Tatters of the King (The Warren Brood Book 3)

by Bartholomew Lander

  “Yeah. Quite.”

  “That’s too bad. I’ve got five tickets, and nobody to go with yet.”

  “Five?”

  He nodded with a bright smile. “Yeah. I just get really excited about live shows. I buy tickets based on how much I like the band. I usually give the rest out, which is all the better, ’cause it gets more people into their music.”

  Spinneretta stared at him. As they kept driving on, Bert’s enthusiasm was constant. It felt so strange. When was the last time she’d been able to talk about mundane crap like music? It had been months ago, before prom, before NIDUS’s demise. Amanda and Chelsea . . . Her heart sank. She’d never realized how lucky she’d been to have them. If she’d known then what awaited her on the horizon of her life, she’d have cherished every moment with her beloved friends in Grantwood. But she’d taken them for granted, left them without so much as a goodbye. She’d almost certainly never see the two of them again. I wonder what you guys are doing now.

  With that thought heavy in her mind, and the hyper-energetic Bert blabbering away beside her, she knew it was going to be a long ride to California.

  “Do you know why the leaders of the Vigil have so often taken the title Golgotha?”

  Mark didn’t take his eyes off the glistening violet crystal in the display case. He could just make out his reflection in the Key to Manilius. The reflected face was, at least for now, still his own. “Why?”

  His father smiled, and it was the only time Mark had ever heard him chuckle. “Because we are the soil that drinks the blood of the unworthy and transmutes it into the ambrosia of tomorrow. We are the sacred ground upon which false gods and paradigms die. We are the survivors of the end, those who tend the graveyard of the unholy.”

  At the time, Mark had understood so little. He nodded, as though in comprehension.

  “One day, you will take the name Golgotha as well.” Golgotha’s expression grew rigid. “Do you remember the creed?”

  Of course he remembered it. He’d heard it every day of his damned life. “Throw open the gates of Manilius,” Mark said, “and the Heaven Tree shall cleanse the unworthy and remake us all as gods.”

  Golgotha’s grin widened. “Good boy, Mark. You have learned well.”

  Eyes still fixed upon the Key, his ears began to ring at the sound of a distant, shrill screeching. And as he gazed into the violet surface of the crystal sliver, it grew louder and louder until a deafening shriek ripped the hallucination away from him.

  Mark blinked, once more aware of his surroundings, as well as the pain that jabbed at his temples. In a daze, he drew his phone out of his pocket and answered. “Hello?”

  “Do I hear sleep on the brain?” a woman yelled.

  He fought the mental fog that surrounded him. The morning haze he vaguely remembered from hours ago had been burned off by the sun, and the sparkle of dew was gone. “Annika?”

  A frustrated sigh. “Great. You were sleeping. At a time like this. Where the hell are you?”

  He looked around again at the bench and the trees, trying to remember exactly where he’d ended up. “I’m not certain. I believe I’ve nearly reached California. This must be one of those border states.”

  “Jesus, then hurry the hell up and get to Manix! Apply yourself and you can get there before me.”

  The tone of her voice set his heart pounding. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

  A sharp cackle. “That fucking bitch. Not sure how she did it, but it looks like she threw my tail. Sent me all the way to Salt Lake City thanks to that bus she was on. But there’s no sign of her. Anywhere. It’ll take us hours to get back to California, and we’ll be lucky to get back by tomorrow night with all the fucking traffic going toward Vegas. And that means if you can get there faster, do it.”

  He started fully awake. “I can.” It would take a hell of a lot out of him, but he was sure he could make it to Manix, provided his sense of direction was true and his rapidly dwindling magic could sustain his travel for just a while longer. “What time is it now?”

  “You don’t have a spell for that? It’s five, dammit.”

  “I should be able to get there in about twelve hours, I think.”

  “Ugh, then go. Godspeed. Satan bless your flight. Get going and stop talking. I’ll be right on your tail.”

  “Right. Drive safely.” He hung up, and the urgency of her words sank into his exhausted mind like syringes of adrenaline. Spinny, what are you doing? Why are you doing this?

