Tatters of the King (The Warren Brood Book 3) Read online

  Her heart grew heavy. “I thought so.” She hadn’t wanted to think about parting, though it did not surprise her. If only she’d had more time to prepare herself for it. She stared at the rolling waves far below, little more than pale ripples of foam.

  “I came here looking for Lily,” he said with a small sigh. “This whole thing was something I hadn’t counted on. Now that NIDUS has been dealt with, I must resume my search. That’s my responsibility.”

  The air rolled in uneven rattles through her lungs. It wasn’t what she needed to hear right now. Her stomach was crawling with locusts. The pain from her broken chitin shocked her with each heartbeat. Everything felt hollow. “Where will you go?”

  He leaned back a bit and rested his weight on his arms. “I’m not yet sure. I may return to New York and see if their records have gotten any better since Annika and I last went digging.” Another moment of silence. Spinneretta felt his pity-wrought gaze again studying her. “I really hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” he said. “I’d hoped that somehow we could put an end to the cult once and for all. I’m very sorry I could not do more for you.”

  She hugged her knees to her chest. Her spider legs traced pointless designs in the loose dirt. “I know.”

  “But,” he said, injecting a modicum of cheer into his somber tone, “considering we charged straight into their stronghold, I’d say we came out pretty well for ourselves. We culled the Vant’therax down to three. We handled the thing in the Vault. We burned the labs and research. We killed the Helixweaver. Though I am concerned about the three that escaped, we may hope that the destruction of their base will discourage any further action on their part. They have lost nearly everything. I’d hate to come off as overly optimistic, but this is as close to a happy ending as we can get, all things considered.”

  “Happy endings don’t end in goodbye,” she said, her lips rejecting the word.

  Mark put his hand upon her shoulder. “This isn’t goodbye, Spinny. As sure as the moon rises, we’ll see each other again.”

  The locusts in her stomach began to migrate throatward. She placed her hand on top of his and clenched it tight, trying to squeeze away the malaise. “Do you promise?”

  “Of course. It may be a while before we meet again, but we’ll be in touch. I’ll give you my phone number, and once you get settled with your new identity—”

  “What the hell? You have a phone?”

  He chuckled, a sheepish grin on his face. “Yes, but I do not use it much. Technology isn’t really my strong point.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze and then moved to stand. “We shouldn’t keep the others waiting. And it is best if you change clothes. In any case, it’s about time—”

  “Stop.” She tightened her grip on his hand, refusing to let it go. “Stay with me a minute longer.” She felt his pale eyes on her and hoped he wouldn’t notice the tears forming. After a moment, he sank back onto his knees and put his arms around her. Heart fluttering, but failing to overcome the sense of loss bubbling up from her core, she fell against him and stared off at the great gray expanse below.

  Looking at the sea, the odd voice from the lab seemed to stir in her mind, harkening back to memories long forgotten. Staring at the ocean from a hill not unlike this—it was dream-like, a little surreal. She unfolded her spider legs and draped them around Mark’s shoulders. Even if it was an evanescent joy, she wanted this. His heat flowed into her, and the scent of his coursing blood permeated her.

  And yet the ghostly echoes of that voice, real or imagined, would not be still.

  When the trunk slammed shut over the piles of bags, Annika turned to May. She stood a few feet away, clinging to Ralph’s arm with a look of utter loss on her face. “Well, ma’am. Any regrets?”

  May’s expression didn’t change. “Plenty.”

  “I’m sorry you won’t be getting your car back,” Annika said. “It’s one more thing you’re just going to have to deal with.”

  “That’s all I can do anymore, isn’t it?”

  Annika crossed her arms and leaned against the trunk. She looked over toward the house, where Kara and the others stood with bags at the ready, muttering amongst themselves. “You know, May. Some people believe we’re all at the mercy of a fickle and arbitrary god. And forgive me for saying so, but if there was ever a family likely to draw the ire of the divine, it’s probably the one with spider kids. Point being, you’d better learn to like rolling with the punches. If we’re lucky, this’ll be the last punch thrown your way. Appreciate the escape. Your family is together and everyone’s alive. All things considered—”

  “All things considered,” May said with a scowl, “everything we had is gone.”

