“Well, well,” Victor said, pulling back the hood of his robe with a gaudy flourish. “So you’ve deigned to join us, Mark.”
Mark stumbled to his feet, the room still spinning around him. When the strength returned to his legs, he looked the man in his face. He tried to ignore the shiver of fear that came from the kris in Victor’s right hand. “That’s the end,” Mark said in a commanding voice. “No one is dying here tonight.” Vision blurring, he took an uneasy step forward.
Victor snapped his arm out, brandishing his kris. “Stop right there! The Points have already been sanctified!” he said, showing Mark his empty hand. A shallow incision split his palm, starting just below his little finger and running to the webbing between his thumb and pointer.
Mark dared another step nearer. “To hell with your Points.” Usurped by the impulse, he was too focused on Victor to notice when two of the shadows on the wall swooped upon him. Those phantoms seized his arms and hauled him back against the wall. He tried to break free from their grip, but they were larger and stronger than he was.
“Mark, it’s too late,” said the man on the right of him, whose voice he recognized as Gareth Martin Warren’s. “Victor drew the Points himself. You’ll need to sit this one out.”
“Let me go, Gareth,” Mark said through his clenched teeth. “This has to stop, now.”
“You of all people should be smarter than that,” the man on the left said. “I’m sure he’ll let you draw the next two.”
From his position in the middle of the Points, Victor looked upon Mark with frustrated spite. “You just don’t understand, do you? I have been trying, so very hard, to be patient with you, child. To think that the heir of Golgotha could be so defiantly stupid as to defile the Points in the midst of the red moon . . . ”
“Just let her go,” Mark said, straining his arms against his captors. “There’s no need to shed their blood this night.”
“Your worship of the innocent is repulsive. Are you truly so deluded as to believe—”
“Don’t you understand how suspicious this is? It’s bad enough that you have to keep taking sacrifices, but now you’re taking them from so near the border? It is only a matter of time before we are all discovered.” He was reaching for a reason that wouldn’t betray that bitch Sylvia, and it was all he could think of.
Victor nodded in consideration—and a decidedly sarcastic nod it was. “So, by your flawless logic, in order to prevent suspicion from being cast over the Vigil, the best possible course of action is to let these thieves live? After seeing the Rites with their own eyes, after seeing our faces, after seeing—”
“And who the fuck is to blame for that!?” Mark said, dipping into the vulgar language he’d long been taught to avoid. He struggled against his captors to no avail. “A missing family shan’t go unnoticed! Not outside the compound!” His tone took on a frantic pace as he continued trying to break free from the men’s grip.
Victor sneered. “Leave that matter to the grown-ups, child.”
“I won’t let you hurt her!” Mark said, desperation rising. “As the Chosen, I command you to release them!”
“Get it through your head: I’m not afraid of you, you brat. You may be the Chosen, but that doesn’t give you the power to give orders to your superiors.”
“Stand down, Victor, right now! As the Chosen of the Gate—”
“Shut your filthy mouth, Mark! You’re a means to an end and nothing more!” Victor advanced on him and, in a furious motion, threw his clenched fist into Mark’s exposed stomach. With his arms restrained, Mark had no recourse; he took the blow hard to his gut and doubled over, his core twisting into a knot. A violent gasp carried the air from his lungs. The impact turned his legs to rubber. He would have collapsed were he not held aloft by the men flanking him.
Victor slunk away toward the imaginary circle which defined the Points. “Look what you made me do, insolent child. You’re lucky Golgotha has spoiled you so. Were you not his own blood I’d slit your stomach open and let the life drain from you right here. Let this be a warning, O exalted Chosen.” He turned away from Mark’s hunched form and faced the bound girl in the center of the circle. He raised his arms in a showy rendition of the Moonsign, and then stopped mid-gesture. He shot a glare over his shoulder. “I must redraw the Points because of you.”
Victor stretched out his cut hand and laid the edge of the ornate kris over his palm. Wincing, he pressed the blade into his flesh and pulled it back until it again split the skin of his webbing, drawing a messy line of blood from the fresh wound. He closed his hand in a tight fist and raised the bloodied edge of the kris at Mark. “Next time you desecrate the Points, it will be your blood that renews them.”
