Simon’s blood froze. Even without the number announcing its origin, he’d recognize the velvety voice of the purple-suited man anywhere. “You again!” was all he could say.
“Oh, is it me? Hmm. I suppose it is. How lovely. How have you been since last we spoke, Simon? I imagine you must have had quite a talk with Gauge. How many of the Vant’therax are now dead from your wrath?”
The poignancy of the question sank to the bone, and it took all of Simon’s will to remain standing. “Who the hell are you?”
“I told you: I am a friend of your exalted Yellow King. But I must confess, I don’t much care for the riffraff you have following in the footsteps of the Websworn these days. Like that Tanner boy. No appreciation for the scriptures, no concept of the sacred. Just another pretender, seduced by the romance of the unknown, interested only in the horrors your science can create. Perversely ironic that they revile your Vant’therax so. And speaking of which, tell me, Simon: which of the Vant’therax is your favorite?”
“F-favorite?”
“That’s right. Personally, I like Silt the best. He’s the quiet, brooding type, but I can see a great deal of leadership potential in him, for he has the courage to employ diplomacy instead of just flexing his muscles like Nal or Kaj. In any case, you should be careful. Even now, they grow restless with your persistent stalling.”
Simon coughed. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Well, of course you must know. And yet you do nothing. It merely amuses me how you choose to test the patience of the very monstrosities you have created. If you do not move soon toward the Coronation, you may find yourself wishing you did not make them quite as powerful.”
“I do not fear the likes of them.” Though he said it, he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it anymore. Like the members of NIDUS, all the Vant’therax carried within them the parasitic Nothem, as much a safeguard as a means of communication. As he had with Zay, Simon could merely flip the killswitch and end their lives before any meaningful rebellion formed. But they were fast, and without mental limiters even the weakest of the Vant’therax could kill him in a single blow. It was something he had been unable to expunge from his mind since the purple man first appeared. “When are you going to tell me what you want?”
“Oh, really now, how many times must I repeat myself, Simon? I only seek the release of the Overspider. Just as your King does.”
A shaky breath spread its sting throughout his chest. “How can I believe you?”
“By having faith, I’d assume. I’m afraid there is no other way. Oh, and before I leave you, I must ask, for I’m liable to forget. Are you familiar with a man by the name of Mark Warren?”
Simon’s heart thudded to a stop. “M-Mark Warren?”
A laugh answered him on the other end. “Rhetorical question. Of course you know of the promised child of the Lunar Vigil.”
The Lunar Vigil. Simon hadn’t thought any more about the Warren bloodline since he’d tracked down the only surviving scion beyond the borders of the cursed ground of Arbordale. “Yes. I have heard of him.”
“Hmm. Are you then aware that he has been staying with the family of your Fifth Project for some time?”
“What?!” He gasped, and nearly choked on it. “W-when did . . . how is that possible? The Warrens of the Lunar Vigil were all . . . ”
“Ahh, again you trust what your eyes alone tell you. You may not be cut out for this line of work, Simon. I’ll pull the curtain back on your delusions: Mark Warren survived the massacre on the black night that damned the blighted bloodline. You should be careful. It seems that the son of Golgotha is rather interested in discovering who you are.”
The name of the heretic Golgotha brought the flavor of bile to Simon’s tongue. “What?”
“Oh, no need to worry. The boy is merely confused. Whether he is an enemy or friend, that is for you to decide.” A razor-sharp chuckle cut into Simon’s heart. “Either way, it seems things are becoming more interesting. How will the actors dance around one another as they are brought together for the first time? In any case, I’ve asked what I needed, taught you what I must’ve. Now it’s up to you to act as you see fit. I’ll talk to you again soon, Mr. Dwyre.”
The line cut out, leaving Simon with a thousand mute questions pooling on his tongue. But he remained silent, again aware that anybody may be listening from beyond the walls of his office. His breath dispersed and his arm began to shake. The volatile ghost of ambition he’d once harbored began to cry out to him as he thought upon what the purple man had told him.
