Carnage opened before him beyond the threshold of the doorway. The kitchen floor was awash in blood. In a blurred panic, he stormed into the house. Images forever scarred into his mind greeted him within. Laurence, his upper body torn to shreds, sprawled over the living room couch. Sylvia amid the jagged shards of the glass table that lay shattered beneath her weight. Finally, and most horrible of all, was Ellie. Throat slashed, face up on the carpet of Mark’s own bedroom. Her blood had been used to paint a crude facsimile of Golgotha’s sigil, which now mocked him from three walls of his room. Those bloody signs watched as grief overtook him and the full extent of his foolishness was made manifest.
Crushed, consumed by impossible guilt, Mark collapsed beside Ellie’s exsanguinated form and, for the first time since his mother died, he wept.
Bottomless grief devoured him, sucking the breath from his lungs and the warmth from his limbs. In hindsight—only in hindsight—could he realize how reckless and stupid he’d been. He’d known that Golgotha wouldn’t abide his actions, but he’d had no idea that he would act so suddenly, so swiftly, so mercilessly. But despite the pain, his mind began analyzing what had happened. Activating his Sight, he found the town of Arbordale nearly barren, devoid of the Warrens that had shone on that map for uninterrupted generations before. The sadness and guilt he felt over his sister’s death became secondary to the realization that now stood obvious before him: Golgotha’s wrath had extended far beyond his own immediate family. Blood relatives. Family friends. Believers and non-believers alike. There was death all around him.
For a time, darkness enshrouded his mind. Tears ran from his eyes, and he cursed his birth. The fact that he had been spared was the truest realization of Golgotha’s vengeance. Y’rokkrem, why have you betrayed me?
The Weeping Man cometh . . .
Struck by a bolt of certainty, Mark’s sobs ceased. No. Not Y’rokkrem. He reached out toward Ellie. Carefully, so as not to disturb her peace, he grabbed hold of the necklace that she wore around her neck and tugged it free. The necklace had a fine chain attached to a heart-shaped loop, within which bloomed a silver rose. He turned the necklace over. The back, as he knew it would, had an engraving. Surrounding the symbol of his mother’s legacy there wound a ring of text which read: Even the darkness has a silver lining.
The words forced his mind to a sharpened point. At once he was calm, focused. Finding strength beneath the sorrow, he stood, first on one unsteady leg and then the other. Oh yes, there was a silver lining. Golgotha may have swept the town with all the swiftness and brutality of the tenth plague, but it was all clear now. There were only twelve blips on his mental radar now, twelve survivors of the purge; he could feel Golgotha and the eight loyal followers who had enacted the genocide. He could feel the twins a distance away, surely terrified and hiding from the slaughter. But the last survivor—Y’rokkrem, give me strength—was Lily. She had escaped, somehow, and he gave a half-crazed laugh at that fortune. Perhaps there truly was a Christian God with a sense of humor and justice; how else could one explain Lily’s escape, much less the greatest justice of all: she had the Key to Manilius.
If Golgotha had found the Key when his men raided the home, he’d have come looking for Mark without hesitation. Instead, Lily had managed to escape with it. That girl, bless her soul, had bought him the time he needed to change the course of destiny. His Sight was clear: she was about a mile away, moving south. Everyone else except Eden and Eva was at the Hall, plotting their next move or gloating over the shallow victory their sweep had earned them. If they didn’t already know the truth, it would not take them long to discover it.
There could be no follow-up attack from Golgotha, and there could be no Key. Mark would go to the Hall and kill every one of Golgotha’s followers, and then the old man himself, in order to ensure that the Key could never be used. Afterward, he’d find Lily and destroy that goddamn shard.
His mind hit a moment of silence in the wake of that thought. Perhaps it was the weight of reality taking its toll on his scarred mind, or perhaps it was a side effect of the rage seething within him. His mouth opened, and the voice of a lunatic spat a staccato cackle. Oh yes, he would kill all of them. Had that not been his lot in life, after all? All the sacrifices made to the Gate, all the blood spilled for the Rites; though he was blameless in the murder, his hands—like the floors and walls around him—were awash in blood. It had all been for him, all part of Golgotha’s attempt to control the weapon that his birth had made him. It was no coincidence that misery seemed to follow him, of that he was now convinced. It was his curse. There could be no atonement for his complaisance. But there was yet the promise of retribution.
