Tatters of the King (The Warren Brood Book 3)

by Bartholomew Lander

  “It’s some kind of cult manifesto.” She paused for a beat. “A spider cult manifesto.”

  “Spider cult?”

  “I found it in a locked trunk among some other weird stuff. And it looks like your dad was involved in this cult.”

  He turned to another page in the earlier half of the book. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s not. I found old robes, weird paraphernalia . . . but that book was what made it obvious. Why’d he have that in a locked trunk if it wasn’t important to him?”

  “Possession may be nine-tenths of the law, but just having this isn’t so . . . ” His face twisted in revulsion; something on the current page must have disturbed him.

  She pressed her attack. “Didn’t you say that Grandpa was never at home? That he was always gone, leaving you and Aunt Lynn alone while he went to go do God-knows-what? Wouldn’t cult involvement explain that?”

  He eased the book closed as he thought. “Well . . . Circumstantially, I suppose it could. But I just can’t see him being a part of something like that. And either way, it’s too early in the morning to think about that kinda crap.” He gave the book back to her. “It’s weird, I’ll give you that. Too bad you didn’t find anything relevant to the Norwegian Killer.”

  She gave her head a swift shake. “I did. This book.”

  Befuddled, her dad gave her a probing look, as though checking to see if her head was attached correctly.

  “Look, I know you’re going to think I’m crazy, but this is all connected somehow. The Norwegian Killer, the lockdown, Grandpa, this cult . . . I just need time to figure out how.”

  He chuckled. “Mandy, you’re paranoid. I think you read too many conspiracy books. You’re trying a little too hard to find something out of the ordinary.”

  “I don’t think that at all.”

  His laughter evaporated. “Don’t tell me you really think this fantasy book is important.”

  “It’s not just a fantasy book. There are leads here. There’re letters and names and history, all of which should be falsifiable with some research. There’s administrative documents, guidelines for rituals, and even a membership roster for the cult—and guess whose name is on it.” She shivered a little when her mind bumped against the shape of the Vant’therax within the pages. “I don’t know how it’s all connected. I have some ideas, but I can’t support them yet. I hope you’re right and that it really is just crazy nonsense, but . . . I need some time to research these leads. Time to figure it all out. This is big. I can feel it.”

  Her dad frowned. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to keep an open mind. Let me know if you find anything, okay?”

  She nodded. “I will.” A thought from before surged to the forefront of her mind again. “Oh, that reminds me,” she said, “do you recognize the name Johnathan Griffith?”

  A deeply troubled look came over him. He crossed his arms, his gaze sharpening. “Yes. I know that name. Why?”

  “I came across his name in the book in a few places. Like among the names of the cult leadership. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d heard it somewhere before. Who is it?”

  His lips twitched in disbelief. For a moment, she thought she saw a realization lurking behind his eyes. “Johnathan Griffith,” he said, “was the judge who presided over the Norwegian Killer’s trial.”

  Though some grant me kindness, and I am sheltered by my family’s servants, I know it is with a growing sense of exhaustion. None expected me to live so long with these deformities. The medicine men speak of the guhala that inhabit my body, and warn with ill-concealed glee that the dark spirits will soon claim my life. But they know no more than the laymen or the hunters, who said I should not live past my first year. These saffron dyes they brand me with, under the pretense of warding off the guhala, are intended only to degrade me, to condemn me as a blight upon our society.

  Yet I have always known that I belong elsewhere. In my dreams, I can hear the voice calling to me from beyond. From beyond the veil, where the stars sing with the voices of hissing birds and locusts. But I know not how to reach them. I am trapped here, a prisoner of tradition, superstition, and fear.

  Chapter 3

  Summer

  The planet Earth did not care for the Warren family. It did not care for the broken community of Grantwood, which had just awakened to its first morning of freedom since the lockdown began. It did not care for the exhausted yet curious Amanda, nor did it care for the still-dreaming Chelsea. It did not care for Nemo, nor the Websworn. It did not care for Mark, who that morning departed California. It did not give a damn one way or another for Kyle, who was still bound in webs when the police arrived at his home and set him free, just before he sent them away with a dismissive tone, mind haunted by what may have been.

