In the week and a half leading up to what Arthr was calling The Rhodes Reckoning, there was a palpable excitement that grew more volatile with each passing day. No sooner had the news hit the student body than Spinneretta was forced to put up with the onslaught of gossip that swirled around her. Even Amanda and Chelsea had proven no escape from the omnipresent shadow of her brother.
“I can’t believe it,” Chelsea said one day at lunch. “It just had to be the seventeenth. Why couldn’t it be Thursday? Why couldn’t it just be Saturday for God’s sake?”
“You’ve been complaining nonstop for three days,” Spinneretta said as she stared into her questionably fresh salad.
“I can’t help it! Don’t try to tell me you’re not excited for it!”
“Want me to go to your grandmother’s in your stead?” Spinneretta asked. “I guarantee I’ll enjoy it a thousand times more than the stupid fight.”
“Spins, are you really saying you don’t want to see that Pat guy get shit-stomped?”
“Stop saying shit-stomped. Just because Arthr says it doesn’t mean you have to.”
“Whatever, don’t you want to see him get beaten up real bad?”
Spinneretta released a frustrated sigh. “I wouldn’t mind it if it was anyone other than Arthr doing it,” she said, relinquishing her earlier certainty that Arthr would lose. Though Pat had his size and age, Arthr had beaten people bigger and older than himself before. The more she thought about it, the more she became convinced her damned brother would win; and that just made his arrogance all the more vexing.
“You’d better give me all the details when I get back,” Chelsea said to Amanda.
“Not going,” Amanda replied, staring off into space.
“What? Why not?”
She gave half a shrug. “I mean, I like seeing fights, but I just don’t want to go anywhere Pat will be.”
“And you’re going to miss the Reckoning because of that?”
“Stop calling it that, already,” Spinneretta said.
Amanda ignored the exchange. “It’s just going to leave a nasty taste in my mouth. It’s enough knowing he’ll get pounded. Don’t need to see it. Don’t need to see him.” She took a long sip of her bottled orange juice and then eyed Spinneretta from across the table. “Will you do me a favor, Spins?”
“Not if it involves me going to the fight.”
Her friend frowned. “Tell Arthr not to hold anything back. Don’t take any chances. I’d hate to see what Pat could do to someone Arthr’s size.”
Spinneretta looked away. “Don’t think you have anything to worry about there,” she said with a sigh. She couldn’t wait for Friday to come and go already.
Chapter 14
Manhattan Diplomacy
Annika sat in the sterile doctor’s office upon the paper-covered bed. She’d been sitting there, her fingers tight in her pockets, since the nurse showed her in with a legally required the doctor will be with you shortly. Her thumb kept drifting over the edge of her concealed knife. Each stroke came close to breaking skin, and it took all of her attention to keep her pocket blood-free. The ritual kept her mind sharp, her senses ready. And after waiting in that hyper-alert state for nigh ten minutes, the door opened and a familiar-looking man entered with a smile bright above his clipboard.
“Good morning,” the doctor said.
She showed him a timid smile. “Good morning. Are you Doctor Morton?”
He chuckled, and his glasses bounced a little. “That’s what they tell me. Reception said you asked for me specifically?”
“Yes. I’m new in town, and a good friend recommended you. I’ve had some awful experiences with doctors before, so . . . ”
“Well, I am quite sorry to hear that. I always take care of my girls. I’ll try to live up to your friend’s recommendation.” With another chuckle, he lowered himself onto a rolling stool across the room. “Now then, what can I help you with today, Miss . . . ” He checked the clipboard. “Elizabeth Bordon? That is quite a name, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
She blinked at him. “What ever do you mean?”
“Ahh. Never mind, then. Now, what is the problem today, Miss Bordon?”
She bit her lip for dramatic effect. “Well, my husband and I just recently decided to start trying to have a child.”
“Mmhmm. And are you having difficulty?” He eyed the clipboard, betraying his lack of preparation.
