As the Worm Turns

by Matthew Quinn Martin

  No, Jack realized. It wasn’t her. Not her alone. It was the power that was changing him. It was the venom. It was altering his mind, just as it had transformed his body. And he sensed something deeper at work—a plan. For all the might, all the majesty, all the mastery he now possessed, he knew deep inside that he did not command it, not fully. And, given time, it would come to command him. It would claim him whole and make him a servant of . . . the plan. It would do this, just as it had done it to Brigid Casey. She was no queen. He was no Monarch. He was just a slave. They both were.

  It had to end now. End here.

  He broke the link. He looked down at Brigid Casey. He reached out and gripped her shoulders. He held her gently, the way a lover would.

  And still holding her tight, he sent the stinger she’d taught him how to forge straight through her skull.

  This was the only way she could die. Only someone like him could kill something like her. She would not return from this. Of that much he was certain. She’d shown him this along with everything else. Perhaps, buried somewhere in the madness, the woman she had been welcomed it. Had invited it.

  As he drained her of all she was, she once again opened the link. Jack watched her spiraling away—not into blackness but into light. One thought, clearer than all the others, crossed to him before that light claimed her.

  You must finish this, she whispered without words.

  And then she was gone. Jack let her limp body slip from him and fall into nothing.

  And he knew what he needed to do.

  Fifty-One

  Beth watched as a shadow formed in the doorway of the alcove. The agents surrounding her stood ready with their snap vials and their pellet pistols and their bags of salt. They already knew that Jack had beaten their anomaly. Agents stationed on the other side of the tower had reported the limp body of Brigid Casey falling from the top of Drakewell. According to them, all that remained was a desiccated husk.

  She knew that Jack had won. She even knew that it was Jack who drew ever closer to the door. What she didn’t know—couldn’t know—was just what kind of Jack would emerge. When he finally did, he looked exactly the same—to every eye but Beth’s.

  Jack stood firm on the upper deck of the tower steps. His voice rang out. “I could kill you all if I wanted to. You know that to be true.” He cast a glance behind him. “And if I don’t . . . they will.”

  Shapes began to form behind him in the shadows. Beth slackened her focus reflexively. Creatures, she was sure of it. And they were all in Jack’s power now. She watched the agent nearest to her pull a vial from his belt. Other agents were doing the same.

  “Don’t bother,” Jack said. “The gas is useless. I should know. I made it. And I made sure it would be useless.” He turned to Ross. “You didn’t really think I’d give you a functioning way to capture them, did you?”

  Beth caught sight of Ross shaking his head. She thought she heard him say, “Well played,” just under his breath.

  Jack emerged from the shadows. By the time he made it to the bottom step, the creatures were rolling out behind him in a wave. Beth saw them as they were, in all their horror—the squat legs, spindly arms, lidless black eyes, and yards of teeth. Before she could question why, she noticed that every agent assembled was spellbound. Everyone except for her—and Ross, who was looking around him in stunned bewilderment.

  “You see them as they are because I’m allowing you to, Agent Ross,” Jack said.

  “You can do that?” Ross’s voice was little more than an awed whisper.

  “I can do a lot of things now.” Jack spread his arms to encompass the creatures behind him. His skin had taken on the same waxy sheen that Brigid Casey’s had, his eyes the same fierce glow. “I want you to know what you’re up against, Ross, should you decide to cross me. Look around you. Every agent you have is paralyzed. They’d be nothing but food if I decided to let the creatures have their way. You would be, too. Will be, if you don’t cooperate.”

  Ross set his jaw. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to give me your word that when this is finished, you will let Beth go. You’ll let her walk from here and never follow her again. You’ll let her have a normal life.”

  Even as the words tumbled from Jack’s lips, Beth couldn’t understand why he wasn’t asking for freedom for both of them but only for her.

  “And you won’t send other agents to do your dirty work for you, either,” Jack added. “No double-talk this time, Ross.”

  “And if I agree, what do I get in return?”

  “You get to live. All of you.” Jack narrowed his gaze. “I know the man beneath that suit, Basil. I know the heart you locked away so long ago. I can hear it beating. I know I can trust the word of that man. Do I have it?”

  Ross nodded. “And what of your word, Jack? When I agreed to let you climb this tower, you said you’d be ours when it was over.”

  “I said you could have what was left of me,” Jack answered. “And you will. When it is finished.” He looked to Beth and held out his hand. “Come,” he said. “I want you to be with me for this.”

  “For what?”

  Jack simply smiled and let her take him by the fingertips. “You’ll see.” He turned to Ross. “If anyone follows us, they will die.”

  “And you’ll really let us live. Every one?”

  “Yes,” Jack replied, then turned to face the petrified Agent Diamond. “Except for you, Diamond. You shot my dog. You almost killed him. And you almost killed us all.” At his silent command, one of the creatures broke from the pack and advanced.

  Beth walked with Jack, doing her best to ignore the sounds the thing made as it feasted on Diamond. And behind her, she could hear the steady march of every creature that had infested New Harbor gathering behind them.