  Indifferent to the circumstances of every man, the Earth simply kept turning, as it had for billions of years prior.

  Chapter 4

  Tabula Rasa

  The sun began its ponderous ascent over the town of Lake Cormorant, Minnesota. It was the twenty-sixth of August, and the lingering heat, somewhat receded from the previous day, had started again with a vengeance. The first rays of morning cut across the forested town and fell upon the windows of the Hallström residence. The pale, creamy orange light painted the wooden walls with a dreamy palette. The highlights and shifting shadows birthed natural kaleidoscopes around the solitary home that none were yet awake to appreciate.

  When Spinneretta stirred from her dream, it was not to the warm orange light dancing against the far side of her drawn curtains; it was to a low staccato sound and the feeling of a weight upon her chest. She cracked her eyes and was met by a black shape staring down at her from atop her thin blanket. Four reflective red eyes peered pleadingly out from Cinnamon’s silhouette. Spinneretta groaned a little. “Why do you hate it when I sleep?”

  Cinnamon mewled a dry sound, scratching lightly at the blanket with her legs. Spinneretta smiled a little. She stroked the Leng cat’s fur with one hand and closed her eyes, trying to enjoy the last moments of whatever tranquil dream she’d been ripped from. There were worse ways to wake up, she thought; this was nicer than her alarm clock’s harsh screeching, in any case.

  Cinnamon had grown over the last two months. Counting her tail, she was now two and a half feet long when stretched out. Her spider legs were harder, longer, and now bore the first hints of the serrated ridges that, while still dull, would one day become razor-sharp cutting weapons. Her head had grown longer as well, and the rounded shape Kara had initially mistaken for a kitten’s had developed a more distinct slope. Her snout had partially grown out; while it did not yet exhibit the central ridge of the adults’, it was now long enough that someone could mistake it for some prehistoric canine’s. Her bat-like ears, too, had lengthened and thinned. Her four red eyes were now smaller by ratio, though still large.

  Spinneretta nuzzled Cinnamon, and the Leng cat made another of those strange almost-purring sounds. “Did Kara send you to wake me? Or are you just hungry?” The thing answered with a low rumble. A glance at her nightstand told her that she had an hour left before she even had to get up. She wasn’t looking forward to it. Today was the first day at their new school.

  She crawled out of bed and preemptively turned her alarm off. Sweat covered her back and legs. It was already sweltering. Spinneretta stumbled to her bedroom door, which was still ajar from when Cinnamon had slunk inside, and started out into the hall.

  The Hallström residence felt tiny. Though it had four bedrooms, the lack of a second story made it far cozier than their home in Grantwood. There was a living room but no study, no attic, no den, no dining room. The house had an old, dull carpet that defied all attempts to clean it. It covered all rooms of the home except the bathrooms and the kitchen, which had linoleum floors. The gaudy yellow rose patterns that adorned those false-tiles were faded, but the grotesque tones and winding arabesque motifs were still distinct and somehow unnerving.

  The of
f-white drywall of the Warren residence was a memory; the walls of the Hallström home were varnished wood paneling that glowed a warm sherry when the sun shone through the time-tinted windows. The foliage surrounding the home rendered the view from every window green and lush, and a darker, mustier green adorned the furniture in the living room. The couch and sibling recliners, upholstered in felt and old cigarette burns, seemed somehow anachronistic, as though they were part of a period film set. All the light bulbs were incandescents and emitted the same burned-yellow light. When Ralph had finally come out of his trauma-induced stupor, he had talked of buying fluorescent lights to brighten the place up. That project had been forgotten alongside so many others.

  Spinneretta walked down the hall of bedroom doors, Cinnamon on her heels. In the dead of morning, when day had only just begun to filter through the windows, the dark violet hues of the shadows seemed to shift and scatter of their own accord. At the end of the hall, she ducked into the kitchen. Yawning, she pried open the refrigerator. The light from inside blinded her, and she felt the first hint of a brewing headache. She squinted at the container of nettle soup on the second shelf. It was tempting, but not for breakfast.