  He hadn’t time to consider the reasons; he could ask her himself when he found her, provided he was not too late. But for the girl to shake Annika’s tail, did that not speak of dedication? Or at the very least, desperation? He bit his lip and shoved the phone back into his pocket. The Flames of Y’rokkrem glistened and sparked from his hands until they blocked out the scenery. Ignoring the pain, he forced himself through the dimensional fabric once more.

  Though it took until evening, including a couple stops for food and beverage, Spinneretta and Kara finally arrived at the dust-swept town of Manix.

  “Thanks so much for the ride,” Spinneretta said, letting herself out of the red sedan and squinting at the harsh orange glare that burned on the horizon.

  “Hey, no problem at all,” Bert said. “Hope you girls have fun with whatever.”

  “Will you let me reimburse you for some of the gas?” She already had her last two fives in hand, but before she could offer them up Bert held his hand up and shook his head.

  “Nah, I’ve got plenty of money. And was glad I could help.” The folds of his forehead creased, and he took a long look at her. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”

  “Of course. We’ll be fine.” In a manner of speaking. She slid back a step and waved. “It was nice meeting you. Have fun at your concert.”

  He cocked a smile and winked at her. “Yeah. Thanks. Shame you couldn’t come. Anyway, take care of yourselves.” The engine purred, and with no other words of parting, Bert drove off.

  Spinneretta watched his car vanish down the dusty road, clinging to the sight. It didn’t seem real. The heat that broiled the air, the sand that drifted on the breeze. The orange light of sunset was like a B-movie camera filter. Turning away from where the car had vanished, she gave a passing look to the facade of the old, nameless building they’d been let out in front of. Only flakes of paint remained upon its walls, but the patterns of green and red and orange could have once been fruit and vegetables. A supermarket.

  Kara stretched her arms and legs out and yawned. “We made it! It’s about time, huh?”

  Spinneretta frowned, trying not to think any harder about that statement than she needed to. “Sure is.”

  With a heave, Kara swung her backpack around to her front and unzipped it. Cinnamon poked her head out and made a high whining sound. Her bat-like ears were flush against her skull, and her overlong tongue lashed about, tasting the air. “Hey, Spins, can I just let her out now? I mean, I don’t think anybody’s going to be stopping us now, right?”

  The street was empty in either direction, and the buildings lining it looked like they hadn’t been visited in half a century. There wasn’t a soul around to notice a spider beast running amok. They were now in the domain of the Yellow Dawn. And they were so close that it no longer even mattered if anyone saw them. Spinneretta swallowed hard. The end. “You can let her out,” she said at last.

  Kara giggled. “Yay! Come on Cinny.” As she unzipped the backpack all the way, and the Leng kitten eagerly slithered from her confinement and spread her legs along the ground, arching her back and clicking a boisterous melody.

  Spinneretta looked up the street toward where the greatest portion of the town seemed to lie. The plaza. They had to get to the plaza. “Come on,” she said over her shoulder as she started off down the road. “It won’t be much farther now.”

  A stray cloud passed in front of the sinking sun, blanketing them in a twilit haze. A dry wind blew off the dunes and lashed across t
he pavement. It was hard to believe that it was the end of the road. But she had to look beyond that meaningless finality and stare death in the face. Killing the King was the only way, she told herself again, much to the cackling echo in her head’s amusement.

  She pulled Mark’s jacket tighter around her despite the heat. The wind felt so different than it had in Grantwood, or even in Lake Cormorant. It felt empty, merciless. It was an eroding force that had stripped the skin from the town, unforgiving of man’s incursion into the desert.

  Sweat built up beneath Spinneretta’s ponytail, but she didn’t care. All she felt now was the zeal that came with her mission’s realization. Even if the cult did not wish to uphold their end of the bargain, even if they spread their plague of mind control spiders after taking them, it didn’t matter. Because the Yellow King would die, and so too would the cult. Failing all else, she’d minimize the footprint of the Yellow Dawn and break the curse upon her family. Upon Kara. She wouldn’t let Kara die. Somehow, she would prevent it. She’d find a way to leave her behind and face the King alone. And when she faced him, she’d use the element of surprise. At the first sign of an opening, she’d pump the King’s veins full of caustic venom and sink her legs into his throat before he or his guards could finish her off. And if he tried to fight back with magic, the power she’d inherited from him would at least soften the blow. She just had to believe in herself and in her purpose. In the end of the road.

