Annika watched them disappear into the grove beyond the clearing. Far off, she could just make out the sound of sirens. She sighed and walked over to a spot not far from the Vant’therax’s fallen body. She knelt down on one knee, minding her arm, and picked up the large plate of chitin armor lying on the muddy ground. She held it up and squinted at its dark surface, feeling the weight in the dense material. This could be useful, she found herself thinking. Groaning a little, she tucked the plate beneath her arm and started after the children.
The sensation of gravity stirred Spinneretta back to consciousness. She opened her eyes just in time to see a pebble-strewn ground, broken by tangled sets of sharpened obelisks, hurtling toward her. She panicked and braced herself, crossing her arms and legs over her head. There was a sharp, lancing pain in her arm, the nauseous sensation of something tearing, and then she tumbled to the ground with a lung-emptying thud.
Disoriented, head swimming, she took a moment to find her bearings. There came another dead thump from nearby, which she assumed was Mark. Again opening her eyes, she was greeted by the sight of what may have been a desert. A vast plain, paved in small, flat pebbles, surrounded them. The stones, glossy with some cousin of desert patina, were stained in various muted tones of yellow, purple, and red. And the monoliths . . . the obelisks that rose in erratic clusters from the landscape appeared to be the same structures that had lain half-excavated in the pit. They were tall, broken things, crafted of some blood-red stone and engraved with enigmatic symbols and depictions. More unnerving than those structures, however, was the thin layer of mist that clung to the ground, blanketing the entire area in an ominous haze. The stench of blood was thick in the mist-touched air, but now that scent just stung her nostrils and turned her stomach.
As she lifted her head from the ground, she turned her eyes skyward. A large stone pillar rose nearly twenty feet into the air, looming over her. Near the broken head of that obelisk, a carved relief of that dreamborne sigil stared down upon the wasteland. It was from there that the portal had opened, she now understood, and from that height they had fallen. And higher above, a thick cover of gray, an ocean of ash in the sky. Beyond those clouds, she could make out the glow of a star sinking toward the horizon, casting a halo through the screen of clouds. What the hell is this place? she thought. Something told her she already knew the answer.
A short distance away, Mark shifted. With a groan, he began to stand on shaking knees. Spinneretta rolled over and made to push herself up from the misty ground. But as she applied her weight to her arms, her right nearly buckled beneath her. She’d have fallen flat again had her spider legs not sprung into action and propped her up.
When she dropped her gaze, she choked. The pebbled ground beneath her was awash with red. Oh, fuck. That smell . . . The underside of her right arm was covered in flowing blood, beneath which a vein-deep slash ran from near her elbow almost all the way to her wrist. She stared at her arm, recalling the sharp pain that had broken her fall. She’d felt only a mild pain then, but now a horrible ripping racked her arm. But worse than that was the terror that eclipsed her thoughts. What do I do? Oh, God, what do I do? Her mind spun in circles. She was already feeling dizzy. Was it the blood loss taking effect?
She heard Mark gasp, but she couldn’t look away from the wound. Each terrified beat of her heart sent another stream of blood pouring from the torn flesh. She opened her dry mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Her stomach turned, and she felt like she would throw up.
Mark was upon her before she could do anything. He grabbed her by her right wrist and pulled her to her feet with an excessive force, squeezing a yip of pain from her lips. Her reflexes tried to pull her free from his grip, but her rubber legs would have folded had he not been holding her up. Scowling, jaw tight, Mark brought his right hand to the mouth of the slash. All at once, she felt dozens of icy needles stabbing into her flesh. His hand was aglow with the same eerie light that had worked a healing miracle on Arthr’s leg. As his hand slowly moved down toward the end of the wound, she found herself transfixed on that awful, chilling sensation. The pain in her arm vanished beneath his hand, and tightness in her stomach unraveled.