  She withdrew a pack of ground beef from the meat drawer, along with an onion and a carton of eggs. She oiled up a frying pan, diced the onion, and began to fry it over medium heat. When it had caramelized, she stirred the ground beef into the pan. And when at last the meat had browned, she turned off the gas.

  Cinnamon clattered excitedly at her ankles. Spinneretta stirred the onion-meat feed around and scooped half of it into the wide bowl that served as the Leng cat’s feeding trough. She placed the steaming bowl in its designated place on the floor by the refrigerator. “It’s hot,” she warned Cinnamon. “Don’t burn yourself.”

  As Cinnamon began to scarf down her breakfast, Spinneretta put the flame back on and cracked a pair of eggs over the remainder of the concoction. After whipping and stirring the egg into the mix, what resulted was a thick, chunky omelet. She scraped the dark proto-omelet onto a plate and grabbed a fork as she made her way to the simple dining table that sat in the living room.

  A short while later, the door to her parents’ room creaked open. “Who’s up this early?” her mother asked from down the hall.

  “Sarah,” she answered with a mouth full of egg and greasy ground beef. I should’ve given Cinnamon the rest of this meat.

  Her mother wandered into the kitchen, turning the dusty lights on behind her as she came. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

  She pointed to Cinnamon with an anterior spider leg. “Little bitch woke me up.”

  “Well that’s not very nice,” May answered in a sleepy daze, eyes heavy and hair in an unkempt tangle.

  Cinnamon crackled a harsh, guttural agreement, but did not look up from her feed.

  May rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and studied the amber light streaming in through the kitchen windows. “You’re seriously cooking for her now?”

  “I don’t trust the meat you buy. She’ll get parasites if you feed that crap to her raw.”

  “I smell cooked onions.”

  “Yeah. We both like them. Want me to make you some?”

  “No thanks.” May sighed and shook her head at the feasting Leng kitten. She wandered over to the table and sat opposite Spinneretta. “You excited for school?”

  Spinneretta pushed her empty plate to the side. “Not at all.”

  A frown weighed at the corners of her mother’s mouth. “Didn’t think you would be.”

  Neither of them spoke for a time. Cinnamon finished slurping down the remnants of her gourmet beast-feed and clattered a content yawn. May gave the creature a long glance and watched as it folded itself into a comfortable pile on the tile floor. Spinneretta suddenly wanted to do the same.

  “Are you going to come right home after school?” May asked.

  She shook her head. “Library.”

  “Figured. Will you at least be home for dinner this time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Alright, good. Could use a bit of help preparing dinner if you’ve got the time.”

  “Mm.” Spinneretta drained her glass of water and set it back down with a small sigh of her own. It didn’t quite wash away the taste of the meat. “Fine.”

  “And, uhh . . . ” May looked over her shoulder toward the hall of bedrooms, ensuring that nobody was eavesdropping. “I was hoping you’d help me out with some preparations for Kara’s birthday.”

  Spinneretta raised her eyebrows. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, Mom, but she’s not in much of a celebrating mood.”

  “I know. That’s why I need your help. I want to get her back to her old self.”

  It was too early for such a heavy topic. “Think we’d all like that,” Spinneretta said.

  “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like it if you could take her out someplace on Friday after school. Maybe to the movies, or the bookstore or something. Something to hopefully take her mind off everything. So your father and I can prepare a little party.”

  “Yeah, I can take her somewhere. But I don’t think your party will get the reception you hope it will.”

  A sad nod. “I know. It won’t. But I at least have to try, right?” After a few moments, she gave Spinneretta a concerned look. “How are your legs?”

