“Look me in my eyes, Warren,” Silt spoke. “Tell me, how many years do you think they’ve seen?” Mark didn’t answer. The withered face of the Vant’therax twitched as he awaited a reply. When none came, Silt exhaled a quivering breath. “Though we appear ancient, we have walked the Earth for only forty or so years. The blasphemy in our genetic makeup, though empowering and enlightening, is imperfect. Our DNA is prone to errors, and so with every division of our cells we find ourselves one step closer to the grave. Moreover, the lack of mental limiters has provided us with what most humans would deem incredible strength and magical power, but that is itself a curse. Every moment of every day, we must tax our minds to suppress our nervous systems, lest we be destroyed by the constant pain of these chitin infections. That does not come without a high toll, and that, too, brings the pendulum nearer our heads. It will not be long before we crumble and waste away.
“As you no doubt understand, we were born without souls to accommodate Dwyre’s needs. And without souls, we are destined to live, wither to dust, and die, our minds forever lost to the Void. A fragment of a lifetime lived in pain and servitude. No resurrections, no rebirth. We are outside the cycle you humans are bound by, and all that awaits us at the end of our existence is nothingness.” Silt’s eyes hardened, his bottom lip shaking with rage. “Our lives were stolen from us before they even began, Warren. We were robbed of our chance to live. But the Yellow King promised that when the Coronation is realized, when the first seeds of His perfect race are sown, that we would be granted our immortal souls as a reward. What more motivation do you need? Surely you understand the fear of the eternal death you dole out.”
Mark scowled back at him. “The King gets his heir, and for helping him you receive souls to start over. A rather convenient promise. Tell me: did the Yellow King make this deal with you personally?”
“Nobody has ever seen the King in person,” Dirge said from where he stood, jaw shaking as his voice droned into a growl. “It was Dwyre who spoke of the promise, as relayed to him in his visions.”
Mark looked to Silt for confirmation, and the robed creature gave a solemn nod. “And what makes you so certain he was not deceiving you to his own ends?” Mark asked.
“Nothing,” Silt said. The promptness of the reply rang like a gong, stilling even the wind’s incessant moaning. “All we know is that Dwyre himself believed it was true. Whether or not the Yellow King deceived him is meaningless. I cannot speak for the others, but I myself find the promise unlikely to be fulfilled. But as long as there is a chance, even if it is a thousand to one, we will take those odds. Even if it costs us everything, that chance is all we have.”
Though Spinneretta had always thought of the Vant’therax as their enemies, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity for them, sick though it was. After all, even if they were flawed simulacrums, they, like her, were children of the spider. They had not chosen this life; they were mere tools engineered from loose genetic bits and localized mutation. For all the suffering she inherited, at least she had a soul, right?
Mark, too, appeared to feel the despair of the revelation. With a small sigh, he ground at the sand with the toe of his shoe. “What do you want from me?”
Silt’s hands found the hood of his robe and pulled it back over his head. “The Order of the Yellow Dawn is a threat, both to your world and to the Yellow King’s ambitions. Right now, we have a common enemy in the Dawn, and a common goal in protecting the King’s children.” His scowl returned and he crossed his arms. “Finish what you started, Warren. Together, let us kill the Helixweaver and crush the Yellow Dawn. What happens after that,” he said, lowering his eyes to Spinneretta, “is a matter for another time.”
Mark was quiet. For the first time, Spinneretta noticed the dark lines beneath his eyes. A quiet rumble of hollow laughter rocked his chest, and his arms fell to his sides. “Interesting. But if you freely admit you will not halt your quest for the Coronation, what incentive do you give me to not simply kill you all right now?”
Silt’s lips thinned. “If you wished to end us here and now, I fear there is little we could do to stop you. However, doing so would do nothing to improve your situation. If you do not stop Nemo and the Websworn, their influence will continue to grow. They will continue to expand their membership, and by the time your human police realize the cult is a threat, it will be too late. What happened in Grantwood would be a single raindrop compared to the coming tempest. Towns will fall. Regions shall be claimed. Governments will crumble. They will pursue you. And in the end, they will kill all of you.”
