that this was initially put out only on public channels suggests to me we’re about to see an explosion of found-footage phenomena.”

  “So what do you think, Julie? Is this more viral marketing? Is it a tribute to Wiser? Do you think Wiser faked his death to drum up excitement for what’s coming up next?”

  “I don’t know, Greg, but I personally can’t wait until September thirtieth. The fact that we have a countdown makes this so deliciously exciting I can’t contain myself. I have a feeling what’s coming is going to be really big.”

  The hosts on the screen became mirages in a distant fog. Spinneretta just stood there, trembling. The cult was back. This was a threat. It was a threat made against the nation and mankind as a whole. And yet here it was on the entertainment news, alongside science fiction and celebrity gossip. In the age of internet paranoia, was there literally nobody who thought a threatening video from an obviously deranged cult was worth looking into?

  She fell onto the bed, her will bleeding from her. She curled into a ball, pressed her forehead into her knees, and tried to stop herself from screaming. It was too much to handle. She’d hoped and prayed that all traces of the cult would just go the way of the thylacine, but the worst of her fears had just blossomed. NIDUS, Vant’therax, or Yellow Dawn, it was all the same. And if the cult was back now, then their victory in Grantwood was all for nothing. In the end, it didn’t matter.

  It was just a cycle of futility and sacrifice. What justice had awaited Harold Wiser after his escape? He was mocked, belittled, spat upon; he was called a liar and a charlatan, a fraudster and a hack. Even the sacred temples of science turned their noses up at his evidence, denouncing it as too incredible and fantastic to be based in reality. In the end, his escape had become a new prison. And now he was dead, just like Isabella and the other poor children of the Eleventh Project.

  Even Kyle Rogers had been pulled into the pit. A guardian angel, extending a hand to assist poor Harold, Kyle had been assailed by a storm of criticism. His career, or whatever remained of it, was ruined. Would he, too, be martyred upon the altar of the Yellow King’s legacy? The town of Grantwood, under the Helixweaver’s lock and key, had suffered greatly. Brave men and women died in the line of duty, a line that blurred and t
wisted into a perverse mockery of what it meant to protect and serve. How many lives had been ruined? How many invisible sacrifices made? How many other projects remained undiscovered, forever lost to the flames that swallowed the Golmont Corporation? How many had died just so that Spinneretta and her siblings could be born?

  And now, the void left by NIDUS had to be filled. Left to their own devices, the Order of the Yellow Dawn would rebuild what Simon Dwyre had lost. They would spread their mind-disease far and wide, and the tide of destruction would make the Grantwood lockdown look like an after-school special. Couldn’t people see the writing on the wall? Couldn’t they understand the danger? Armageddon loomed, and she was powerless to stop it. Lying there, helpless, she felt like a cliched heroine from some Greek tragedy.

  But what could she do? Even if she selflessly proved to society once and for all that Harold Wiser and Kyle Rogers were truthful, even if she exposed the sins of the Yellow Dawn to the light of day, what would change? Even if they fought and defeated the Yellow Dawn, how long would it be before another cult rose to replace them? The cycle was endless, and as long as the Yellow King lived there would be atrocities committed in his name.

  Her heart nearly stopped in her chest at the thought. Her lungs emptied in a shallow gasp that took with it all but a single thought. The King. It was the Yellow King who was responsible for all of this. The Yellow King. The other voice in her head began to stir. How could she have been so blind? So stupid? So utterly, impossibly self-centered? All the guilt she kept heaping upon her own conscience, all the sins she enumerated and recounted—they were never hers to begin with.

  The Yellow King. It was all because of him. He was the one the cults served. NIDUS existed to do his bidding, just as the Yellow Dawn now did. It was him. He was the looming apocalypse, the storm on the horizon, the origin of the nightmares, the sword of Damocles swaying above their heads. The Yellow King. The goddamn Yellow King.

  Fifth Project. Catalyst parasite. Loath though she was to acknowledge it, she now knew what she really was. She was the firstborn of the Yellow King. That meant if anyone was responsible for dealing with this mess, it was her. And the strange power she’d inherited seemed to proclaim that she was the only one who could end the cycle.

  Spinneretta killed the TV with the remote. For a moment she stood there, drowning in the blackened atmosphere of the room. She tried to rationalize that she was wrong, that she was making a terrible decision. The other voice in her mind wrestled with her own thoughts, and soon they seemed to think as one, harmonized.

  Her phone began to ring. One of her spider legs scooped it up, and she looked down at the screen. Mark’s name glared up at her. Her heart pounded with indecision. One hand snaked its way to the necklace he’d given her. Listening to the soft tones, she waited for her phone to go silent. She couldn’t talk to him right now. She couldn’t tell him what she was going to do; he would try to stop her. And worse, his powers of persuasion were liable to actually change her mind.

  When the ringing ceased, she noticed an envelope illuminated on the screen. One unread message. From him, no doubt. She couldn’t let herself give in to it. For the good of everything, she had to let go. She already regretted not being here to see him one more time. Holding back tears she refused to shed, she snapped her phone in half and let the plastic and metal rain upon the floor. Her trembling fingers unclasped Mark’s memento necklace and dropped it on her bed in a coiled heap. She couldn’t let it hold her back now. With a deep breath to steel herself, she went to work.