Mark Warren. Simon had thought the death of Golgotha had forever buried his perfect vision of the Coronation. While the infamy of the Lunar Vigil’s bloodline had been the basis for selecting Ralph Warren as the host of the Fifth Project, that sole surviving scion’s diluted connection to the family’s mysterious power had ultimately disappointed even Simon’s conservative expectations. But if the purest of that blood yet survived, then there was still hope that his vision could be completed—no, exceeded. Moreover, that union could be completed in natural purity, if only NIDUS could wait long enough for another generation to be born of the seeds he had sown.
He scowled. Goddammit. Why didn’t anybody tell me the Warrens had a houseguest? Those bastards are supposed to inform me directly of any potential leaks! Body shaking, anger and ambition mixing together, he slipped his phone back into his pocket and headed out into the hall beyond his office. He’d make his way down to the secret tunnels below. The messages from NIDUS could wait until he’d had a chance to reflect on what he’d learned. Ostensibly. He could not recklessly jump to conclusions where the purple man was concerned. First, he had to verify that there was truth to the story. Regardless, he would ponder this latest development within the Vault, where he was closest to Nayor. And then he would worry about the scientists and their reports. Until then, he had to meditate.
The man’s blood was slick between Spinneretta’s fingers. Hot rivers dribbled from the open wound in her shoulder. Head swimming, she stumbled away from where the body lay face down in the mud, her heart thundering painfully. Her bare chest was alight with searing ribbons where the skin had been burned by the assailant’s torch. Now, that torch was down to mere embers. With a furious, guttural shout, she threw her foot into the discarded implement, sending a shower of sparks into the air. For a moment, the dark ground flashed red, and then it was gone.
The crescent moon, enlarged by some atmospheric phenomenon, glared down at her in judgment. A shiver unrelated to the cold racked her spider legs. The hunger. The lust to gorge herself upon the man’s blood, to drink deep of the primal ambrosia. But shouts sounded from the direction of camp. A babble of incoherent language followed, and her gaze darted over her wounded and dye-stained shoulder. The glow of more torches approached from beyond the copse of willows. A small gasp burst from her mouth.
Oh, shit, she thought, her own thoughts sounding warped and alien in her head. In a wild panic, she looked at the ruined hut and the string of broken beads that now lay trampled. It was all a setup. Guttag had been the sacrifice, the price for her head. She whispered a silent apology and bolted for the far side of the clearing, almost tripping over her victim’s body. The curtains of branchlets parted before her, but the shouts behind grew louder and angrier as her pursuers emerged from the copse.
Her spider legs rose and dove at a frantic pace, throwing her through the bushes and over the moss-eaten stumps like a wild beast. Briars snarled and snagged at her exposed flesh. She knew that she was leaving a trail a mile wide through the wilderness in her haste. The hunters would find her and kill her for her crime, no matter how far she ran—all according to their treacherous designs.
As she came to the foot of the granite cliffs of the god-spires, she stopped, out of breath. A glance behind found the unnatural glow of fire hiding beyond the tendrils of the willows, growing nearer with each thump of her heart. She spat a mouthful of choking saliva to the ground, her limbs cramped an
d aching. Only one way out. The tips of her spider legs trembling, she allowed her appendages to extend to their full length as she splayed herself along the ground. Guided by the whispers from beyond the veil, her legs began to carve a sign into the smooth stone beneath her. Her eyes widened in silent revulsion as she recognized the aspect of that shape. She opened her mouth to scream, but the only sound was the rumbling of footsteps and the voices of encroaching death.
The moment she carved the last stroke, the Sigil in the rock began to glow. Yellow light raced along the grooves in waves. A familiar discordance—a blasphemous mockery of human speech—assaulted her ears. The shapeless words pounded against her temples, speaking directly into her mind; it was a hellish choir of mandibles moving in independent, horrible enunciations. Paralyzed, she could only stare as the familiar mist began to emerge from the glowing rune, bathing her in its concealing shroud. The ground surrounding the icon gave way and she collapsed into the seething portal of vapor. Cold, wet tendrils embraced her, pulling her toward a new world, and a new tomorrow.
Spinneretta awoke, out of breath. She glanced at the glowing digits of her alarm clock and found it was just before 1:30 a.m. A trembling sigh emptied her lungs. Heart still pounding, she rolled over and flung her blanket away from her, letting her spider legs breathe the cool air.
