The younger man had the look of a deer in headlights, as if he’d just realized where he was and what he was doing. His eyes regarded Arthr with a glimmer that could only have been pure terror. Perhaps that was justified; he looked like he couldn’t have been older than nineteen. Clearly he hadn’t been cut from the same cloth the nose-smashed man on the floor had been; he was no killer.
“Are you deaf? Shoot him! Shoot Anansi now!”
The young man’s eyes only flashed, entranced by something only he could see.
The blood-bearded leader grabbed his subordinate by the collar and began screaming into his ear. “If you don’t shoot him right now I’m going to blow your worthless brains out, you sewage-drinking corn-fucker!”
His eyes maintained the frightened glaze, but finally a look of clarity came over the young man. Perhaps he’d reconciled the dissonance between his religious beliefs and his duty, or whatever abstract combination of circumstances had made him hesitate. With a clumsy heave of his shoulder, he raised his machine gun, attempting to get the kill-end to point at Arthr.
Arthr was paralyzed. Though he could see the gaudy incompetence of the man who would take his life, he was powerless to stop him. His heartbeat rang in deafening chimes in his ears. His legs were concrete slabs at the bottom of the sea, held in place by pressure, gravity, and a thousand years of cowardice. The determination on his murderer’s face wavered, then returned. Had the leader not been there, Arthr would have felt pretty good about his chances. But even if he could somehow get to the young man without getting shot, the beardo still had his own gun tucked in the holster on his belt.
“What are you waiting for, you idiot!?”
Arthr’s eyes flashed to Kara’s unconscious form lying across from him near the two men, and a deep silence fell over the raging rhythm of his heart.
You really are trash, you know, he thought. For all your talk you can’t even fight your own battles. Pat kicked your ass and would’ve done worse if not for Spins. Even after all the shit you pulled, she had enough love to stand up for you when push came to shove. What about you? Where’s your spine? Where’s your brotherly love? You can’t protect anyone.
Harsh, but Arthr knew better than to try to argue with the facts. The way Spinneretta had moved when she fought Pat, the frightening fluidity of her movements, the absolute oneness of her mind and body had astounded him. Why was she so much stronger than he was? Adrenaline? That didn’t help. His own well had run dry.
But it wasn’t dry. Not just yet. He couldn’t let it be dry, for Kara’s sake. He may have been worthless, but there was still some remnant of strength to pry open the jaws of death long enough for Kara to escape, wasn’t there? Even if it was only a chance, he owed it to his family to try. He wasn’t going to let Spins look down on him for being weak, not in life and certainly not in death. His trembling legs took on a life of their own, and he began rising once more to his feet.
“D-don’t move! Don’t move or I’ll shoot!” the young man said as his aim again came loose.
Arthr planted his foot and looked into the eyes of the man behind the gun. Time stopped.
The leader once again opened his mouth to yell at the boy. “Kill him now you faggot!” It seemed to come out in a dragging, muted slur.
The bearded man only had one good eye, but he was probably just as dangerous with one eye and a handgun as the young coward was with a machine gun. The odds weren’t good.
Five hundred, maybe a thousand to one?
As the boy recoiled again in terror, the leader reached the limit of his saintly patience. His good eye burning with rage, he reached for his pistol.
Ten, maybe a hundred thousand to one?
Arthr’s whole body tensed, and the calm silence in his mind rang out louder than a thousand atomic bombs. That silence was Zen. If his death was predetermined, then let there be peace. If he was to die, then he’d go to the grave without regrets. And if there was a chance he could save Kara from the same fate, even if it was a hundred thousand to one, then he was going for fucking broke.
His muscles surged, and he hurled himself toward the invaders. But in that moment, before his muscles could commit themselves to his charge, there came the report of a handgun. The great window behind him shattered. A storm of luminous, sparkling fragments of glass exploded into the room like a shimmering galaxy in the primordial night sky. Stunned, Arthr once again found himself unable to move. Another series of pounding gunshots rang.
