To my wife, whose fear of spiders compelled me to write. To Micah Hanks, for providing a constant source of inspiration and allowing me to usurp his likeness. And to you, who kept reading despite my best efforts.
We made it this far. Let’s go out in style.
Tatters of the King
The Warren Brood
Book III
Bartholomew Lander
Copyright © 2017 by Bartholomew Lander
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN 978-4-908656-31-6
First Edition
Design and Typesetting: Corey Mark
Cover: Louis Rakovich, Indigo Forest Designs
Frontispiece: Korinne McKinley
The author would like to thank Micah Hanks of The Gralien Report for permitting usage of his likeness in segments of this book.
Lunarium Books
Von Gerdesgatan 1
412 59 Göteborg, Sweden
www.LunariumBooks.com
“And yet, in discussing the crimes of the death cults, it is criminally easy to misplace the blame. We, as the enlightened, must vigilantly remember that every evil deed in existence has been contrived by man alone; with subtle few exceptions, the gods are helpless but to watch.”
—Thaddeus Coolidge, Eschatonic Cabals
Prologue
Starblooded
My Dearest Ariel,
By the time you read this, I will have passed from this world and begun my journey into the next. Mourn not my passing, for my years of life have served a great purpose. I hope that by reading this you will come to understand what I have given up, and why you have been born into the life you have. Herein I have recorded the secret of our bloodline, just as my mother and her mother before her have.
Many times you have asked me what was meant by the sign so prominently displayed on the pair of necklaces we share, and inquired about things I cannot pretend to understand. Though I fear this record of our bloodline’s legacy shall fall short of your expectations, I must, to the best of my ability, attempt to explain. Your blood is very special, Ariel. Just as your father will claim the heritage of some ill-begotten prophet, so too must I.
Our heritage can be traced directly to one Baroness Alexandria Devereux of Lyon, of whom much has been written and then promptly destroyed. The woman was a fortune teller and occultist. She was circumstantially believed to have connections to Marie-Anne de La Ville and to several perpetrators of the Poison Affair, including Magdelaine de La Grange and Catherine Monvoisin herself. Based on what little survives of her writing, we can say with reasonable certainty that she was involved with the cult of Ozmahesh, and in all likelihood owned a copy of Al Azif (she claimed possession of a Greek copy, in addition to the sole known instance of a French translation).
Though the records are slightly incoherent and scattered, what my grandmother pieced together is as follows:
In the midst of one of her profane rituals, the Baroness succeeded in the conjuring of a demon. Though she refers to it instead as an angel in the original writings, I am hesitant to reuse the term here. Whichever it may be, the Baroness described it as a being woven of fire. The creature gleamed in green and gold, and yet sucked all the light from around it. Whenever it moved, it left burns upon her eyes that distorted the very space it touched. And as soon as this being appeared before her, the Baroness fell to her knees in worship. And the being is reported to have said to her, “Fear not, you who are faithful, for I have come to bring divine purpose to you and your descendants.”
And then the being showed the Baroness a vision. She beheld a distant realm ruled by a demon king in tattered yellow garments. And she witnessed a great battle between the king and that astral beast. And when the being of fire and the king’s armies met in battle, there came ruin to their civilization. In their final confrontation, the monstrous king dealt a fatal wound to the being of fire. Using the last of its strength, the angel or devil cast a spell upon that ancient world to trap the king and his minions there for all time. It was then that the fire spirit, whether drawn by the black arts or by mere happenstance, came to appear before Baroness Alexandria Devereux of Lyon.
“Open yourself to become my vessel,” the being was here reported to speak, “that one day the king may be destroyed before the beast is freed.” Already familiar with such demonic covenants, the Baroness readily opened her heart and soul to the creature.
What happened next is unclear. What we do know is this: before the night of that black mass, Alexandria Devereux’s eyes were blue. After, and until her death, they were a pale brown or tan color. And now those pale brown eyes have followed our line from the Baroness’s trunk all the way down to me. Though your irises are stained with the darkness of Golgotha’s blasphemous genes, know that in your blood runs the essence of that being of fire, that starborn nomad whose burden we share.
We know, also, that the Baroness wrote extensively on the creature of fire thereafter, though the greatest portion of her writing was either lost or unintelligible. Even my grandmother was unable to translate the most bizarre of the surviving documents. What they all had in common, however, was the presence of a magical symbol, which she claimed is the key to the forsaken realm where the demon king lies trapped. As you have no doubt deduced, that is the origin of the symbol you know, and the reason it has followed us for all these generations.
I have my own theories about all this. I believe the Baroness understood that the being resided within her in some form. This is why, in defiance of genetics, her pale eyes cling to us even now. I believe that is why she chose the words du sang astral—starblooded—to refer to our line. This creature was something primordially cosmic, older than the earth and all the heavens. The blood in our veins is different. It is the very power of the universe, and was timeless when man invented his first gods and devils.