It was the usual dream. The most common of the recurring nightmares from which the Sigil emerged into her waking mind. From beyond the misty veil of her dream, that symbol always spoke blasphemous, inhuman words that suggested some degree of malign intellect. And though symbols and letters were among the most transient of dreamforms, the Sigil was always the same. Its body was a sharp masonic V-shape, in the center of which an elongated oval hung. The oval radiated eight lines beyond its frame and was split by an inverted T that grew from its center. Finally, a sharp crescent whose edges bent upwards like a pair of menacing demon horns crowned the oval.
It was the profound malignity and pretense of enigmatic history that had inspired Spinneretta to immortalize the Sigil in her freshman art final. In the daylight, that symbol always seemed innocuously endearing—like a cartouche scribed in praise of Horus—for it was a hollow icon. The thing hanging on her wall and scratched absentmindedly in her margins could not glow, could not speak, could not wrap her in an embrace of mist. Though she’d never admit to it, Spinneretta had at first been afraid that drawing it would open the rift to the world of fog where those horrific voices lurked. Only in retrospect could she laugh at the notion. There’s no way it would really appear, she’d find herself thinking. I’d have to carve it with my legs for that to happen. It was a terrifying joke meant only for her.
But now, for better or worse, she was awake. And with the fire of the torch and the chill of the mist still playing across her cheeks, she got out of bed with the intention of finding Mark. If there was anybody likely to know about the meaning of such recurring dreams, wasn’t it a cult wizard? She snickered to herself at the thought, for it was its own punchline. As if I need an excuse to see what he’s up to, she thought with a pang of embarrassment.
She made her way downstairs, careful not to wake anyone else, but when she came to the study she found the inside dark. Spider legs half-supporting her weight, she crept up to the door and peered through the crack. When her eyes adjusted to the sliver of moonlight from the living room, she found the couch and the chair empty. What the heck? He’s not here? Where could he be at this hour? Her mind went at once to the face of that damned detective, and a spike of jealousy tore through her chest. No, I can’t be that girl. I won’t be.
She heard the front door clack. The deadbolt turned.
She jumped, her appendages writhing, and knocked the door to the study open with a bang. She turned and, heart pounding, watched the front door creak ajar, revealing a figure standing stark against the porch light. The pulse in her ear washed away all sound, and the fright of her dreamborne pursuers returned to choke the air from her throat.
“Hey, what are you doing awake at this hour, kiddo?”
Her lungs restarted. “D-Dad?”
In the doorway, her father stood with his briefcase hoisted over one shoulder and his tie already half-undone. “You okay? Weren’t thinking of sneaking out, were ya?” He closed the door behind him and lurched toward the kitchen. “You know your mother would call the national guard if you went missing after what happened to Kara.” He rumbled a humorless laugh that made Spinneretta exhausted just to listen to. “Now, want to be a good girl and tell me what’s got you up so late?”
Spinneretta brought her spider legs in close around her. “I just had a crappy dream is all.”
The lights went on in the kitchen, and Ralph paused at the threshold. “Well, I can’t much blame you. Haven’t been sleeping so good myself.”
A dry breath quenched her shaking lungs. “Yeah. That’ll happen if you work until one in the damn morning.”
“Hrm.” He emerged from the kitchen with a bottle of Captain Morgan and a glass. “Guess I’ve got it coming to get lectured by you. But it ain’t my fault, alright? That asshole Dwyre’s got the whole engineering team working double-fuck-overtime on a new project. I swear to God, I’ve gotta get you that internship for times like this.”
“Dad, you’re not going to drink at this hour are you?”
He flopped down on the living room couch. “Look, I have to go back in six hours. I need my sleep. And nothing makes me sleep like hundred-proof rum.” The cap came off the bottle, and he began to pour the caramel-colored fluid into the glass. “Tell you what. I’ll let you have some if you promise not to tell your mom I had any.”
“N-no, I’m good, thanks.”
He chuckled a tired sound. “Suit yourself.”