  Up ahead, she could make out a wide clearing surrounded by the high walls of the surrounding structures. They were built from adobe, with clay shingles broken and stripped from wide swaths of the roofs. As they drew nearer, the sand-covered asphalt gave way to finely chiseled, mosaicked cobbles. Wide concentric circles of peach and orange spread across the plaza. When she laid eyes upon the figures at the far end, she knew they’d come to the right place.

  Spinneretta stopped, a chill snaking its way through her veins. Lurking within the deep charcoal shadows of the surrounding walls, a column of dark robes stood at attention. Eight of them waited along the far side, and groups of four were stationed along the left and right walls. Deep hoods concealed the faces of their number, except the one in the center who sat perched upon a toppled statue of a horseman. His skin was pale and sickly, his hair long, black, and matted in greasy tangles. He wore only a seemingly random assortment of colorful sashes and straps. Beneath his meager clothing, his bones pressed against his taut skin. The leader of their band, Spinneretta thought. It was obvious from his pretentious position upon the statue. Though it wasn’t likely to be the same man she’d seen in the video, they were of the same ilk.

  With a gulp, Spinneretta grabbed Kara’s hand and turned to her. “You don’t have to do this,” she said. “You don’t have to come with me. I don’t know what’s going to happen when they take us to the King, and if anything were to happen to you, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.”

  Kara frowned, her eyes drifting toward the wide gathering area. “I’m not letting you go alone. We’ve been over this. We’re both his children. So we’ll both go, and we’ll make sure we end it. Once and for all.” She gave Spinneretta a wide smile. “I’ll be fine. And so will you. Promise. Alright?”

  At her heels, Cinnamon clattered something inarticulate and vaguely unnerving. Spinneretta thought even the Leng cat was hesitant to continue on. With a small sigh, she released her sister’s hand and turned back toward the assembled robes, where destiny awaited. “Yeah. Alright.” What good’s a promise like that? How can you do this to me, Kara? Palms beginning to sweat, shoulders and knees rattling unevenly, Spinneretta started into the plaza.

  When the emaciated, pale thing on the statue noticed their presence, he flowed to his feet in a single horrific motion. He raised a hand toward them and barked a word of command. The sixteen robes snapped to attention.

  A pervasive silence fell upon them.

  Spinneretta cast a glance left and then right at the attentive cultists. Beneath the black robes, she could just make out their bulging eyes and snarling visages. The leader’s own eyes, too, bulged at them. He raised a shaking finger toward where Cinnamon sat. “Qul’therax-ma!”

  With a labored effort to keep her hands steady, Spinneretta slipped Mark’s jacket from her shoulders. She allowed her spider legs to extend to their full length. An awed whisper swirled around them, and some of the robes in the periphery recoiled in surprise. A few breaths failed to calm the raging storm in her stomach. She set her gaze upon the tribal leader standing on the statue.

  “My name is Spinneretta Warren,” she said. “Child of the Fifth Project, daughter of the Yellow King. You demanded we come, and so we have arrived.” She spread her arms and gestured at the dark robes with her appendages. “We know what you intend to do with us, and we will not resist.” She tightened her jaw and stared into the leader’s even gaze. “Now, take us to the Yellow King.”

  A decayed smile grew from the chieftain’s bloodless lips. He nodded toward them, and the robes in the shadows all began to move at once. Like malefic spirits conjured to a Satanic mass, the dark robes began to orbit around them, their members spreading out until Spinneretta and Kara were enclosed within a wide circle.

  Spinneretta glanced over her shoulder. Even if they wanted to leave, four of the cloaked figures now stood to bar their path. Murmuring churned around them, and the sound of hoarse cackling came from the half-dead man upon the statue. What’s with the fucking drama? Just take us where we’re going.

  Kara grabbed Spinneretta’s hand abruptly. “Spins!” Terror squeezed her voice an octave too high.