All at once, the room was in motion. The glass in the air turned the scene unfolding before him into a kaleidoscope of carnage. The blond man recoiled, his legs thrown from beneath him, streams of blood pouring from two wounds which now pierced his torso. The bearded leader, in a blur, raised his gun and returned fire. Two bullet holes appeared in his chest, and he collapsed in a heap against the wall behind him. The pistol slipped from his twitching fingers and landed silently on the carpet as the raining shards of glass tinkled an ephemeral elegy.
A loud ringing blared in Arthr’s ears. He turned toward where the great window had exploded. His eyes strained against the pitch darkness of the night, but it yielded no form nor figure except the blazing ghosts on his retinas. But there was a sound. Footsteps? Even dulled by the trauma of the gunshots, his hearing was sharp enough to pick them up. And they were drawing nearer. Disoriented though he was, he felt the panic returning to his chest.
A silhouette appeared at the frame of the former window. With a nimble movement, the figure hopped onto the ledge, crushing one of the remaining spikes of glass underfoot. The figure paused there a moment and then stepped down into the living room. The light was dim, but Arthr was now certain that it was a woman. With an almost mechanical caution, the woman approached him. Arthr instinctively deepened his stance and coiled his spider legs, ensuring his body was between the woman and where Kara lay.
“Sorry I’m late,” the woman said with an unnerving calmness. “Your sister stood me up at the park.” She took a couple more calculating steps and emerged from the deepest of the shadows, allowing the dull light from the kitchen to illuminate her. She was about as tall as Arthr was. Her wavy hair was long and black, pulled into a loose ponytail. She wore an old, tan trench coat and a matching fedora. She looked like she’d just stepped out of an especially cliched detective film. Even the revolver in her hand seemed to echo that stereotype.
“Who the hell are you?” Arthr said, trying and failing to project menace in his voice.
The woman sighed. “Not very grateful, are you? Boys never are.” She chuckled at her own joke and then shrugged her shoulders. “Can’t be helped. The name’s Annika Crane.”
The door to Mark’s cell opened, and the two armed guards entered once more. He looked up to acknowledge them, and noticed the third man who entered behind them. It was a different man than before. This man was seemingly human, and wore a sleek business suit with a yellow tie. He was of average height with dark gray hair. He was either in his forties with an inordinate number of wrinkles, or was much older but carried it well.
The metal door slammed shut, and the guards took up their positions flanking the door once again, training their automatic weapons toward him as they had before. The third man walked up to the chair across the table from Mark and lowered himself into it. “So, you’re Mark Warren,” he said, his voice wavering with obvious nervousness. “It’s quite an honor.”
Mark let his gaze rest upon the man’s tired-looking face. “And you are?”
The man drew in a shaky breath. “I’m . . . My name is of no importance. I am quite interested in you, Mr. Warren.”
“That’s too bad, then. I have nothing to say to you.”
The man held his breath. “Excuse me?”
Mark sighed in irritation. “I was told that the leader of this little . . . whatever this is,” he rolled his neck in gesture, “was on his way to have a talk with me. I don’t have anything to say until he gets here.”
“There must have been some sort of
misunderstanding,” the man said with a nervous little laugh. “I am the . . . ”
Mark shook his head. “I’m not interested in humans. I’m interested in the agent of the Yellow King, a man who goes by the name of Simon Dwyre.”
Simon started. That Mark Warren should be aware of the Yellow King and their operation was unthinkable. But that he also knew Simon’s own name was beyond the realm of possibility. When his mind recovered from the immediate shock, he began growing even more excited. What Mark knew about them could not have been incidental. That validated what the strange purple man had told him—that Mark was interested in him for some reason. Could it be true that Mark Warren and the purple man were, like him, agents of the King?
A shiver ran up Simon’s spine. “That would be me,” he said. “I am the emissary of the Yellow King.”
Mark scoffed. “You? You’re just a human.”
Simon leaned across the table. “I may be human, but I speak for the King, for I was born with His gift. Born with His command, and to serve His will.”