Mark wheezed and ground his teeth. Nauseous pain paralyzed his body. He couldn’t do anything; all his strength and resolve had melted away. His vision blurred. Goddammit, he thought. Every neuron in his brain echoed that word, for it was the only word that could express his helplessness. He could only watch as Victor recited the oath and extended his arms in a pretentious gesture of grandeur, the blade of his kris pointing toward Manilius.
Perhaps he truly was spoiled, he reflected. All this time, was he just being sheltered behind the illusion of rank? After all this, was he simply being deceived? Was all the respect and fear he was paid nothing more than a formality? The iron grip of the men holding him upright was proof he had no power at all. Had he but realized that before, he’d have thought harder to develop a plan before jumping headfirst into this mess.
Victor now towered above the girl. Tears of terror were streaming down her cheeks. Her parents pleaded with Victor and the other cultists—a pointless exercise. If only Mark had accepted the charge of sacrificing her himself. He could have at least made sure her death was painless; with Victor, that possibility was out of the question. When death did come, it would be by exsanguination. But Mark could at least have apologized to her. He would have looked down at her sadly and told her that they were both prisoners in a system unconcerned with them. They were tools, used to the ends of the powers that be. And in the moments before her death, he would have implored her forgiveness. She may have hated him and denounced him as a murderer, a charge he could not deny, but it would have been a better end for her.
The Rites were already underway. Mark forced himself to look up once more so he could try to convey with his eyes a fragment of his remorse. But when he did, he immediately regretted it. He found to his shock that the girl’s tear-washed eyes were fixed on his own. Her brown eyes seemed to shake as though relaying an enigmatic code, pleading.
Those eyes, he thought, no, please, not those eyes. For a single instant, her brown eyes, by some trick of the light, became the same washed out, pale color of his own. Memories of his mother came flooding back, the spear of Longinus to his crucified side. It was too cruel. It was bad enough that he’d already made the association; she was his responsibility, just as his mother had been.
No, he thought, growing more and more desperate. Not a surrogate. She’s not a surrogate, she has nothing to do with her! He’d have thought the girl his mother reborn, were reincarnation not bound by the flow of time. There was a shriek from the girl’s parents. Victor was speaking again. The words came to Mark distorted, like a harp behind a waterfall.
“By the hand of Golgotha, high father and child of Y’rokkrem . . . ”
Mark gave a final tug at his oppressors. Helpless. Hopeless. Victor was right about him. He had no power—
“ . . . Give shape to the Points now sanctified, and the Seal here undone . . .”
—like hell he didn’t. He had the power. He had the power to break the cycle. Mark looked up once more, catching and holding the girl’s tormented gaze.
“ . . . Stoked be the Flames of Y’rokkrem, bound within the depths of Manilius . . . ”
Her eyes were brown this time, but somewhere, in some quantum permutation, they were shining that same pale color. Mark couldn’t give up. She was his re
sponsibility, and he had to save her. There was no use reasoning with anyone here, least of all Victor, for the power of the Chosen was hollow in their eyes. But it was hollow only because they didn’t know just how deep it flowed. They didn’t know the extent of his gift. Like brainwashed drones they saw, yet did not believe.
“ . . . Within the shadow of the Heaven Tree, under the gaze of the Weeping Man . . . ”
He’d been childish. He’d blamed Sylvia, and even Ellie, when he should have blamed Victor. It was Victor who had created this structure of corpses, who had been the shadow of fear that drove Sylvia to lie, who held the blade above the girl’s head at this very moment.
“ . . . With this sacred blade, your unclean blood is purified.”
Ellie’s words rang in his head. And just what the hell do you think you’re going to do about it? Go and kill everyone who tries to hurt her? A moon-red clarity enshrouded Mark. He had given her the answer of a child. But all his mind was focused now upon the answer he should have given her. No, he should have told her. I don’t need to kill everyone.