Mark said nothing. He and Silt stared at one another. After a few unnerving moments, the Vant’therax took a final step forward. He was near enough now that he could strike Mark with his overlong arms if he so wished. His shadow fell between Mark and Spinneretta like an abyssal wall.
“You may think yourself a god, Warren,” Silt said, his voice an airy hiss, “but you are just a man. A powerful man, perhaps, but so is Nemo. Whatever touched him and saved him from death has changed him, and his madness grows deeper day by day. I fear that as his power grows, even you will be unable to challenge him.” Silt unfolded his arms and allowed them to hang at his sides, mirroring the way Mark stood. “Like you, we want to protect Arachne. Like both of you, we are being hunted by the Helixweaver. Knowing that we both face the coming tide, what value could you possibly assign to murdering us when what remains of our strength may be what tips the scales toward your survival?”
Nodding, Mark let out a thin sigh. The tired look in his eyes suggested he had no plan to follow through with his threat. His left shoe, in the middle of its aimless assault on the earth, halted. “Once again, I thank you for rescuing Spinneretta. However, I cannot answer your request.”
The leader of the Vant’therax replied with only a frown.
Behind Silt, Dirge glared at Mark, his scowl warping to a malevolent visage of disbelief. “What?”
Mark reached a hand down toward Spinneretta, and a set of her spider legs automatically latched onto it. He pulled her to her feet again with a dizzying jerk. She steadied herself against him, head still swimming. One of his arms slipped around her shoulders to hold her up. “If what you say is true,” Mark said, “then the Yellow Dawn is indeed a threat. But I will not make a decision without carefully considering all angles of the problem.”
“How dare you defy us!?” Dirge’s shout echoed into the distance, making Spinneretta jump. His two columns of dead eyes gleamed with fury as he gave up his post and marched toward them. “Do you understand what has happened because of your interference?”
Silt raised a hand, and Dirge snapped his head toward him, snarling. A few seconds passed in silence before Dirge growled and averted his gaze to the horizon, his claw-like hands curling and unfurling with shaky digits. Spinneretta couldn’t help but notice how different the two of them were. Dirge’s temper was boiling over, but Silt’s face was steady and calm, his disappointment reserved and accepting.
“Very well,” Silt said. “Take all the time you need. We will not interfere with you until then. But know that time is against us. Each day Nemo lives, his congregation grows in number. And so, too, grow his own powers.”
Mark nodded, his arm squeezing Spinneretta a little tighter. “Understood.”
Silt turned to look at Dirge, who only met his gaze after a reluctant pause. Dirge nodded in acquiescence and then turned away, walking back toward where Faul stood.
Then, Silt turned his own back upon Mark and Spinneretta. “We will be watching,” he said over his shoulder. “All you need to do is call out to us, and we shall appear. Until next we meet.” Before either of them could utter a word of parting, the shadows of the rattleweed and broken fence posts slithered onto the Vant’therax and they vanished, leaving only their vacant footprints behind.
I look upon the flames from the blasted hovels of the blasphemers. To either side, I see the loyal streaming forth, crawling through the shattered doorways and p
ouncing upon the shrieking faithless. I am content merely to watch the massacre, until from the shadow cast by the inferno I behold a wounded child staggering forth from one of the dwellings. He is a mere whelp, his mouth open in a whimper silenced by the cries of his family. His legs appear soft and brittle in the blazing light of the fires. Clutching a whittled doll of cipherroot, he ambles toward me before falling upon his face, clucks of sorrow and fear sounding from his tube-throat.
I walk toward him, drawn to the side of the rare child. In my heart of hearts, I know he has no beliefs of his own. No convictions, no malice, no allegiances beyond those to his kin. He is a blank slate upon which his family scribes their insolence, their treachery. I know he is not responsible for the life he was born into. And yet I have no pity in me. This heart is hardened, and I feel nothing but hatred for the child.
My foot finds the back of his skull. The bone’s resistance is momentary.