A tormented noise from deep in Mark’s throat punctuated the quiet. When the icy prickling finished near her elbow, he released her wrist and dropped her once more to the rocky earth. As she fell, Spinneretta’s auxiliary legs caught her and pulled her into a half-sitting, half-crouching position. As she recovered from the jolt of being dropped, she looked up at Mark in indignation. But before she could ask just what the hell he was doing, a loud groan interrupted her. His teeth were tight, the muscles of his jaw shaking. And then she noticed the right sleeve of his jacket was painted with a layer of blood that should not have been there. A ludicrous thought entered her mind, but before she could consider it she was distracted by the look of pain that twisted his face.
With a panicked haste, Mark threw his jacket off and to the ground. More blood stained the inside of the sleeve. It flowed from his arm. Along the underside of his right forearm ran a long, rough slash that began three inches below his wrist and ended just before the elbow. Spinneretta croaked a gasp, her chest growing tight.
Mark opened his left hand and pulled another brilliant green flame into being. He brought that flame toward the mouth of the tear at his elbow, and as the fire touched his skin a suppressed howl of agony droned behind his clamped jaw. Beneath the muffled growl, she heard crackling; the smell of burning skin assaulted her nostrils. When Mark reached the end of the wound, the flames extinguished themselves. He faltered and fell to one knee, panting. She stared in awe at the sight before her. Where the wound had been, blisters now ran in bright, wet clumps. The wound had been cauterized.
“What the hell . . . ?” was all Spinneretta could manage, a profound shock setting in.
Panting, shivering, Mark shook his head. “I’m . . . not a miracle worker, Spinny. Not anymore. Healing others invariably brings a consequence. Luckily for me, it’s a predictable one.”
A flash of recollection entered her mind, followed by a wretched pang of guilt that began in her stomach. “You . . . you were limping. Was that . . . ?”
He nodded. “Arthr’s leg. Made the most sense . . . to put it there.”
“But . . . You were walking fine before!” she protested, unable to believe what she was hearing.
“Suppressing the pain is easy with magic. Not optimal, but easy. Until the magic runs out.”
For a moment she said nothing, her mind still reeling. Her eyes drifted to his left arm, which now supported the bulk of his weight. When Mark had first arrived, she’d noticed the apparent burn scar that ran the length of his left arm. But now that old scar’s discolored, lightly crinkled surface seemed to accuse her of compliance.
Her spider legs pushed her up from the ground. She teetered above Mark’s hunched form and stared down into his pale brown eyes. The void in her gut grew greater and threatened to pull her down into it. All at once, the brittle mental balance she’d maintained collapsed. She slapped Mark across the face with all the strength she could muster in her off-hand. The force of the blow snapped his head to the side, and for a moment he looked like he was going to topple.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Spinneretta shouted, her left palm throbbing with a stinging heat. “Who the hell do you think you are, healing me at your own expense like that? I don’t want that shit on my conscience! It’s fragile enough as it is without you mutilating yourself because of me! Why didn’t you ask me? We could’ve stitched it or wrapped it or burned it or something, so why did you have to take on another injury on my behalf? Why won’t you stop being so fucking selfless!?”
Her eyes stung. Her stomach was tight, her mouth dry. It wasn’t fair that he should have to suffer because of her. His limp was her fault. That wound from the standing stone was her fault. If what he’d yelled at her when he reappeared was true, then there was even more blame that belonged on her shoulders.
He frowned and shook his head. “Let us save that for later,” he said through his teeth. “My head is killing me.”
The despair in Spinneretta’s gut roiled with pity as she looked upon him. His cheek was bright red from where she’d struck him. “Are you going to be okay?”
He shut his eyes. “I should be fine after I get some sleep. Twelve, sixteen hours, at this stage. Maybe.” With a shudder, he forced himself upright. “But you’ve got some things to explain to me, first.”
A cold shiver spread from where her spider legs joined her back. “L-like?”
He lifted his gaze before lowering it again, the pain apparent in each movement. “What is this place?”