“Not exactly,” she said, shifting to face him fully. “My husband and I are just a little worried. Ever since we moved here we’ve been thinking more and more about all the types of congenital disorders out there, and . . . well, his family has some history that makes me think we may be more at risk than others.” She leveled her gaze upon the doctor. “And I was wondering, do you think you could tell me what the odds are of our child being born genetically spider?”
The room went quiet. Doctor Morton stared at her, eyes wide behind his thick-rimmed glasses. The wrinkles etched in his cheeks began to stretch. “G-genetically spider?” A nervous laugh. “Well, I, uhh, I’m afraid I’ve never—”
“Oh, you don’t need to act so modest, Charlie,” Annika said. She stood slowly, allowing the edge in her voice to pierce Elizabeth Bordon’s meek exterior. “You see, my friend in town had a trio of spidery kids. Three for three, can’t be much of a coincidence. Hmm. That must be why she recommended you. And before you try to modestly bow out, I’ve seen the records myself. I know it was you who delivered the Warren children, back in ninety-six et cetera. So perhaps you’d put my mind at ease, Doctor: what exactly does genetically spider entail?”
Doctor Morton’s expression hardened. A guarded distance fell between them. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“I’ll be asking the questions. Why didn’t you report the birth of those children to any medical body without West Valley in their name? Have you no integrity for science? Why are the Warren children unknown beyond the borders of Placer County, and just what do you have to do with them, Morton?”
The doctor’s face twisted in a mix of fear and rage. He thrust one hand into his white coat, and the posturing of his arm telegraphed his intention. But Annika had been waiting for it. She drew her Ruger from her concealed holster and pointed it between his eyes before his own gun was free from his jacket pocket. He shrieked and, seeing the revolver in her hands, dropped the pistol. He threw his hands up in surrender.
Annika slipped closer to him and planted her foot upon the fallen pistol. “Hmm. Well, that’s not suspicious at all. Why would an OB-GYN be concealed carrying on the job? Unless he was expecting something. I’d chalk it up to coincidence, but there ain’t enough luck in all of Ireland. Seems you’re anything but an ordinary doctor, eh Charlie? Let’s cut to the chase here: I want answers. Make me happy now, and you’ll live to scope fresh pussy another day.”
Doctor Morton, pale as a marble sculpture, had his back against the counter, legs ineffectually trying to push his stool further away from her. “W-what are you . . . what do—”
“Uh-uh-uh. No questions from you. It’s quiz time. What are the spider children?”
Sweat glistened on his brow. He shook his head, lips trembling. “I can’t tell you. He’ll kill me.”
“He? I don’t think he’s the one you should be worried about right now.” She thumbed back the hammer with a loud click. “Now, be a good doctor and answer my questions. Why were they born like that? Why are there no federal records of their existence? What the hell is going on in this town of yours?”
His breath grew erratic and coarse. His bulging eyes looked like they were about to pop from his skull and roll away across the tiled floor. “I never wanted to do this, Miss Bordon. Please, you have to believe me. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’d have never moved here if I knew they were here.”
“And who’s they?” she barked.
His wet eyes glimmered. “NIDUS.”
“NIDUS?”
Whole body shaking,
Morton just whimpered and nodded, desperately trying to look away from her gun.
Annika took a deep breath, moved by the sudden terror that filled the man’s eyes. “Tell me what’s happening,” she said, her voice calm. “I can help you, if you’ll just tell me what—”
A mad laugh. “Help me? Oh no, no you can’t. You can’t stop NIDUS. Can’t do anything.” He raised his hands to his face in defense. “Clearwater’s awful pets are always watching, and they, they’ll kill me. His pets kill everyone that gets too close to them. He’ll find you . . . They’ll kill you. They’re everywhere, they’re inside!”
She leveled her aim at his face, taking a final threatening step to close the gap. “And who are these pets that you fear? Give me some names.”