Chapter 29
Reunion
Spinneretta’s eyes shot open to the wet sound of crunching bone and tissue. Her heart raced with a cocktail of fright and revulsion. The room around her was dark, but the dim light creeping through the red curtains seemed to blaze like the towering inferno from her dream. The heat of the fire still seared her cheeks and forehead, which were dusted with droplets of sweat. It felt like a sunburn covering every inch of her.
She sat up in bed and pushed her back against the headboard, hugging her knees to her chest with her plated appendages. Every breath tasted poisonous, like the air was laced with the ashes of burning flesh. When she pressed her face into her cold knees, the difference in temperature startled her. The fuck was that? she found herself thinking when the nightmare’s grip loosened. And why did it feel so damn real?
It took her a few moments to recall how she’d gotten to the motel room. She remembered dragging her feet through the low dunes with Mark. By the time they’d gotten to a road, she’d barely been able to keep herself awake. She remembered a car—or maybe a taxi—ferrying them back to civilization, but she had no memory of this room. Guess I was pretty fucked up from all this.
With a shallow breath of air, which had now lost its pungent and deathly flavor, she let her eyes slip closed once more. For a few moments she just sat upright, surrounded by the dark behind her eyelids, letting her breathing heal the damage the nightmare had inflicted. Her forehead fell into the comfortable sleeve of Mark’s jacket—wait, what the hell? Where did this come from? The thought was a momentary escape and little more. Who cared how the sorcerer’s jacket had found its way back to her?
Then, from the opposite wall, she heard the doorknob creak. Her heart leapt into her throat. In the moment before the door swung open, her mind was assaulted by all manner of diabolic phantasms—the Vant’therax returning to take her, or the Yellow Dawn’s blood-crazed masses swarming the building with knives at the ready.
The door clattered open and—to her unpronounceable relief—Mark appeared, holding a large, flat box with a bulging plastic bag atop it. The hot scent of herbs and bread filled the room, and for a moment the two just looked at one another.
“Good evening,” he said with a sheepish look on his face. “I hoped you wouldn’t awake before I returned.” He slipped a hand out from beneath the box and slapped the light switch on the wall. The old yellow light bulbs flickered on.
Spinneretta blinked at him, eyelids fighting the invasive light. She was still trying to piece together everything that had happened since she’d left the care of the Vant’therax. “Where were you?”
He leaned back against the door, shutting it with his weight. A shift of his elbow slid the deadbolt into place with a dull clack. “I just left to acquire some food. You’d been out for quite a while, so I thought it safe to leave for ten minutes.”
She shivered a little, gaze drawn into the stark shadows falling from the beds and furniture. “You just left me alone? What if the Vant’therax or the Dawn came?”
He gave her a reassuring smile. “The Dawn hasn’t moved far from Manix yet, which is miles from here. If the Vant’therax were desperate enough to take you in my absence, they wouldn’t have let you go in the first place. Especially if they want my cooperation with the Dawn, they wouldn’t risk any action.”
She nodded mechanically, mouth watering at the smell in the air. Her still-groggy brain overclocked itself to piece together the obvious logical progression. An icicle sank into her chest. “Any sign of Kara yet?”
“Afraid not. As far as I know, the Vant’therax are still searching for her. Here, I brought pizza.” He set the box down on the table and pulled the bag open. “And I wasn’t sure what energy drinks you liked, so I got a variety.” He produced three tall cans from the bag and set them along the edge of the pizza box.
Spinneretta eyed the drinks suspiciously. Cryo Energy. Psychopomp. Reaper X. The hell are these? But the salty smell enveloping her grew stronger, and she was embarrassed to find her tongue tingling in anticipation. Hunger had twisted her stomach into a hollow wreck; she was so hungry that she was surprised the Instinct didn’t emerge to hunt the herby smell. “Thank you,” she managed at last.
He ruffled about in the bag. “Here, I got some paper plates, too.” He pulled out a thin stack of disposable dishes and set them down.
You went through that much trouble? As soon as she had a plate in her hand, she opened the box to find a great marbled disc of red and off-white covered in sliced mushroom, strips of green pepper, and chunks of spiced sausage. The smell hit her like a sledgehammer; it was even more intoxicating than the scent of blood.