  She looked in her sister’s direction and—a metallic flash. Eyes drawn to the light, she saw a jagged dagger gripped in the pale fingers of one of the robes. Her heart stopped. Panic flooded her bloodstream. She whipped her head about to the nearest members of the circle. They, too, drew bladed instruments from concealed pockets and sashes. Spinneretta leapt a step backward, her spider legs tensing and unfurling about her. “Shit!” The circle was tightening around them.

  Each of the sixteen robes held a silver blade that glinted in the evening light. Their eyes were blank yet hungry. Their mouths were voiceless yet chanting. Their steps and paces were aimless, and yet they were guided by religious purpose. Spinneretta swallowed hard. They’d made a mistake. Now they were surrounded, and it may have been too late.

  In a panic, Spinneretta pushed her mind desperately toward the boundary of the Instinct. “Kara, Hunting!”

  Kara nodded, and her shallow breaths began to accelerate.

  Spinneretta’s feet slid along the cobbled tiling as she retreated from the edge of the ring of cultists, putting her back to Kara. Her skin began to burn, and the Instinct sharpened her senses just in time to smell the rustling fabric behind her as one of the robes surged forward with its dagger held high. The cultists in front of her joined the charge. They were too fast, and the blades fell from all sides. She was unable to move or dodge as a knife plunged down toward the gap in her shoulder blades.

  The woman once named Rita dragged her feet forward. Each leaden step tilted the world into dizzying angles. The selected few danced around with her, black robes swirling around the children in the center of the plaza. Her mind was flooded with an indescribable bliss, and every move the robes and children made smeared her vision with ghosts and fading afterimages. Her mind kept trying to articulate objections, but those thoughts were swallowed up by the whispers of the spiders of the Yellow Dawn—whispers breathed from the mouth of the Urn-ma himself.

  The children of the obsolete order had no place in this world, and the master demanded their sinful souls be excised to the Void. They were remnants of the Yellow, and Rita was now the enemy of the Yellow. That alone occupied her thoughts as her fingers wrapped around the honed hilt of the ritual dagger. And as she circled with the others in mindless revolutions, she ran her tongue along the length of her blade, relishing the sharp taste of oxidized silver. Even when the children of the spider realiz
ed what was happening, it was far too late.

  To carve their very lives from them would be the zenith of her existence, for she would be as one with the will of Urn-ma Nemo. The tiny quoll of the King, too, would be slain, though with not so great a thrill. The back of the eldest spider-girl was to her, and Rita could almost taste her fear.

  The voices in her head ferried her closer until she was at a run. She could hear the echoing words of Urn-ma Nemo: every last trace must be eradicated. The old order must be exsanguinated. And so it would be. Ever be the praises to Urn-ma Nemo, to the Overspider, and to the Writhing Malefice.

  Rita lifted her dagger high into the air, euphoria flowing through her with each beat of her heart. Every detail of that moment was vivid and fantastic. The evening sun illuminating the plaza was vibrant and orange. The shouts of the archon were loud and crisp. The taste of the chilly wind on her bleeding tongue was ecstasy. The dark robes of the Dawn billowed about in slow motion, chanting and laughing the children’s elegy.

  Rita let her blade fly. Lines of warped illumination played across the surface of the dagger as it flashed down toward the girl’s exposed back. The shadows were roiling, streaming around and beneath her. She clenched her eyes in anticipation, and her vision went dark. There came a wet thunk, and she felt her blade heave and sink deep into the meat. The razor-sharp edge pierced through hard obstructions and lacerated crunchy ribbons of tissue. Her entire body shook. Hot blood gushed out in torrents upon her hands and down her arms. Rita opened her eyes with an orgasmic shudder.

  She was greeted with the blissful sight of a deluge of blood staining the yellow robe that had received her attack.

  Chapter 27

  The Devil You Know

  Before Spinneretta could decide which incoming strike to dodge, streaming darkness exploded up from the ground around them. A deafening squall of slithering, hissing magic swirled in melting shadows. The inky black peeled off the three towering forms in vaporous coils, revealing the voluminous yellow robes beneath. The crowd of swarming cultists reared back, shouts echoing off the walls of the plaza.