I am sorry to leave this heavy burden upon your shoulders. Even if you were to flee the responsibility your womb now bears, you must still know. And I must confess that it was with selfish intent that I came to the cursed ground of Arbordale. Your father and I were both seeking one another, unbeknownst to us, for our individual ends. And, united in our mutual contempt, you and Mark were born.
I pray to the stars above that you will leave this town as soon as you can. Leave the curse of Golgotha and his pagan religion behind. And please, take care of Mark. He does not deserve the life he was born into, and I weep that your father deemed him the long-awaited chosen of his heretical faith. When you leave this place, please, take him with you. He is far too young to suffer the horrors that await him if he remains.
I know not to what ends the king in yellow must die. I do not believe it is for us to know. But nonetheless, our path is set. And should fate reveal that you bear the cosmic power to defeat that devil, then look well upon the sign that you have known your entire life. It is the key that will unlock the gate to that sealed-in realm, where the final battle is to occur. And if you are not the one preordained to complete this task, then to your daughter you must pass this knowledge, as well as the documents enclosed.
And should this revelation strike you, and impress upon you a thirst for the whole truth, then I encourage you to study French yourself and try to decipher the original documents included in this collection. Doing so will bring you closer to the ultimate reality of our blood, and with it, your own future. Know your lineage. Know your purpose. Know the sign. And in your darkest hour, never forget: even the darkness has a silver
lining. Find it, and nothing will ever be able to bring you down.
I will always love you, Ariel.
May the stars forever light your path,
Annalise Lyre Davids
Chapter 1
Happy Endings
Spinneretta Warren wasn’t in a great mood, and not a person alive was qualified to blame her. It was now well into the dead hours of the morning, and the waiting room at Sutter Auburn Faith Hospital was as lonely as a graveyard. Settled into her seat, she hugged Mark’s jacket tight around her to conceal her spider legs and as much of her blood-drenched clothing as she could. She was all alone with her thoughts now. Annika and Kara had already been called in to see the doctors. Arthr, Mark, and her dad had decided not to enter the hospital, in the interest of avoiding questions from the staff. What’s the point? Spinneretta thought with a creeping sense of dread. The questions are coming anyway, just as soon as the doctor lays eyes on Kara.
Luckily, Annika was good at questions. When the nurse at reception had asked about the little girl’s injuries and the bloodstains splattering the three of them, Annika had countered with indignant screaming about a fictional car accident in Grantwood. At the mere mention of the town captured in the infamous two-week lockdown, the questions had ceased. And yet in Annika’s absence, the nurses kept giving Spinneretta probing glances and asking if she was really alright. She wished she’d just stayed in the damn car with everyone else. But right now she needed the space.
Her entire body throbbed with a bone-deep pain. Whenever she ventured to move a muscle, a sharp stabbing sensation replied. Her head was swimming and pounding in equal measure. Each breath tasted like poison. Nausea kept its claws buried in her stomach. And those were all collectively the least of her concerns. The weight of the hours beneath the Golmont Corporation pressed in from all sides. When she closed her eyes, she still saw Isabella, that cursed hybrid born of man and Leng cat. The tactile nightmare of tearing out the poor thing’s throat echoed through her nerves. The pungent stench of life-preserving chemicals still seared her nostrils, and her spiracles were heavy with the scent of blood.
But below the immediate remorse of murdering Isabella ran a darker and duller disgust. At long last, she’d learned to what end she and her siblings had been born: to carry the child of the Yellow King. When she repeated those words in her mind, denial clouded her emotions. No matter how many times she recalled the words on the computer screen or their escape through the smoke-filled halls of ruin, it all just led to a different flavor of numbness.
With a sigh, she ruffled her spider legs beneath Mark’s jacket, cringing as she felt the broken lower segments flex. Electric pain rippled up and down her spine, and a soft, wet crunch made its way to her ears. Goddamn, she thought. How long does it take to treat broken ribs? Shouldn’t take this long, I’m sure.
In the corner of the waiting room, the mounted TV again showed aerial footage of a wild conflagration. The text at the bottom of the screen read: Golmont Building Erupts in Flames. The midnight news anchors were spinning speculative yarns about what connection existed between the firestorm and the infamous lockdown of Grantwood. The nurses on staff also seemed to find that question compelling. Little did they know how close that missing link was. Rot in hell, Vant’therax, Spinneretta thought. Rot in hell, NIDUS.
A hand fell upon Spinneretta’s shoulder. She jumped, assailed by the phantasm of the Yellow King’s glowering visage. When she looked up, she found Mark standing above her, a cup of coffee in his other hand. “Forgive me,” he said, “I did not intend to startle you.”
She shook her head, shivering a little as she regained her senses. “It’s fine.” A deep breath, but it didn’t help her stomach.
“How are you feeling?”
“I don’t even know,” she said, staring at her own knees. The purple-brown of her blood-washed jeans made her queasy as she recalled the scent of those labs.