Specter of her nightmare still looming in her peripheral vision, Spinneretta sat down on the other side of the couch.
“Alright, there we go,” Ralph said. He lifted his glass to his lips. It was a long sip, and Spinneretta thought she could see his cheeks warming as it went down. He swallowed with a relieved gasp. “Don’t know what you’re missing. If you’re having trouble sleeping, this stuff’ll lay you flat like the long-arm of a yeti.”
She laughed. “If that’s the worst a yeti can do, it has no business calling itself a monster.”
He gave a loud guffaw before downing the rest of his glass in a single swig. The dark circles under his eyes made her feel sorry for him. It wasn’t fair how hard he worked to support them all. But as she sat there, looking at the age in his face, she was reminded of how rare it was to sit down like this, just the two of them. And in that moment, she found her thoughts drawn inevitably back to Mark, and what he’d told her of the Warren family, of the Lunar Vigil. She swallowed hard, the horrible pressure she’d felt from the moon weighing upon her mind. “Dad?”
“Yeah, honey?”
“Can I ask you something weird?”
He began to pour a second glass of rum. “Weird? I’m game. Lay it on me.”
She took a deep breath. “Does the name Y’rokkrem mean anything to you?”
He jumped, slamming his bottle into the glass and toppling it in a shower of amber droplets. Spinneretta started, her spider legs rising autonomously. When she got over the fright attacking her chest, she found her father staring at her with wide, horror-stricken eyes. “H-how do you know that name?” he asked.
Her legs shook, the stench of alcohol permeating her spiracles. “I . . . Mark told me about—”
“Mark—!” He sneered and slammed the bottle down on the coffee table. “Oh, that son of a bitch. I just knew he’d be filling your mind with his poison.”
“Poison?”
He wiped his hand over his face and groaned, lips pulled back over bared teeth. “That fucking son of a bitch.”
Spinneretta swallowed hard. “So . . . you know the name?”
He gave her a violent look, but that expression vanished in a flash. He began to nod with the resignation of a corpse. “I suppose . . . there’
s no use trying to hide anything from you now, is there?” With a slow breath, he began to wipe the splattered rum from the table with his sleeve. “Y’rokkrem. The Tree Which Splits the Heavens. Yeah. I may have heard the name a few times.”
“That wasn’t really a few times kinda reaction, you know.”
He breathed a low sigh and leaned back into the couch’s pleather. “Yeah. I know. My grandfather passed all those old stories down to me after my . . . after your uncle Michael died. Said it was the curse of Golgotha that left me alive. That my dad had ignored the signs.”
A lump of coal began to form in her throat. “Curse?”
Her dad waved one hand in dismissal. “He believed some prophet cursed the bloodline of those who left the seat of Golgotha. Fuckin’ lunatic, that old man.” The confidence and contempt in his voice wrestled for dominance.
The unillusory presence she’d felt from the moon when Mark’s hand held hers was too unsettling to dismiss. Too real to doubt. “So, you don’t believe in the stories of Y’rokkrem, then?”
His gaze held hers, and she thought she could see the fear shivering under his skin like a plague of scarabs. “Of course not,” he spat.
“But if I was really curious . . . like, if I wanted to write my grade project on their weird religion or whatever, would you have any old books or anything like that I could look at? For reference?”
“No.” A shaky lungful of air billowed out as he wrapped his fingers around the bottle again. “I-I mean, my grandfather had some old ledgers and shit, but they’re all . . . all gone now.”
“You mean like the Warren family tree?”
His gaze flickered with anger. He quickly poured a half-glass of the captain’s treasure, downed it in a single gulp, and was on his feet. “I’ve gotta go to bed. And so do you, you’ve got school tomorrow.”
She pushed herself halfway up with her appendages. “But tomorrow’s Saturday.”
He paused in mid-step at the mouth of the hall. “Is it?” A sad lethargy came upon him as he brushed the back of his hand over his forehead. “Well, good for you. Good night.” And with that he ascended the stairs, leaving Spinneretta alone to consider her father’s evasion and hope for Mark’s return before the lingering ghosts of her nightmare collapsed upon her.
The Spider Children (The Warren Brood Book 1) Page 20