The burden of unexplainable certainty overcame her. Spinneretta glanced across the mist-covered plain, toward the horizon where the star was setting above the cloud cover. Far beyond the monolith from whose sigil they’d fallen, beyond the clusters of artificial stone pillars, the desert’s seemingly endless surface began to roll like the waves on the open sea. In the distance, those uneven divots in the land became scarred hills, faded by the fog’s shroud. And beyond those hills, tall stone peaks scraped the sky. “This is Zigmhen,” she said, shivering, “the World on the Web.”
“World on the Web,” Mark muttered. “What is that? And how do you know that symbol . . . ? Why did it—”
“I don’t know!” The outburst came with a full-body spasm that almost took her to her knees. “I just know, okay? Something just came over me, and before I knew what was happening I was reenacting my dream.”
“Dream.” He nodded in silent contemplation, but then a tremor rocked his shoulders. A loud groan rumbled in his chest as he clutched at his eye socket with his left hand.
Concern reignited, she moved toward him. “H-hey, are you okay?”
He exhaled through his teeth. “I just need to sleep this off.” He flopped back onto the hard desert pavement, and the sound of pebbles clattering put Spinneretta’s teeth on edge. Small wisps of dust billowed from about his arms and legs, vanishing into the flowing mist.
Worry mixing with pity, Spinneretta walked over to where Mark’s jacket rested on the ground and picked it up. “Here, at least use this as a pillow.”
“Don’t need it,” he said. His eyes were closed, though the muscles around his jaw were still flexed tightly.
She had never seen him in such a state of weakness before. She had never seen him sleep, or seen any evidence that he had even once slept since he’d arrived. It was somehow humanizing. As the silence deepened, she found herself recalling something that he’d said before she opened the misty portal to this wasteland—something out of place that she’d paid no mind at the time. He’d said that it was his fault. It was a mere suspicion, one she could not justify or explain, but even with the surreality of the wastelands stretching around them she found herself vocalizing it with apprehension. “Mark,” she said, “answer me one question.”
He grunted but did not open his eyes.
“Why did the yellow-coated men know where to find us tonight?”
He exhaled, his breathing taking on a more natural rhythm. “Because I allowed them to.”
“To make a long story short,” Annika said over her shoulder, “the guys in those yellow coats are indentured thugs, most of them ex-cons. Marauders, they’re called. They’re employed by an organization with a very deep interest in you and your siblings.”
Arthr blinked at the back of her head as they walked, his legs suffocating beneath his jacket. “I don’t understand.”
“They go by the name NIDUS. They’re the inheritors of a cult that has long strived to hybridize man and spider.”
He said nothing. The two heavy bags weighed him down, and the mud beneath his shoes gave poor traction. The rustic path through the sea of trees was nearly pitch black, and he was afraid he’d slip if he missed even a single step. And the way the jacket choked the breath from his legs . . . It was hard to believe Spins went out every day like this.
Annika hummed. “NIDUS. The Golmont Corporation. West Valley Medical. I’ve only scratched the surface. You kids probably don’t even realize how huge this is. People wet their diapers over the Kennedy assassination, but if you want to talk about cover-ups this town takes the cake when it comes to—”
“I don’t care about any of that corporation or cover-up shit,” Arthr said, short of breath. “What the hell was that monster? And why are they after us?”
She gave a half-indignant huff. “Boys and their one-track minds.” She laughed, and then her tone grew serious. “I don’t have all the answers. But based on what I’ve managed to dig up, that monster was an early project of their cabal. A prototype. You and your siblings were not the first spider children.”
His heart caught in his chest. “Wait, you’re . . . You’re telling me that there are others? Like us?”
“Did you hit your head, kid? What did you think that thing back there was?”
He lowered his gaze and almost stumbled over an invisible rock in the path. “We’re nothing like that thing,” he said, anger churning in his gut. “That thing was . . . nothing like us.” But when he thought about its chitinous claw, it was hard to deny the resemblance to their own legs. Was it possible? A prototype, he thought. But if that thing was a prototype, then what does that make us?