  “Everything you had was an illusion. A lie. But now you have a chance to really make a life for yourselves. Outside the grasp of the cult. Even if you won’t see eye to eye with me on that, you have no choice but to accept it. Alright, May? Or would you like to fist-fight me over it?”

  May grimaced. Her eyes were puffy from long-dried tears. “Wouldn’t change anything.”

  Annika stepped closer to the woman and lowered her voice. “Have you decided what you want to do about Cinnamon?”

  “That spider-dog-cat thing?”

  “Yes. If word of that thing gets out in Lake Cormorant, your relocation could all be for nothing. Do you want me to arrange an accident for it?”

  May looked over the roof of the car, toward where Kara stood with the others. Her expression grew distant. The furry thing in Kara’s arms with the spider legs and bat ears appeared to be sleeping. “We’ll be careful,” she said at last. “We’ll keep her indoors.”

  Annika was quiet for a moment. “You’re actually planning on keeping her?”

  A despaired shrug rocked May’s shoulders. “If you do something to Cinnamon now, Kara’ll be crushed. She’s already going to be crushed by moving. No need to make it worse.”

  “That’s the dumbest reasoning I’ve ever heard to let a bloodthirsty monster live. But I guess I have to trust your judgment.” Annika blew out a slow breath. “Now get in.”

  With a solemn nod, May let go of Ralph’s shoulder and glided toward the rear door.

  Annika looked over to where the whelps of the Warren brood stood. “Pile in, kids.” She gestured toward the back seat as she took hold of Ralph and guided him toward the car.

  Exchanging helpless glances, Kara and Arthr followed their mother, piling into the back seat. With a lump growing in her throat, Spinneretta turned around and gave Mark a tight hug. The duffel bag on his shoulder rocked gently from the impact. “I’m holding you to your promise,” she said in a meek voice that she’d intended to sound stern.

  One of his arms found her waist, and he gave her a squeeze back. “Worry not. I don’t make promises I don’t keep.”

  She buried her face in his neck, enjoying his natural scent one final time. Her spider legs emerged from beneath Mark’s jacket and bathed again in his heat. When she at last broke the hug, she took a step backward. One of her legs brushed against the unfamiliar lining of the jacket, and the sensation startled her. “Oh! This jacket’s . . . ”

  “Yours now,” he said with a light smile. “You’ll need it more than I will.”

  She nodded, her heart pounding. “Th-thank you. But, I have one more thing I wanted to ask you.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “And what’s that?”

  An uncertain breath sat in her lungs. She exhaled and steadied herself. “Can I have the Repton Scriptures?”

  For a moment he just stared at her, his tan eyes restless. “Why would you want that?”

  “I . . . All the answers that I’ve been seeking since I was a kid. I mean, I know it sounds weird, but it’s all I have for an answer. The only proof of it.”

  “Alright, alright. I understand.” He opened his duffel bag and rummaged about. After a moment, he pulled out the heavy tome with the yellow canvas cover, and then hesitated. “You must promise me you will not start a cult with this.”
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br />   She didn’t laugh at the joke, although an echo of the voice in her head thought it was hilarious. Shivering as those disconcerting mental strains receded, she reached out and accepted the book. “Thank you.”

  “With any luck, we shan’t have any use for it, so you need not thank me.”

  She tried to smile as she pushed the book into her own bag. It was a lie. On an impulse, she fell into him for one more warm hug, and when the car horn blared behind her she jumped back away from him. Her spider legs retreated beneath his jacket, drawn into the warmth and the lingering hint of his scent. “See you later,” she said in a voice laced with false cheer.

  He raised his hand in a gesture of farewell. “Until next we meet.” Even he couldn’t hide the sadness in his voice. It was another dagger in her heart.

  Reluctantly, Spinneretta turned away from him and climbed into the back seat of the Ford sedan. She closed the door behind her, and as soon as she settled into the seat, Kara shifted over into her lap. Cinnamon scurried between her feet, and the feeling of chitin and fur brushing against her bare legs sent electric jolts through her. She’d never felt so trapped.

  “Everyone ready?” Annika asked from the front seat.

  Nobody answered.