  It didn’t take long to find the information she needed on the internet. Directions, timetables, rates. She scribbled it all down in her notebook as fast as she legibly could. Then she grabbed her messenger bag and started packing. A handful of wardrobe changes. Mark’s comfortable jacket. Her hairbrush. An overnight bag. After gathering the essentials, she threw open the antique jewelry box that doubled as her bank account and took an inventory of her savings. With her accumulated allowance and library paychecks she had six hundred dollars, plus enough change to feed herself on gas station burritos for at least a week without breaking any bills.

  When she finished her preparations, she gave her room a final look. It had never felt so empty. A moment of doubt tried to dissuade her, to convince her she was making a mistake, but she hardened her heart, swallowing her hesitation like a mouthful of bitter medicine. She cracked open the window, careful not to let the old wooden frame groan too loudly, and climbed outside with her messenger bag over one shoulder.

  Once her feet were on the ground, Spinneretta’s whole body grew heavy. The night air was balmy, and the trees were alive with crickets. For a moment she stood there, scarcely able to believe what she was doing. She looked back at the Hallström residence. Never once had she considered it home. It was just a prosthetic comfort for a life already lost. Her thoughts flowed to the unfortunate souls trapped within its sturdy walls. Her parents. Her siblings. Her chest shook as she thought back on her life with them. All the fighting. All the worrying. All the good times. Painful though it was, she had to leave the past behind. She could only hope that time would ease their wounds. Breathing out a low sigh, she turned and began to walk away from everything.

  “Where’re you going?”

  She started and wheeled around. Her eyes searched the darkness for a moment before she found Kara perched on the slanting roof of the home. Spinneretta made a shushing gesture, not bothering to ask what Kara was doing up on the roof at this hour. “Go back to bed, Kara,” she said just loud enough that the girl would hear.

  Ignoring the command, Kara slipped over the edge and dropped to the ground, landing gracefully upon her spider legs. With a cautious glance over her shoulders, she scuttled over to where Spinneretta stood. “Where are you going?” she asked again.

  “I just . . . I have something I need to do.”

  Kara gave her a sad look. “You’re not coming back, are you? You wouldn’t take a bag if you were coming back.”

  Spinneretta could think of no lie to dispute that fact, and so reluctantly gave a nervous nod. “There’s something that only I can do. And if I don’t do it, then I don’t think I could ever live with myself. With the decisions I’ve made.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  Spinneretta bit her lip. “The cult is back. And they’re looking for us.”

  Kara’s eyes widened. “What? They are?”

  A breeze fluttered through the trees, and Spinneretta shivered. “I’m afraid so. They made demands. If the world doesn’t come together and hand us over to them by the thirtieth, then a lot of people are going to be hurt because of it. Calamity. But it looks like nobody’s taking them seriously. They think it’s just another part of spider fever. But after all that’s happened . . . I can’t have this on my conscience.”

  “If anyone gets hurt, it’s the cult’s fault, you know.”

  “But I can stop it,” Spinneretta said through her teeth, her conviction flashing to a boil. It was too late to save Harold. But she could still make a difference. “I know it’s not logical, but the more I think about it the more I know I have to do something. Mark and Annika aren’t here anymore. If they were, I know they’d say something to put my mind at ease and restore some kind of peace to it. But without them, I’m on my own.” A laugh from another self rang through her mind in mockery of the statement. “And since I’m on my own, I don’t have anyone to forgive me or convince me I’m right. I’m the only one who can do that now, and I have to live like it. And that means I have to make sure nobody else ever has to die because of us again.”

  For a moment, Kara just scraped at the dirt with the toe of her shoe. “What are you planning on doing?”

  She turned around and stared at the end of the road, where the nebulous forests scraped the starlit sky. “The cult. The Order of the Yellow Dawn. They’re the servants of the Yellow King. Our entire purpose . . . You understand, Kara. They need us. For the Coronation. And until they find one of us, they
’re not going to have any reservations about spreading their parasites and killing anyone in their way. Just like in Grantwood. A lot of people are going to die, Kara. So I’m going to find them before that.”

  “Spins, you’re going to . . . ?”

  She nodded. “They created us to fulfill that purpose. To hell with them. I’ll live and die on my terms, not theirs. If nobody will hand us over to them, then I’ll do it myself. I’ll let them take me before the Yellow King.” A cold severity crept out from the well of her inner mind. “Then, when they do, I’ll kill him with my own hands.”

  Horror bloomed across Kara’s face. “You . . . You’re going to kill the Yellow King? You’re crazy!”

  “Maybe I am,” she said, the inarticulate voice in her head giving a shrill reminder of that possibility. “But I don’t have a choice. As long as the Yellow King lives, we have no future. And as long as he draws breath, nobody is safe from his followers. The Vant’therax were only a symptom of that fact. If I don’t stop him, there will be more like us. More like Isabella. And I can stop all of that.”

  “How?” Kara said. “How can you kill him? The Yellow King isn’t like the Vants. He’s much stronger! You’ve read the stories!”

  “I . . . I can’t explain it. Every part of my mind is screaming at me, telling me that killing the Yellow King would be suicide. But I also know that if anyone has a chance of killing him, if it’s even possible to kill him, it’s me. Because I have the same power he does.”

  “Power? What are you talking about?”

  Spinneretta willed her aura to condense into psychic mist in the palm of her hand, and wondered if it was possible for Kara to feel it. “The power to break magic. I don’t fully understand it, but I know it was enough to kill Kaj down in that lab. Even if I can’t control it well yet, and even if he’s as powerful as the stories say, I still have to try. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.”