From ahead of him, Kara hummed a few notes to a jump rope song. “Annie, where are we going?”
“We’ll be staying in a motel for a bit. We need to keep a low profile, so you’re both going to be keeping your jackets on as long as you’re outside. We’ve risked too much to have anybody find you out now, especially when this cult-corp is willing to throw half a platoon of psychos at you.”
Arthr sighed. “Well, I guess we’ve gotta look on the bright side, yeah? It’s lucky that mom and dad weren’t at home when those guys showed up.”
Annika snorted. “You don’t think that was a coincidence, do you? That was part of the plan, to get them somewhere safe.”
“Plan? What are you . . . ?” He couldn’t even finish the thought. He didn’t know where to begin asking questions, and a growing embarrassment at his own ignorance stopped his tongue dead.
Kara, meanwhile, only grew more energetic. “So what are we doing once we get to the motel? Do we get to fight more bad guys on the way?”
“Hopefully not,” Annika said. “Once we get there, we’ll be waiting for Mark to show up. And, God willing, your sister will be with him.”
“Spins?” Kara said, growing excited. “And Mark’s coming too?”
Arthr looked up, and his once-broken leg tingled. “What’s he have to do with this?”
A sigh seeped from Annika’s lungs. “Look, the faster you walk the sooner I can explain everything. We may not have much time.” Her tone darkened once more. “Thanks to Spinzie, the plan has most likely changed.”
“Spinzie?”
“She was supposed to meet me before I came to get you. She didn’t show up, so I was late. Blame her for that, not me. But since she didn’t show up, that either means something happened to her or she did something stupid.”
Feeling helpless and lost, Arthr shook his head. “None of this makes any sense to me.”
“I never asked for it to make sense to you,” Annika said. “Stop thinking and start hurrying, at least until we get there. If something went wrong on Mark and Spinzie’s side, then I’ve got a feeling things are about to get really ugly for all of us.”
Spinneretta sat upon one of the tilted standing stones, gazing out across the barren mistscape. A chill danced across her naked shoulders as a gust blew from what she was currently calling the north. The air
was chilly, but her still-damp dress made it frigid. With the last dregs of the Instinct’s potency gone, the reality of what had happened finally began to dawn upon her. Staring out across that alien world, she tried to make sense of the sequence of events that had landed them there. Though that strange sigil from her dreams had saved them, it only presented more questions to her weary mind. And although she had never heard the word Zigmhen, nor the phrase World on the Web, she was certain that was where they now were.
Genetic memory, she thought, her human legs dangling from her perch. She curled three spider legs in front of her and ran her eyes across their hard, glossy surface. Human-spider hybrids. She thought again of the story of the Yellow King that Mark had told her from the Repton Scriptures. She had long ago abandoned hope that she’d ever find answers to the question of their origins. And yet here, sitting upon a pillar of indeterminable age and origin, she felt like she had stumbled closer to the answer than she’d ever wanted.
She hopped down from where she sat and glanced about. An ominous dread seeped into her lungs as her eyes passed over the sharp, spear-like shadows of the other broken structures. The obelisk from which they’d emerged, standing watch over the broken field of pillars and stones, still observed her with its sigil. She opened Mark’s folded jacket. Trying to ignore the blood that stained the inside, she slipped her arms into the sleeves. The soft lining reminded her of her favorite blanket at home. It was comforting, a piece of home in this desolate otherworld. Eyelids heavy, she took two tentative steps toward where Mark lay sleeping upon the ground. This was all because of him. He’d allowed the coats and robe to find them. But to what end she could not imagine. And yet any anger she could have felt toward him was slain at a glimpse of his bright, blistered forearm.
“Mark?” she said, seeing if a response would come. The silence told her he must have been asleep. Looking upon his still form, she realized just how exhausted she herself was. The soft lining of Mark’s coat called to her, beckoned her to curl up and fall asleep in its embrace.
The Spider Children (The Warren Brood Book 1) Page 47