“I apologize for the sausage. I asked for it meatless, but they wouldn’t listen.”
She shook her head, mesmerized. “No. This is perfect.” She reached out and took a pair of slices, dragging them mercilessly onto her plate. It sagged under the weight and grease, and unbroken tethers of cheese stretched desperately for life. When they snapped and fell into neatly twined piles upon her plate, it was all she could do not to devour the wedges of dubious nutrition in a single ravenous bite. Mark took a piece for himself, and Spinneretta waited until he’d at least gotten it upon his own plate before she started to eat.
Goddamn, she thought after the first bite. When was the last time I had pizza? They’d tried a local pizzeria in Lake Cormorant called Lil Flasky’s, but she couldn’t remember it at all. It certainly couldn’t have held a candle to this Fibonacci’s. But maybe that was her stomach and potentially ruptured uterus talking.
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Mark asked once she’d consumed two pieces and started on a third.
Self-consciousness cut through her sleep- and hunger-stricken mind. I’m not eating that sloppily, am I? He’s not calling me fat, is he? “Depends how you define eaten,” she said through a mouthful of mushroom and spiced sausage. “Think the last proper meal was at that bus depot before we ran off the damn bus.”
Mark nodded, his gaze fixed on his second slice. “Tell me, Spinneretta.”
Hearing his heavy tone, she froze. It had been a long time since he’d last addressed her as anything other than Spinny, and that couldn’t have been a good sign. She swallowed her final bite and tried not to look too nervous as she set her plate upon the table. “Yeah?”
His gaze held hers, and the pale brown of his eyes flickered in hidden irritation. “What were you thinking? What was this whole running away thing about?”
“You know what it was about.”
Mark closed his eyes and his lips stretched into a razor-thin line. “I have an idea, but I would like you to indulge me with an explanation.”
A nervous twinge slithered from the base of her spine all the way to her throat. Once more, she hugged her knees to her chest and folded her spider legs around her, staring into the depths of the pizza’s soul. “You know about the cult now, don’t you? About the Yellow Dawn.”
“I do.”
“Then there’s nothing to discuss. They wanted me, and if they didn’t get
me they were going to hurt and kill a lot of people. I just did what I needed to do. What was right to do. To stop them from hurting anyone else.”
“But why didn’t you tell anyone? If you were truly that set upon it, then I could have helped you. Or Annika could have. There’s no reason for you to have taken this all on yourself.”
She let her eyes fall shut, and the darkness behind her lids drew out her confession. “You would have tried to stop me if you knew.” From where she sat, Spinneretta felt him tense.
“Knew what?”
A shiver ran up her spine. She resolved not to look him in his eyes. “That I intended to kill the Yellow King.”
Mark’s breathing became uneven. He tried to speak, but a cough scattered his words into a meaningless gargle. When he recovered, a half-hysterical laugh was the first thing out of his mouth. “Spinny, you can’t be serious. That’s utterly mad!”
Figured you’d say something like that. With a tiny sigh, she tilted her head to one side and studied the wall. “Is it? Is it really so unbelievable that I’d want to end this whole thing? After everything . . . ”
He shook his head. “Never mind how you thought you would be able to kill him. What do you think you would accomplish even if you were to succeed?”
“Effecting the end of the spider cult, of course. Without their leader, there can be no Coronation. Without the Coronation, the cult has no hope. No goals. No reason to exist. If I could just kill him, I could make sure nobody else ever had to die because of me.”
He blinked at her. “Because of you?”
Her gaze sank to the pizza again. “Don’t you understand how much pain has been caused? All the lives lost to NIDUS and the Vant’therax. It’s all so his ambition of melding man and spider continues. And if his life ends, then so too ends that legacy of death.”
“Spinny. Listen. You need to take a deep breath and think about this. Let’s say you did somehow kill the Yellow King. What makes you so sure that would stop the cult?”
Tatters of the King (The Warren Brood Book 3) Page 38