“N-names?” He laughed again, and a bead of sweat traced the curve of his jaw. “Everyone. The city council. Mount Hedera’s police chief. The mayor of Widow’s Creek. Those half-man things in the shadows that watch and listen!” He expelled half of a sob and gasped for air. “Everybody’s in on this, and I swear I’m just a victim of circumstance, Miss Bordon, please, don’t kill me, I—” He gasped. One hand went to his temple as though it’d been struck by a hammer. “N-no, no. Through my eyes. Through my ears, right now. Mr. Clearwater. Please. Forgive me. I tried. I didn’t . . . ”
“Charlie?”
He just sat there, his breath becoming uneven and labored.
Annika gritted her teeth and moved in. “Have you gone deaf, old man?”
The doctor doubled over and clasped his head with his other hand. His knuckles shook with force, as though he were trying to plunge his fingers through his own skull. His whole face was tense and rhubarb-red. Then, a deathly scream split the tension. Her heart thundered into overdrive, but just as soon as the scream had started it petered out to a helpless gurgle. With a violent spasm, Doctor Morton flew out of his stool and crashed headfirst into the floor with a sick crack.
The silence rang with pernicious intent.
Each breath soaked Annika’s lungs in frigid horror. Blood pooled beneath Morton’s lifeless head, running from his eyes and ears and mouth. The sight startled her from her grim fixation. What in the name of fuck? Why would his eyes be . . . Then, the chilling enigma of the scene focused into a single black smear swimming through the puddle, so small it could be mistaken for the shadow of a bubble from Morton’s last breath. There, half-submerged in the blood, scuttled a bulbous, black spider. And as Annika stared at that anomalous creature, the texture of the sanguine pool seemed to shift, the dark and light pulled into a starker contrast. That’s when she realized that the blood was infested with dozens of those diminutive spiders.
Annika couldn’t hold back a gasp of fear. Holy shit. One boot scraped the floor as she drew a step toward the door. Holy fuck Jesus God. With shaky hands, she returned her revolver to her holster and eased the door to the examination room open. A nervous glance down the hall found it deserted. What a miracle; the doctor’s brief scream seemed to have gone unnoticed, and she wasn’t complaining. Nausea and panic hammering her with each breath, she closed the door behind her and marched with silent purpose down the hall and again toward the hospital lobby. What had just happened? She’d seen some fucked up things before, but never had somebody just fallen over dead and spilled a vat of spider-infested blood upon the floor. Whatever was going on, it was far worse than she’d ever thought.
But she’d found another lead, no matter how morbid. NIDUS. Politicians. Police chiefs. If the doctor’s death rattles were spoken in truth, then she was at the very cusp of uncovering a conspiracy on a scale unfathomed by even the maddest of internet denizens. She had work to do. Ghastly, grim work.
But as she passed the reception desk and made for the elevator, a shape emerged from around the corner, making her jump in fright.
“Ahh, I’m sorry, ma’am,” the man said, a penitent look upon his face. “I did not mean to startle you.”
Annika shot a glance over her shoulder, making sure that nobody had yet stumbled upon what was sure to be deemed insane homicide. “No problem.” She gave the man a long look, at once suspicious. “Can I help you?”
The man tipped his hat forward and reached one hand into the pocket of his purple pinstripe suit jacket. “Well, if you would be so kind. This is going to sound frightfully odd, I fear, but have you the acquaintance of one Mark Warren?”
She slid a step back, her stance widening. One hand hovered near her concealed revolver. What is going on? “Afraid not,” she said. “Don’t know any Marks.”
The suspicious and gaudily dressed man closed his amber eyes and let out a slow breath. “Well, what a shame. Tell you what, ma’am. If you ever do happen to meet somebody by that specific name, you should give him this.” He withdrew a thick yellow envelope the size of a paperback book and held it out to her with one hand.
She stared at the object, her whole body tense. Was this a pet of the alleged Clearwater? Nothing about this meeting was coincidental—even a moron beset by brain death would have realized that.
“Go on,” the man said. “Take it. God knows you don’t want to stay around here for much longer.”