Cold reason spread through his mind, and the world faded to black and white. If Mark had been born to spill the ritual blood, then spill the blood he would. If he had been born to burn the world with the Flames of Y’rokkrem, then burn he would. But it would not be by the ambitions of Golgotha that he acted. Golgotha’s path was the way to destruction, and he would see to it that the prison of the Warrens became an eternal relic of that truth. Arbordale would become a ruin by his hands, and the Lunar Vigil would see their own legacy break upon the rocks of his power. The guilt and self-loathing he’d carried since the death of his mother now existed only as the shadow of his malice. The gift he’d been cursed with from birth would become a burning hammer of justice with which he’d torch the dawn and leave no trace of the evil that the Vigil had spread upon the world.
Here the details became fuzzy. Five of the remaining members, linked by the cursed Warren blood, fell to his fury before he arrived at Calvary Hall that blood moon’s night. The death march revealed an awful truth that he barely even acknowledged: the slaughter had extended far beyond the Warren blood. Nobody had been spared. With the moon-gifted fires, Mark torched the dwellings of those he passed, for the dead within were too numerous to bury. And when he arrived at Calvary Hall, only Golgotha, Barnaby, and two of their underlings remained; Lily he would find after, and about the twins he could not even pretend to care.
The doors slammed open with a resounding bang, sending a tremor throughout the walls of the chapel. “Golgotha!” Mark shouted, his eyes adjusting to the darkness of the main chamber at a magically accelerated pace. Mark faced his destiny within, and as his wrath engulfed Arbordale, the final tortured screams of the damned stoked the inferno. Those screams were twisted by hatred and madness into a ghastly chorus, a poetic elegy for the Lunar Vigil:
Light the bonfires and lay me
Beneath the roots of the Heaven Tree
Burn the offerings, revere the Key
The sacred piece of the Heaven Tree
Pure and righteous children are we
The favored of the Heaven Tree
And on the last day we will be
One with the blooming Heaven Tree
Chapter 21
Shelter From the Rain, Redux
The hiss of the rain had died, leaving no more than an encore of falling mist. Beneath the battered roof of the pavilion in Peninsula Park, a new silence unfolded. Mark sat upon the concrete table, legs resting on the bench beneath it. Statuesque, he stared out into the drizzle.
The last moments of Mark’s story rang through Spinneretta’s mind, churning and disorienting her perception. The grief in his story was palpable, and that bitter taste left her mouth dry. “And then what happened?”
Turning back from the weakening remnant of rain, his expression was grave. “I killed him,” he said before turning away from her again. “After that, I left that terrible place forever. I grabbed the only irreplaceable books from the Vigil’s library and then burned it to the ground. Then I buried my dead and never looked back. That’s how Lily and I became the last of the true Warrens.”
Spinneretta could not find her voice. There were no words; there was just a great crevasse opened within her. Though she had considered, at least hypothetically, the idea that Mark had been behind the deaths of the remaining Warrens, she had
never imagined that the truth could have been so agonizing.
Somehow, she’d only been aware of the peripheral and inessential reality of his lineage. She’d accepted, perhaps too readily, that the family had vanished like a specter into the night, never to be seen again. The core of the matter, however, had escaped her; now that she was aware of it, it crippled her. She tried to imagine the pain he must have felt. What did she know of true loss? That Mark could carry such a burden was unthinkable. The beating of her heart only made her miserably aware of that agony. Gutted, eyes misty, she couldn’t stop herself from trembling.
“And that is the story of the end of the Lunar Vigil,” Mark said. “That is the guilt I carry.”