  Spinneretta started. Her spider legs twitched a little now that the attention was on them. “They’re fine. Just sensitive.” She rubbed the warm, malleable chitin of one of her anterior legs. The injury to the lowest segments she’d sustained during the Golmont raid must have accelerated her natural growth cycle, for she’d molted only a few days after their arrival in Lake Cormorant. When the shell of her old legs had come off, however, the crushed plates had not formed properly. They’d been rough, strangely warped, with irregular bumps and sharp edges. The shocking pain had been replaced by a dull throb that she’d lived with for nearly two months until, just the previous night, her body had surprised her with a second molt. This time, it erased the imperfections and returned her legs to their normal glory, leaving her plating warm and soft.

  May gave her a gentle, if tired, smile. “I don’t think you need to be so embarrassed about molting anymore.”

  Spinneretta shook her head but didn’t say anything. For some reason, molting was a frightfully humiliating procedure for her. Arthr wasn’t very open about it himself, but Kara was shameless when it came to peeling the old, dead plates of chitin from her legs. Spinneretta had even been less embarrassed about getting her first period than her molting cycle. It was an embarrassment she didn’t understand; how, then, could her mother?

  Her mom heaved a dry breath and lurched to her feet. “Should pro’lly get started on some breakfast for everyone else, huh? They should be waking up any time now.” When her hand found the handle of the refrigerator, she froze in thought. “Wonder if Arthr still oversleeps.” It sounded as though it had been intended as a joke, but the humor had surrendered to the heavy atmosphere. With a furtive shake of her head, she opened the refrigerator and began to rummage for ingredients.

  Half past seven, and the sun was angrily boiling the residual moisture into a rising wall of humid wrath. Spinneretta leaned against the wooden rail of the porch, messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Beneath her olive-colored jacket, she was already sweating. Though her spider legs lacked sweat glands, they were still slick with the morning’s balmy heat. They couldn’t breathe, and even her lungs got little satisfaction from drinking in the thick air.

  She’d taken a number of steps to reduce the risk of heatstroke. Beneath her jacket, she wore one of her modified tank tops. She’d started wearing skirts again after their relocation, and now wore a dark red, knee-length pleated one. Her hair was tied in a ponytail to keep it from suffocating her neck.

  With an impatient huff, she pulled her phone from her pocket to check the time yet again. The hell is keeping you two? The sounds of bickering and clattering dishware came from insi
de. Why are you so damn slow? We don’t wanna be the only ones late on the first day. The thought must have summoned her siblings, for the screen door burst open and Kara emerged with a now familiar lethargy. Her blond hair, still damp, was somber and dull. The first drops of sweat were already glistening on her brow, and her blue eyes shone with a clear disdain for the morning and for life in general. Her pink jacket, with cream-yellow highlights running down the sleeves, was buttoned up tight.

  “Morning,” Spinneretta said, feigning a hint of cheer.

  Kara grunted and wiped at her brow with the back of her hand, not even looking up at her.

  Spinneretta put on a smile. “Today’s the big day, huh? Hard to believe you’re in middle school already.”

  “Who cares what school it is?”

  Despite the heat, Spinneretta felt the chill of her sister’s resentment. She turned her gaze toward the luxuriant tree line, letting the bitter thoughts swirl. A few moments later, the screen door again rattled open and Arthr emerged with a vibrant smile. His hair, like Kara’s, was still a little damp, and his brown jacket was enviably half-unzipped.

  “Whoo!” he shouted, pumping his fist into the heavy morning air. “You guys ready for this?”

  Spinneretta gave him a dead stare. “What are you so excited about?”

  “You stupid? It’s the first day at school. First day of meeting new people. First day of girls! It’s been forever since I’ve had a chance to make a first impression, and I’m not fuckin’ it up this time.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Great. Good luck. Everyone ready? Let’s go.”

  With that, Spinneretta and her siblings started down the dirt road that led into the woods and toward the lake, upon whose shores the greatest portion of the town was built. The house vanished behind them as they entered the tenuous shade afforded by the dense growth of Jack pines and aspen. In a way, it was surreal. It was as though they’d been dropped into some alternate universe where everything was just a little different. In ten million permutations of the multiverse, could there have been a world where they really were the Hallströms?