She stared into his eyes, which in this lighting seemed to glow. Whoever this guy was, he knew far too much. Acknowledging that he was the gatekeeper of her escape, she snatched the envelope from his hand and stormed past him, creeped out of her mind. Something hard and rectangular was contained within, and her first paranoid thought was tracking device. When she got out of the hospital and found her safety, she’d split it open, give it a once-over and draw conclusions from there. As it was, it didn’t look like she was fooling anybody as to her whereabouts in any case. As the elevator door closed behind her, she hazarded a look back at where the man had stood only seconds before.
Nobody was there.
Simon shuddered as he felt the Nothem rupture the tissue of Morton’s brain and begin the fatal hemorrhaging. Through his neural network, he heard Morton scream and then gurgle. Although the cell collapsed, he strained his thoughts to hold the connection open a moment longer. He had to verify that the man was dead.
“Mr. Dwyre?”
He ignored the woman sitting across from him. As the wet pain of exploded brain mass drenched his thoughts, he reached out his mind to another cell in the hospital. Smith, he thought. Stop what you’re doing this instant. Get to Morton’s office and dispose of his body. If you find a young, black-haired woman in a red blouse, kill her.
An airy hiss whispered through the neural bridges sustained by the Nothem. Yes, Mr. Clearwater.
“Mr. Dwyre? Are you listening?”
He snapped his attention up to the pair of investors at the other end of the table. “I’m sorry,” he said, trying to hold back a warble of panic. “I am not feeling well. Please excuse me for a moment.” The world tilted as he stood, and he was out the conference room door before a word of protest could come.
Sweat covered his hands. Something throbbed in his throat, and it tasted like death. Damn that Morton. He should’ve killed the moron when his best excuse was genetically spider, but by that point it’d been too late. But he’d clearly let him live for too long.
Somebody was on to them. And worse, she had some specific details on the membership of NIDUS now. Preemptively killing Wallace and Beech was not a meritless idea, but they were too connected with himself; it would invite suspicion, and with this Bordon woman on their trail he couldn’t risk it.
As soon as he set foot beyond the great door that sealed the hidden tunnels, his phone began to ring. He apprehensively fished it from his pocket and checked the number. As if there was any point. He lifted it to his ear and clicked the answer button.
Before he could even greet the mysterious purple-suited man, a laugh cut off his thoughts. “Don’t mind me, Simon,” he said. “I just didn’t want to miss the show.”
“What?”
But something else now demanded his attention: the shadows writhing as liquid along the steel
walls. The machine door groaned shut behind him, and at once he was surrounded by yellow robes. The feedback creeping in from his neural network confirmed it—all twelve of the Vant’therax were there. As he looked upon stoic faces enshrouded by drawn cowls, he let his hands—phone and all—return to his sides. A shiver of primal terror surged along his spine. It was like staring at the sullen ruins of a graveyard in decay. The specter of death loomed. Malice rolled off them.
“What do you want?” Simon demanded, but he couldn’t stop his voice from wavering.
Silence answered him. None of them moved; they were as still as graven idols. After what felt like an eternity, Dirge slunk between Tar and Unn. His two columns of half-formed eyes glinted in the low lighting. His functional orbs were filled with wrath. “We have all grown tired of waiting.”
Simon scowled back, trying not to show any fear in the face of the inhuman thing. The monsters all closed in a step further. “Keep away from me,” he said with a shaky breath. “Or I’ll kill you just like—”
“Zay?” Gauge laughed. “You cannot kill us all. You need us, just as we need you. But you now have us considering the merits of going on alone.”
He swallowed hard. It was just as he feared. The door behind him was sealed tight; it would take exactly fourteen seconds for the machine-door to reopen, and the Vant’therax would rip him apart before he could make it back to the Golmont building. Shaking, he puffed out his chest and glared at the nearest robe. “You bastards. I created you.”
Gauge raised one hand, a claw of long, slender chitin legs. “Yes. You created us soulless. And if you will not forge the path to the Coronation, then we will have to do it ourselves, with or without you and your NIDUS behind you.”
The Spider Children (The Warren Brood Book 1) Page 21