Spinneretta’s thoughts hit a wall. Guilt. Her breath became erratic. The building tears tried to force their way to freedom. What do you know about guilt? She heard herself asking that question from when he’d expressed disbelief at her own fixation upon Will’s sacrifice. How could she have said something so heartless? To have lost so much, to have been the cause of so much pain—how could she ever hope to understand that?
On an impulse, she stood from the bench and approached him. Shaking, she fell against him, and her arms found their way about his trunk. He started and shifted his weight beneath her.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m sorry.” She tightened her hug around him. “I’m so sorry.”
“What? What are you sorry about?”
She clamped her wet eyes shut and laid her cheek against his neck. “For everything you’ve been through. And for acting like such a baby about my own problems. I can only imagine what it must have been like.”
“Do not think for a moment that my problems invalidate yours. Besides, I do not wish for you to feel sorry for me. It was my own fault, in the end.”
She shook her head. “I don’t care! You can’t just tell a story like that and expect me to not be affected by it. To lose everything like that . . . ” She expected a rebuttal, another dismissive comment about the ownership of guilt. But to her surprise, he just lowered his chin to her shoulder in silence. “Have you really kept that to yourself this whole time?” she asked.
He nodded, and it broke her heart.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” she said. “You’ve been alone since then, haven’t you?”
“It would be more accurate to say I’ve always been alone. But do not take that the wrong way. It’s the way things have always been. I am used to it by now.”
“You’re not alone, stupid.”
“Given what I’ve done, perhaps I’m the kind of person who should be alone,” he said, voice distant.
“Never say that again.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you can’t really think that. Not deep down. If you really thought that, you wouldn’t have told me that story.” As if in confirmation of that claim, she felt his body tense beneath her. She smiled to herself. “You should really try being less of a statue. Haven’t you ever been given a hug before?”
Mark pulled in a slow, shaky breath. Then he brought his own arms gently around her. He paused a moment and then, with an unexpected severity, pulled her into him. Her feet left the ground. His arms closed tight around her, enveloping her in his warmth. Spinneretta’s heart pounded in her chest. The heat from his hands on her back danced in zigzagging circuits through her legs, and her arms found their way around his neck. She laid her cheek against his shoulder and tightened her grip.
Spinneretta brought the tip of one of her arachnid legs behind his shoulder, listening and feeling for any word or sign of apprehension. When none came, she allowed her remaining legs to reach around him. The cold was a distant memory; her spider legs tingled as they bathed in his body heat, and the light drone of the drizzle became inaudible.
Mark laughed a little, a dry and distant sound. “You are out of your mind. Staying around after hearing that I’m a murderer.”
She squeezed him a little tighter. “I think I might have done the same thing in your shoes,” she said, not thinking too hard about how true that statement may or may not have been. “I might even have ended up doing it whether I wanted to or not.” She wondered about what would have happened if that Instinct had taken over in such a situation.
He said nothing but gave the squeeze back to her.
Spinneretta sighed, content; later, she would probably be embarrassed as hell about this, too, but for now she was exactly where she wanted to be. The sound of the rain again beginning to patter against the roof melded with the rhythmic pounding of her heartbeat.
Never say that again, her mind repeated. Never think that you’re alone, not for a goddamn second. She wanted to say it, but she couldn’t force her mouth open. They were the type of platitudes Mark himself would have regifted to her if given the chance. An opportunity to say something so unbelievably corny may have come only once in a lifetime, but it was enough to have the words on the tip of her tongue, even if she couldn’t let him hear them. Never think that you’re alone, she thought, because I’m here. I’m here, Mark, and I love you.
Chapter 22
Restless
It was a little after midnight when Mark and Spinneretta finally returned home. Spinneretta, exhausted, decided to go to bed as soon as they arrived. As much as she wanted to take advantage of the momentum that had brought the two of them closer, she was having trouble keeping her eyes open. As a result, she said a reluctant goodnight to Mark in the hall before heading up the stairs to collapse.
As Mark watched the girl retreat upstairs, he kept replaying the conversation from the pavilion in his mind. You reckless girl. Telling me I’m not alone. You just can’t understand. Despite himself, an almost-forgotten warmth spread through his chest. Reckless.