  Fifty-Two

  Beautiful, isn’t it?” Jack asked her as the two of them gazed out at the New Harbor straits.

  Beth nodded. Wave upon wave of creatures had already marched directly into the surf at Jack’s bidding. Hand in hand, they’d watched them melt and dissolve into nothing but seafoam in the salt water.

  “Is that all of them?” she asked, drawing his hand into her lap.

  “All of the ones that are here,” he answered. “Past that, I don’t know. I can see far, but there are limitations.”

  “Is there another one like her out there? Like . . .” Beth’s voice faded to nothing.

  “Like me?” Jack paused, seeming to reach beyond himself with his mind alone. “No. I think there were others, long ago. I can sense . . . an echo. But they are gone now.”

  They’d won.

  Then why did the victory seem so hollow? So mocking? Beth did her best to ignore what Jack had said to Ross. Just as she’d ignored it the entire time they’d sat here in silence.

  But when the last straggling creature had finally joined its brethren in the sea, she could stand it no more. “What did you mean?” she asked, turning to face Jack. “What did you mean, when this is finished?”

  He squeezed her hand. “You know what I meant.”

  Beth’s chest felt as if it were caught under a bus. “No, Jack. No . . . you can’t.”

  “I have to.” He shrugged, gazing out at the sea. “No one can possess power like this.”

  “But you can control it. I’ve seen you—”

  “For now.” He nodded. “For now. But it’s only a matter of time before it controls me. I saw things up there in that tower, Beth. I saw what was coming if I don’t do this. I’ll become just like her. Worse.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like that.”

  “It doesn’t,” he admitted. “But it will be. It always is.”

  “No, Jack, no,” she pleaded. “It isn’t fair.”

  “Nothing ever is,” he said. “You know that. The time for pretending is over.”

  “Jack . . .”

  “Don’t watch,” he said, his always strident voice cracking a little. “Remember me as I am . . . as I was.�
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  And like the creatures before him, Jack Jackson began to march toward the sea.

  And as she’d done so many times before, Beth Becker ignored Jack’s command. She might not be able to stop him, but she wouldn’t let him die alone.

  He was waist-deep in the water by the time she caught up with him. She rushed forward, clutching him tightly. “Jack, I lo—”

  He stopped her lips with a kiss. “I know you do.”

  “Jack—” she started.

  “Shh . . . no words. We are beyond words.”

  She felt the chitin armor plates that protected him begin to slough off, carried away by the drifting current. She felt his flesh begin to sizzle, melting into the waves that battered them both.

  “Jack—”

  “There is no pain. I am beyond pain.”

  In her embrace, she felt his body diminish. She drew him closer. And before she knew it, a large cresting wave came, and when it washed over her, Jack was gone. All that remained were her empty arms and her tears that melted into the New Harbor waters, along with her love.

  Fifty-Three

  Her clothes were still damp with seawater, her eyes still stinging with tears. But Beth knew there were people to protect. There were people to avenge. There was work to be done. And as long as she drew breath, she would see to it that the work was done. To do any less would be to dishonor Jack’s memory. She would have time to mourn later. Right now, she would have to rely on a mix of shock and grit to get her through.

  Her first stop was the quarters she’d shared with Jack, their final home. She collected nothing from it but Blood. The dog looked past her with mournful eyes, scanning for Jack. “Sorry,” she said, fighting back the tears. “Just you and me now.” She could swear he nodded as he limped out after her.

  The Division compound was almost completely deserted. Every surviving agent had been dealing with the aftermath of what Brigid Casey had wrought. No doubt, their PR machine was already spinning out a steady line of bullshit just in time for the University to welcome back its returning student body. She looked forward to watching it on the news in whatever dump she found herself holed up in next, alone but for Blood.

  Beth glanced at the lightening sky. The sun would not be up for another hour or so. She padded down the shadow-lined walkway behind Ross’s trailer, the dog padding in her wake.

  Ross had promised Jack he’d let her go. And the man had been true to his word. When she’d emerged from the surf—from the place where Jack had left this world—Ross hadn’t even looked at her. The only hint she’d had that he’d even noticed her walking away was when he’d halted an agent who’d tried to follow her. And he did it with a single outstretched hand. Let her go, the gesture said.

  She snuck around the corner of Ross’s trailer. They’d bolted from it the moment the night’s shitstorm had started, leaving the door to swing open freely. And it was still open now, wavering in the meager breeze.

  She felt a hand clamp down on her heart. It was just possible that Ross hadn’t come back yet. That he’d left Emile Lascarre’s monograph sitting there open on his game board.

  Beth scanned the area. Not an agent in sight. She quickly mounted the trailer’s steps, Blood scrambling up behind her. She moved across the darkened space toward the blocky shape of Ross’s board. That was where she’d watched him set Lascarre’s monograph. But when she got close enough, she saw that the only things on it were black and white stones.

  “It’s gone,” came Thorne’s voice from just behind her. “They took it back.”

  Beth whipped around. “Who took it back?”