“You were born with the gift?” Mark considered him with a dubious grimace. “If you truly are the man I seek,” he said, “then that means you must be the Conduit of those creatures. And if you are indeed he, then prove it.”
“Prove it?”
Mark leaned in a little closer. “The men you sent to capture Spinneretta this evening. There was a child of the spider among them, was there not? A Vant’therax, as some might call them.”
Impressed by his knowledge, Simon just nodded.
“Then, as the alleged bearer of the gift, you possess the ability to see into their memories, do you not? You can access their thoughts, can you not?”
Simon nodded. “I can.”
“Then, answer me this.” Mark leaned back, his eyes dark and serious. “Before your hired hands captured me this evening, after the girl fled the scene, I tapped my collarbone with my right index finger. How many times did I tap it?”
Simon rolled the question over in his mind. That’s all the proof you need? Then so be it. He closed his eyes and let the bright network of connections take over. He hated doing this; it was a chore for things as trivial as what was being asked of him, but he had more important things to concern himself with than a bit of a headache. He stretched the fabric of his mind right, and then left, and found the wire leading to Dirge’s memories. He found them, unlocked them, and sifted through them. The yellow-coated gunmen, terrified out of their wits. Mark, standing his ground. The voice of Dirge barking orders to his men. Then, Mark extended his right index finger and tapped it against his collarbone in an enigmatic gesture.
The mental link closed, and the sight of Dirge’s memory vanished in a stinging flash, leaving only darkness. Simon opened his eyes, which now burned with a familiar ache. “Four times.” He smiled in satisfaction as Mark’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“I’m impressed,” Mark said. “I suppose you really are who you claim to be.”
“Just as I said. Do you believe me now?”
“Yes.”
“Then, now that we’ve got that all sorted out,” Simon said, barely able to contain his excitement, “let’s get down to business. As I’m sure you know, I’m the head of a number of projects, if you will. While you have caused quite a bit of inconvenience by allowing the girl to escape, I am willing to look beyond that. You’re clearly a reasonable, intelligent man, so I’d like to make an offer. A partnership, if you will.”
“Partnership?”
“A new project, one that would serve well to further both of our interests. I have heard that you harbor ambition. You and I are alike in that regard, Mark. You and I have both been touched by powers beyond the Earth’s reach. Perhaps it is fate that brought the two of us together. With your help, my work could finally be completed. And for your assistance, the King will surely have a vast reward. All I ask is a little of your time. Well, what do you say?”
Mark smiled warmly at him. “I’m afraid I must decline.”
The still calm of the room shattered. Two deafening gunshots thundered just behind Simon. He leapt from his chair in shock, ears ringing and heart pounding. He turned just in time to witness the bodies of the two guards, guns still pointing toward one another, collapse to the ground in blood-splattered heaps.
Simon’s blood ran icy cold at the sight. The surreality of the scene made it impossible to decode. Like two lemmings who had taken their death-pact to the ultimate extreme, their bodies flopped to the ground, spilling blood onto the metal paneling. Though his ears rang from the simultaneous gunshots, his hearing was not so blunted as to miss the distinct clanging sound when Mark’s handcuffs clattered to the floor.
He spun about, his breath becoming unsteady. There Mark stood, hands freed. Panic took over. Simon reached for the pistol at his side, but he was too slow. Mark’s chair flew across the table and smashed against his chest, throwing him from his feet. He hit the cold floor, and at once the taste of blood burst into his mouth. He let out a weak groan as he tried to right himself, but Mark was already upon him.
Mark seized Simon by his collar and hauled him up from the floor, slamming his back against the studded metal wall. “Now, Mr. Dwyre,” he said, “show me just what’s been going on. And what it is you plan to do with the spider children.” It was not an invitation to speak; it was a warning that the vault of his mind was about to be blown wide open.
Mark stared into Simon’s wide, terrified eyes. His focus dove into them, violating the sanctuary of the man’s thoughts. His mind ran its long, icy fingers through Simon’s memories, drawing knowledge from each flashing strand of synaptic networking. And in doing so, he came to understand a great many things he had wanted to know, but having now learned wanted immediately to forget. It was merciful that the information scoured from the library of Simon Dwyre’s mind in that moment was but a fragment of what he could have learned had he plunged his psychic tentacles deeper into that vault. It was simple revulsion, mixed with hatred, that made Mark prematurely retract his probing tendrils.