  The woman scoffed. “How can everyone be so damn depressing? You guys should try happiness. Free second chances come along once in a hundred lifetimes.” But the statement did nothing to dispel the darkness in the back seat. The only sound was the crackling purr of the oblivious Cinnamon. “Fine, then.” Annika fired up the engine and pushed it into drive. The car pulled out in a wide curve and started down the hill toward the gate far below. The rising sun had burned away some of the cloud cover, and they were now driving directly into its glaring light—the light of tomorrow.

  Choking, Spinneretta tried to crane her head behind them. The position was too uncomfortable to manage with Kara on her lap, however. Helplessly, she watched as Mark, and the last remnants of her old life, vanished in the rear-view mirror.

  I know not what I am, nor why.

  Ever since my birth, I have been considered a monster. An outcast. Those who deign to look at me do so with veiled pity or horror. Those who dare to speak to me do so with unconcealed contempt upon their tongues. And there is little question as to why. When the sickness came, the medicine men looked upon me with an eye of death, for to them I was the cause. And though most men know to keep silent about me, the rumors make clear what they believe.

  I am just an omen, an augur spared the stones by my bloodline’s import.

  Chapter 2

  Iconoclasm

  Nemo stumbled down the metal corridor. Smoke billowed forth from the doors to the left and right. The suggestive glint of flames beyond the smoke sent twitches of fear dancing up his spine. His lungs were heavy with stinging air, and his eyes swam with tears as he dragged his prize across the floor behind him. There was no time to enjoy it—not until he got out of the hellfire and into the safety of the cold dark beneath Sector Three.

  His naked shoulders burned with the scorching heat. Each muscle strained with his lurching movements, and only his terror allowed his atrophied body to move with the strength it did. Hissing through his teeth, he fought through the wall of smoke and down the sloping hallway. Close now. So very close. Soon, he would be free from this damned monument of hubris.

  The door came into view. Tucked into a small alcove at the bend in the great meandering hallway, its metal surface gleamed with the red lights of the warning alarms. He forced his heavy legs to carry him forward. His lungs rejected the tainted air, and a coughing fit nearly stopped him in his tracks. Eyes watering, he fought onward. When he at last came to the door, he extended a bony finger and jammed the code into the keypad. It was muscle memory from the life of Simon Dwyre. His fingernail cracked as he bashed it against the enter key, and a timid beeping sounded beneath the sirens. The door slid open, revealing a black chamber.

  Nemo heaved, sending the thing he was dragging onto the floor of the dark room. He pushed his way inside, not bothering to seal the door behind him. His hand searched the wall and soon found the switch. A sterilizing white fluorescence burst overhead. Just as he remembered, there was a square opening in the grated floor leading to a deep darkness below. Another coughing spasm. The sudden release from the acrid air had come upon him swiftly. Shoulders shaking with each cough, he stumbled forward toward the opening. With a final heave, he sent the body tumbling across the floor and into the open pit. He then scrambled forward, chasing it as it fell into the gap.

  Blackness engulfed him. Weightlessness took over. The air rushed around him as he fell. A few moments later, a hard impact shook his bones and rattled his weak frame. Dizziness. Pain ran through his marrow. His hands groped around him. He felt the cold, lifeless stone of the cavern, and found the sleeve of the body he’d dumped ahead of himself. The sweet smell of dank rock surrounded him. The musty, nostalgic aroma of the underground came flooding in from all directions—how long had it been since he’d smelled it? It couldn’t have been more than a couple weeks, and yet it felt like several lifetimes ago.

  With the refreshing chill of the dark entrance chamber wrapping him in its loving embrace, he let out a trembling sigh. At last free from the conflagration, he turned his attention to the thing he’d dragged all the way from the labs: the corpse of the Vant’therax Rith, the yellow-robed False One whom the cursed Mark Warren had used to drive a flaming stake into his very soul. Now, he’d have his revenge.

  He ripped Rith’s robe from his corpse and threw it loosely around himself. He shivered as the cold yellow fabric draped over his shoulders. Warmth would come later. Sliding his hands along his hips, his fingers found the handle of the ritual knife. His arm shook in anticipation, and he drew the blade. Sinful creations. Born of the wretched Dwyre’s ambition. Born of the DNA of the Yellow King. They were aberrations, but were blessed with the gift of the King’s incredible blood. Now, that power would be his.