  “Who do you think?” Thorne stepped farther into the room. “The Order of Sormen.” Thorne shook her head. Her hair had come lose in trailing locks, and it seemed as if the agent couldn’t care less. “Do you really think they just left it out? Just left something like that out on a library bookshelf for anyone to see? No, they wanted us to find it.”

  “But why?”

  “That is what I intend to find out.” It was Ross. He stood framed in the doorway. “If it takes me the rest of my days, I will find out.” He looked down at Beth’s waterlogged boots. “I usually request that people remove their shoes before entering. But in your case, Miss Becker, I’ll make an exception. You’ll be needing them.”

  “Needing them?”

  “Yes. To run. To run as fast as your feet will carry you.” He took off his suit jacket and hung it on a hook near the door. “And I suggest you start immediately. There will be people after you before nightfall comes again, I’d imagine. The Division does not usually give up its assets willingly. And I doubt it will this time, either.”

  “But you promised—”

  “I promised that I wouldn’t come after you. And I won’t. Neither will any agent under my command, however much longer that might last after Sector gets wind that I’ve let you slip. But I can’t stop the entire Division. Or the Order of Sormen. I suspect both will be after you, Miss Becker. And your dog,” he added with a quick glance at Blood.

  “First shoes, now dogs . . .” Ross shook his head and looked down at his game board. “It seems that Jackson has left us both with unfinished business.”

  Beth had no words, not even parting ones, for Ross. How dare he even speak Jack’s name, let alone compare their losses?

  She turned and had almost made it to the door when Ross called her back. “One more thing, Miss Becker.”

  In Ross’s outstretched hand was a black card. She took it. It was oddly heavy. What at first she’d taken to be simple card stock was in fact some kind of metallic alloy. On the card were etched ten digits. A telephone number.

  “If you ever feel like you want to find the answers, Miss Becker, you call that number.” Then he turned away from her for good.

  For one blinding-hot moment, Beth wanted nothing more than to hurl that card right back at Ross. But something stopped her. Something about the tenor of his voice or the heaviness in his eyes. She tucked the card into her pocket and left without further comment. Blood followed, as she knew he would from now on.

  She took one last glance at Ross before stealing away into the gloaming. He was standing above the board, staring down at his unfinished game.

  Epilogue

  NEW HARBOR, CONNECTICUT

  ONE MONTH LATER

  Beneath the University, there are many tunnels. They connect the vast campus like an arterial network. Most of these can be found on various maps—most but not all.

  Under the mausoleum that the Order of Sormen has called home for two centuries is a catacomb known only to its members. Beneath that are chambers accessible only to the highest-ranking members of the Order’s inner circle.

  And beneath that, carved directly into the bedrock of New Harbor itself, is a vast vault that is the domain of one man and the servants who dwell with him in its lightless confines.

  • • •

  That man sat in a carved chair that had once been the throne of a king whose name was long ago lost to history. By his side was a game board, on its checkered surface a set of carved and painted figurines.

  The game had last been popular in ancient Sumeria—where this set had been fashioned—but it was, in fact, much older than that. The rules of the game had been lost to all but the man who now possessed it, and he played no one.

  The man, too, was old. Not as old as the game but old enough to remember when the streets above were paved with cobblestones rather than asphalt and when the din of the city belonged to horse-drawn carriages instead of automobiles.

  A hand broke into the man’s field of vision. It set a thimble-sized brass cup next to the board. “I see that two pieces have been removed from play,” came a soft androgynous voice from behind him.

  Indeed, two of the figurines, one male and one female, sat off to the side, banished from the board itself. “Yes,” the man said. “One forever, I’m afraid.” He set the female figurine on its side. “And one perhaps not.” He held the male figurine aloft.r />
  “Would the suzerain care to explain?” the voice cooed.

  “Are you familiar with the work of the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche?”

  “I am not educated in such matters, suzerain.”

  Suzerain—the obsequious honorific had always chafed the man, but he allowed it. “Nietzsche’s most famous claim was that God is dead.”

  “As you say, suzerain.”

  The man held the male piece in both hands, gazing fondly at its worn and ancient contours. “You see the conundrum, of course? Gods, especially young gods, have a peculiar habit of coming back from the dead.”

  “As you say.”

  “Yes, as I say.” The man looked out at what sat at the base of the vault. The enormous egg-shaped cocoon that he had stared at, almost continually, for the past seventy years. In the darkness, he could just make out the rough husk of its skin, a skin he had caressed many times over the years, feeling the life inside that had slumbered since the dawn of mankind.

  “Yes, young gods,” he said. “And sometimes old ones, as well.”

  Emile Lascarre picked up his cup, raised it in salute, and drank.

  —Matthew Quinn Martin

  Shelter Island, New York

  July 2015

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MATTHEW QUINN MARTIN was born in Allentown, Pennsylvania and raised in New Haven, Connecticut. However, it wasn’t until he moved to Manhattan that he realized he was a writer. These days, he lives on a small island off the North Atlantic coast of the United States where it gets quiet in the winter . . . perhaps too quiet.

  FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR: authors.simonandschuster.com/Matthew-Quinn-Martin

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