He opened the door to the study and was startled to find Ralph sitting behind the desk, a bottle of amber-colored whiskey and a half-full glass before him. The man’s arms were crossed, his jaw rigid. His face burned red with vodkalight. “I’ve been waiting,” Ralph said in a dispirited tone.
Apprehension clawed at Mark’s throat. This was entirely unlike Ralph. “Waiting? This whole time?”
He shook his head, and then awkwardly beckoned Mark to sit in the chair across from his. After Mark did as he asked, Ralph let out a long sigh and raised his face toward the ceiling. “You were right.”
The words sat in Mark’s ears like lumps of coal. “What?”
“I . . . I couldn’t believe what you said so easily. But . . . I did some digging of my own. About West Valley Medical and . . . as far as I can tell it checks out.”
Despite the earnestness of his words, a twinge of fear raced through Mark’s mind. “Ralph, please, be silent.” He made a vague gesture at the walls, hoping Ralph would remember their discussion of the surveillance.
The drunken shine vanished from Ralph’s eyes, and he hung his head with a sad clucking sound. “Mark . . . I’m so sorry. Even since you arrived, I’ve been . . . I’ve just never been able to forget what I saw all those years ago in Arbordale. I couldn’t have imagined that I’d ever be in your debt.”
“Debt?”
A sad nod. “I’ve been so lost for so long. But to know that it was all a lie . . . Genetically spider.” He swept his arm and nearly knocked over the bottle of liquor. How fucking stupid could I be to buy that shit!”
“But you didn’t buy it. Had you bought it, you wouldn’t have gotten yourself tested so many times at so many different clinics. Am I wrong?” The man’s breaths were loud and uneven. Was he crying?
“Mark, listen to me,” Ralph said, ignoring the question. He leaned forward across the desk. “I’ll do it. I’ll go to the clinic in Chamberlain.”
“Chamberlain? Do you mean Eugene?”
“I’ll go, just like you said. But I want you to know that I will pay you back for this. For what you’ve done, and for how I’ve acted.”
“That’s very big of you, Ralph, but you needn’t do that.”
�
��Yes, I do. I can’t just . . . You don’t know how long I’ve been living with this bullshit! I kept thinking, no, there’s no way that it can be right. It doesn’t make a goddamn iota of sense, and I’m a fucking idiot for not seeing that sooner. For being a slave to that. But to finally know that it was all a trick . . . How can I ever thank you for opening my eyes?”
“Don’t thank me until you’ve been to Eugene,” Mark said, hoping that nobody on the other side of the surveillance equipment was actively listening to Ralph’s ramblings. “You may think your eyes are open, but you’re still trapped in the dream. When you see what’s on the other side, you may not want to thank me anymore.”
Ralph blinked, his red eyes showing a dull glaze. “What’s on the other side?”
“The truth, mayhap.”
“The truth?” He gave a baritone chuckle. “You mean the truth about why my kids are like they are?”
“Among others. But it’s dangerous to think too long about such things. It leads to other questions that are harder to answer.”
“Like why these powers that be want spider people in the first place,” Ralph said.
“That wouldn’t be my first question,” Mark answered with a weak smile. “If whoever’s responsible for your children has the technology to create functional human-spider hybrids, why would they cover it up with a lie as transparent as you have spider DNA?”
Ralph clucked in his throat. “Maybe they knew I was stupid. Maybe that’s why they picked me.” The darkness of his own words seemed to escape him. He grew quiet and polished off the whiskey in his glass. He let out a long breath and then refilled it to the brim. “Why do you think they did it? To what ends would they do something like that?”
Mark considered the question, but not for long. “I know not, but I have my ideas.”
“Like?”
Absorbed in the silence, Mark merely sat there for a moment. Would speaking freely improve or worsen his position? Given everything else that was occurring, he didn’t think it would make a great difference either way. “I shan’t mince words with you. You’re a Warren, after all. How much of the old stories have made their way down to you?”
The Spider Children (The Warren Brood Book 1) Page 32