“In the name of Y’rokkrem, I offer your soul unto the Gate!”
I just need to kill Victor.
And in the silent wake of that thought, chaos was born.
The oath completed, Victor thrust his kris down toward the girl’s exposed neck. As the blade tore through the air toward her, a green flash sparked before the blade’s tip. In the blink of an eye, it grew to a blazing wreath of fire. The Flames bathed the room in a fierce verdant light, shielding the girl from the blow. As the light bloomed, it tore the sacrificial dagger from Victor’s hand with an unthinkable force. The kris went into a wild spin. A howl of pain slipped from Victor’s mouth as the dagger flew past him, loosing a fountain of blood from severed veins in his arm.
There was a loud thwack as the kris embedded itself in the wall just above Gareth’s shoulder. The man jumped, and in that moment of weakness Mark threw his right arm forward with all of his strength, gaining just enough space to drive a hard elbow back into Gareth’s gut. As Gareth doubled over, gasping for breath, Mark tore his arm free. He grabbed the handle of the kris and ripped it from the paneling of the wall. He slashed a crescent in the air, stabbing the blade into the upper arm of the nameless man on his left. With a cry of pain, the man released him. Unbound, Mark slipped free and stepped toward Victor, who clutched his split arm and was making a hot scraping sound between his teeth.
“Mark!” Victor screeched. “Have you lost your mind!? You would dare defy the orders of the Path of the Gate and betray the very clan that has served you for your entire life!?”
“You would dare to invoke the Path of the Gate!?” Mark threw his gaze over the stunned shadows in attendance, ensuring they were staying put. “You said you weren’t afraid of me. Well, you should be, because I am the Path of the Gate! The Gate opens to me alone; those who defy me defy Y’rokkrem himself.”
Victor’s opened arm spilled forth a crimson tide upon the polished floor, the sleeve of his vivisected robe hanging open in two large flags. “Do you even understand what you’re doing? Your power is Golgotha’s prize, not your plaything!”
Hollow edicts and boasts. Mark sneered and let his conviction pour forth in blasphemous words. “The path of Golgotha is the path to ruin. I am the Chosen of Y’rokkrem and the Path of the Gate. Without me, the Key is useless. Without me, there is no Gate!”
Victor thrust his unmaimed left hand into his belt and grabbed the silver dagger within. He charged at Mark, a bloodthirsty scream on his tongue, and with all the weight in his body he plunged the blade down toward Mark’s neck.
Mark extended his hand at the incoming attack. The air compressed and then exploded in a deafening blast. With a surge of primal energy, a hail of invisible force tore through Victor’s arm, rending it to ribbons.
Victor’s face contorted as the blast threw him to his knees. Both arms ruined, life force flowing from him, all he could do was scream an insane scream. Shreds of cloth and drops of blood rained across the floor. The spectators were screaming, muttering in awe, but they did not interfere.
Mark again raised his hand toward Victor, allowing the green Flames of Y’rokkrem to come over it once more. His heart was pounding, and each pulse shivered through the Flames. Their lapping tendrils grew brighter, growing into a violent blaze of malice. The green light again cast its verdant ghosts across the room, entrancing and frightening all in attendance. “The rest of you watch and learn,” he said in a commanding tone. “Learn the power your Chosen commands. Learn what happens when you stain the path of Golgotha with innocent blood.” The blaze flared, seeming to call out in a choir of damned, inhuman souls. The green light danced, and even Victor was unable to raise a word to forestall his judgment.
“My power is not a tool for Golgotha’s ends,” Mark said. “It is a tool for my ends alone. I am the Path of the Gate, and the Gate has passed its judgment upon you, Victor. Your sins will follow you to hell and the black pit beyond, where no god nor demon shall hear your cries. The Gate is closed to you—the Void awaits!” He lunged at Victor. Before the man could even recoil, Mark’s arm passed through his chest as if it weren’t there. A bright blue flash flared as the Flames entered and exited his body. Victor’s soul shattered. His body slumped to the floor, his life extinguished.