  He licked his lips. With a shrill cry, he drove the blade into a soft spot on the carcass and began to cut. Hand working in a cruel sawing motion, he carved a thin strip of muscle from Rith’s shoulder. His fingers curled about the wet mass, and he shoved the strip of flesh into his mouth. The blood was still just a little warm, and the raw flavor mixed with the savor of his own rotting teeth. He swallowed and again plunged his knife into the corpse. He shaved another chunk of meat off and slurped it down jealously. The blood, touched and corrupted by Nayor’s gift, rolled down his throat as he abandoned the knife and began to rip into Rith’s flesh with only his teeth.

  “There!” He again found the knife and took it between his blood-slick fingers. The blade’s edge drifted to the palm of his hand, and he let the metal sink into the flesh. Pain shot up and down his arm. He gritted his teeth as the blade sliced through sinew and scraped bone. Blood began to pour from the wound. But the hot pain would soon be a memory, for the King’s blood would grant him the capability to restore himself. Curling his hand into a fist, and ignoring the hot flow gushing forth, he willed the cells of his body to transform and multiply, to give way to the black chitin infection of the false Vant’therax.

  But the only thing his body rewarded him with was a sharp, stabbing pain that shot through his bones and radiated up to his shoulder and beyond. The transformative infection would not come.

  Nemo shivered, disbelief ringing like a gong through his skull. How can this be? In a panic, he turned the knife about in his hand and again fell upon the corpse. I should have the blessing. I should have it now! He stabbed Rith’s chest several times, but the strikes bounced off a layer of buried chitin. At last, he found an opening and dug the knife as deep as he could. And when it could go no deeper, he ripped at the trunk of meat with his fingers, searching for the cage of protective bone. When he found it, he began to smash the hilt of the knife into it with all the strength he could muster.

  He was beginning to weaken from the blood loss, but he persevered until th
e ribs buckled and cracked from his wild blows. When at last the barrier collapsed, he let the knife clatter to the stone shelf. He thrust his arm up to his elbow into the opened cavity and groped about the tepid flesh chamber. Slimy organs sat among sharp spikes of chitin jutting inward from all angles. His fingers found something large and grotesque, and so he seized hold of it with all his might. With a great effort, he tore a chunk of it free from the gaping wound in the Vant’therax’s torso. He didn’t know if it was the heart—it was far too dark to examine it—but if he believed it was, then that was good enough. Greedy for the biological blasphemy, he thrust the dripping organ into his mouth and began to chew.

  He gulped down the putrid slime, and he was seized by a racking cough as his body tried to reject the rancid meal. His stomach churned. A tide of furious bile crept up his throat. Once again he sought the knife. This time he flipped it about in his palm and drove the point into the soft skin of his forearm. The tip split through his skin and veins, carving a jagged line into his bones. Blood spilled out in a greater volume, splattering against the stone.

  Nemo began to panic. Why won’t the infection spread? If he was the Chosen of Raxxinoth, then why wouldn’t the Overspider bless him with the same gift bestowed upon the wretched Vant’therax? Why wouldn’t it take? Why wouldn’t his body accept it?

  He clenched and opened his fist, crazed thoughts flowing freely from all corners of his mind. The blood wouldn’t stop. He’d made a mistake. Had the purple devil deceived him? He’d told him the Overspider had saved him, that he was a Chosen. Was it all an elaborate plot to make him seal his own fate? The blood splattered, and each drop was like a gunshot echoing through his brain. The knife fell once more, and he grabbed at his slashed vein in an effort to stem the flow. The heat raced up his arm and to his face. The world began to spin.

  But from the depths of his roiling hatred came a screaming sensation, as though his body had come apart. His mind flashed back to the horrible contours of the black thing’s body—the sight that had propelled him from the edge of death and back to the cursed realm of the living. Snapping limbs. Sludge-like skin that secreted gaseous extinction. The death-mask around the eye from which the voice of demise boomed in wondrous, resplendent cacophony. The image screamed, shaking his fragile thoughts and stripping his mind bare. The Writhing Malefice. That horrible, grating screech flashed out of the confines of his mind and ripped its way across his arm. An angry light shone from within his lacerated flesh.