He released his grip on Simon’s mind. “You slime,” he growled, discarding all pretense of formality. He gripped the man’s collar tighter and hurled him into the steel table. There was a crack as the man’s chest and arm impacted the edge, and he gave a muted groan as he fell again to the floor. Simon clutched his ruined arm and rolled onto his side, making a noise somewhere between a howl and a cough.
Mark had entertained thoughts of mercy. Until those two guards had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, he’d hoped to avoid spilling any blood this night. Those thoughts were now a distant memory. For Spinneretta’s sake—no, for the sake of whole Warren family, for the whole world, Simon Dwyre had to die.
Something ephemeral flickered in Mark’s palm. His mind tugged at that spark, and it blossomed into a horrible, blue-green flame that encompassed his hand, casting ghost-like shadows on the walls. The flames were not the same plasma that boiled on the edge of physical heat; they wavered, like a glimpse of the moon through an Antarctic ice sheet, or a rising plume of smoke captured in ancient amber. The tongues of those flames were a collection of wailing, tormented souls, beckoning. They were the three-dimensional shadow of a four-dimensional being, too horrible to imagine. Those were the Flames of Y’rokkrem, the Tree Which Splits the Heavens.
Enshrouded by the shadows cast from that sentient torch, Mark glared daggers into Simon’s soul. “Have you any final words?”
As though in answer of that question, there came a brief cry of static from the radio that hung on Simon’s belt, and then a desperate message. “Mr. Clearwater, Site Nineteen has been breached. Repeat: Site Nineteen has been breached. The intruder appears to be Arachne of the Fifth Project.”
Mark faltered. “What?” The Flames in his right hand wavered, as though whipped by a gust of wind. You can’t be serious, he thought. Are you out of your mind, Spinny?
The radio continued. “Awaiting orders. Over.” The transmission cut out
into static once more, and a sick smile fell over Simon’s face. He must have seen the moment of weakness, for he threw his good hand toward the receiver.
“Don’t fucking move,” Mark said, the Flames flashing brighter in his hand.
But Simon did not stop. He snatched the receiver from his belt and lifted it to his mouth. He held the button down, and there came another cut of static. His eyes shone with a desperate madness. “Kill her.”
Chapter 27
Wrack and Ruin
“Kill her.”
Shock struck Mark between the eyes. The green-black fire he held in his right hand flashed brighter. The impulse to drive the soul-crushing Flames into Simon’s body overwhelmed him, but as he glared at the sickening confidence in the man’s face, he was torn. Was it a bluff? A chill spread through his chest. No, it was no bluff. Simon didn’t need Spinneretta. Even if Annika stopped them from taking Kara, Simon didn’t need her either. The children of the Fifth, as he called them, were no more than prototypes, the absolute minimum threshold of acceptability. There was no madness or contradiction to his order. The man was staking his life on Mark saving Spinneretta himself. Simon had nothing else to lose. He was all in.
But Mark had too much to consider losing. Time was against him. Even if he killed Simon, the time it took to do so would be irreclaimable. If he wasted even a fraction of a second, he may not reach Spinneretta in time to protect her from the legion of guards. It was under this ultimatum that Simon left the final choice to Mark. Everyone dies, or live and let live. Mark ground his teeth and hissed. He had no choice.
The Flames in his hand flickered and began to engulf his body. The verdant fire grew even more brilliant. As the Flames wrapped themselves around Mark’s body, Simon’s eyes grew bright with victory. The man’s mouth opened in a mocking laugh of triumph. The sounds of the bending ether distorted the sounds of his laughter. Mark would give the man no satisfaction as he withdrew from what should have been his checkmate. Instead, he just glared daggers into Simon’s black and wretched soul.
The Spider Children (The Warren Brood Book 1) Page 41