The Flames of Y’rokkrem, the Gift of the Gate, vanished in a hushed wail from Mark’s hand.
Silence.
Mark scanned the terrified and bewildered faces of the loathsome men in attendance. It was the first time he’d shown his gift to them. Their eyes regarded him with an unholy hybrid of awe and terror. The troublesome girl trembled behind him, as did her parents, who were still trapped beneath the cult’s silver blades.
“Release them!” Mark said. As if it were the voice of Y’rokkrem itself, the robed figures restraining the girl’s parents obeyed. Once the daggers left their throats, the man and woman scrambled past Mark to the girl kneeling bound on the floor. “Take Victor’s body to Golgotha,” he said in the voice of a king. “Tell him that the parade of sacrifices ends tonight. No more innocents will die for the Gate. It’s over.”
Mark’s decision to walk home that warm June night was deliberate. Anyone who saw him on his way home would have noticed how shaken he was. It was a combination of many things that disturbed him so. The gradual realization that he had taken another man’s life. The gravity of the fact that he had saved three lives by doing so, including the one that mattered most. The feeling of freedom, of finally making a stand for his ideals. The thrill of facing down his greatest opposition. The inescapable doubt of his own intentions.
His heart still hammered in his chest, and a cold sweat crowned his brow. The further he got from that damned girl’s house the better. Impulsive bastard, he thought. The stone was in motion. Nothing could stop it now. What the boulder of Golgotha’s fury crushed now was anyone’s guess. He would not abide Mark’s actions, of that he was certain. But what would happen next?
There was nothing for Mark to do but make his stand. For better or worse, he would have to see his decision through to the end. Golgotha would have to call a meeting. What would Mark say when he stood before his father? I am the Chosen of the Gate; your wicked ambitions are over, while formidable in his own mind, wouldn’t persuade the old warlock. What, then, would persuade him short of sending the old man to his grave?
As he crossed the small wooden bridge over Beaver Kill, Mark caught sight of the full moon shining between the beech trees on the bank. Pausing, he found himself transfixed by it. Y’rokkrem, he thought with a rare reverence, give me strength. And, inexplicably, the raging of his heart calmed. Somewhere in that cold, lifeless satellite there was evidence of his triumph, proof of his own liberation from the chains of the clan. Had Y’rokkrem itself blessed this undertaking? Had it not, surely the eponymous Flames would not have come, and his attempt at murder would have ended in embarrassment. Yes, hovering triumphantly above the earth was the sig
n he had waited for. There was yet hope that the clan’s ceaseless march toward the precipice of oblivion could be halted. He had, for a brief moment, become justice. When he faced Golgotha, he would become the justice of the people of Denning and Shandaken. Justice for the sacrificed people of Arbordale. Justice for the girl, reckless and troublesome though she was. He would show Golgotha the full extent of his power if he had to—the power of his ascension, the secret he’d kept for so long.
With the blue moon standing sentinel over the night, his churning doubts and anxieties could wait. He would take comfort in the promise of a free future for his family. For Ellie, for Laurence, even for that bitch Sylvia. And if not for Sylvia, then for Lily. Selfish and cruel though her mother may have been, Lily deserved none of that blame. Mark would let his anger toward her, as well as the ghost of Victor’s terror, vanish into memory.
Might as well enjoy the peace while it lasts, he thought. And so he did. For a long while, he just stood and stared at the moon as it sunk imperceptibly toward the horizon. Apathetic mesmerism. Time dilated, and Mark let himself be absorbed into the fantasy. Only when Y’rokkrem’s shining disk had been partially obscured by the jagged beech leaves did he finally turn and resume his journey home, leaving Beaver Kill and the girl’s meddling behind.
There was only one promise Mark Warren ever broke.
Under a false sense of security, he’d had no reason to suspect that anything devious might have been occurring. If he had known what was coming, he’d never have let his Sight relax from the moment he ended Victor’s life. Had he that presence of mind, he’d never have walked into the scene awaiting him when he returned home that red moon’s night.
The Spider Children (The Warren Brood Book 1) Page 31