Cringing, Mark sat down in the seat beside her and passed her the Styrofoam cup. “Here. Drink something.”
She took the cup and was at once absorbed in the heat billowing from within. Her thumbnail began to trace the edge of the black plastic lid. “Where’d you get this?”
“Super K around the way. Arthr was hungry.”
“You could’ve asked me if I wanted to go.”
“Frankly, it’s a miracle they haven’t called the police with you looking like that. A graveyard shift convenience store cashier would probably shoot you as soon as you walked in.”
She sighed, shifting her knees and trying to cover more of herself with the jacket. “Can’t argue with that, I guess.”
“We purchased enough food to keep everyone fed for a little while. We have plenty of gas station corn dogs if you hunger.”
“Nah,” she grumbled, and sank a little lower into her seat. The flames continued to blaze on the television screen. Hoses had begun spraying jets of water into the inferno. But the fire just kept lapping at the building, sending castles of smoke into the sky. She lifted the cup to her lips and took a sip. Mocha. It tasted a little like the Styrofoam it came in.
“No news from Kara?” Mark asked.
She shook her head in negation. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw him staring at her. His pale eyes were replete with a guarded pity. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said through her teeth. “It makes me uncomfortable.”
He promptly turned his gaze away. “I am sorry.”
“Don’t be. That’s the problem.”
“What do you wish me to say, then?”
“I don’t need you to say anything.”
He sighed and shifted where he sat. “Spinny, listen,” he said, just above a whisper. “I know you’re going through a lot right now. I can’t imagine how you must feel after everything. I will not pretend to be some great and wise sage. But if you feel you need to talk about anything, I will be here. That has not changed.”
His hand came down gently upon her own. As the warmth sank beneath her skin and entered her bloodstream, she felt a rush from her chest begin to fight back the nausea.
“Are you okay?” he asked after a quiet moment. His tone was soft, comforting.
She gave a feeble nod, eyes still fixed on the silent flames on the television. “I’ll survive.”
For a few minutes, they sat there quietly. The warmth of his hand did a remarkable job of blurring the thoughts of the labs, and of her origins and purpose. She nursed her mocha, thankful for the distraction it offered. Her concealed spider legs tingled and subtly twitched. It was just another tasteless catharsis.
When the big hand on the clock clicked past seven, the door beyond the reception desk banged open. Spinneretta and Mark both sat up, startled by the sudden movement. From the hallway, Annika and Kara emerged, followed by a woman in a pristine white coat.
“Miss Bordon,” the doctor said, “I’m afraid I’m really going to have to insist.” Her tone set Spinneretta immediately on edge.
Annika gave the woman a glare over her shoulder. “I told you, there’s nothing to report. It was a car crash. There’s no abuse.”
“I understand that, ma’am, but we have a legal responsibility.”
“You say that as if I care about the law.” Annika rounded the reception desk and slammed a document upon its surface. “Now what do I owe for this?”
The doctor, however, slid between Kara and Annika and put her hands on the young girl’s shoulders. “Ma’am, if you try to take this child, then we’re going to have to bring the police into this.”
Annika turned to face the doctor again. A humorless chortle rolled off her lips—one that chilled Spinneretta to the bone. “You’re threatening me with the police?”
“In my medical opinion, there is nothing accidental about that injury. And state law says that in the event of a clear and present danger to a child—”
Annika’s hands flew to the collar of the doctor’s coat. She wheeled about, and with a forward lunge shoved the woman against the wall. C
hairs clattered, and one struck the floor with a dead ringing. The nurses, now on their feet, began to shout.
“Stay where you are!” Annika barked. The doctor looked into her face with a terrified glint in her eyes. “Abuse. Don’t make me laugh. You and I both know what this is about, and I’m not going to play your game, Doc. You can just forget what you saw in there. Forget all about what’s under the jacket. And while you’re at it, forget the rest of us, too.” She pressed her forehead against the doctor’s. “As far as you’re concerned, we’re ghosts. We don’t exist. And if I find out you’ve made the police—or anyone else—aware of our little visit, then I will be back. And I will burn this hospital to the ground.”
The doctor’s eyes bulged, and the nurses, still behind the desk, stared in shock. The defiant courage with which they’d risen to stop her from throttling the doctor had melted away. Annika gave the two a hard glare out of the corner of her eye. “Now, here’s what’s going to happen,” she said. “You’re going to go back into your little office. You’re going to think real hard about how much stress you’ve been under, and how that stress can make you see things that aren’t real. Then, you’ll forget all about this little visit, and remember how happy you are this hospital isn’t a smoldering pile of rubble. Are we clear on that?” When the doctor nodded feebly, Annika smiled a bright, child-like grin. “Great! You got your prescription, Kara?”
Kara pulled a slip of paper out of her pink jacket’s pocket. “Yep!”
Annika released her grip on the doctor’s coat and brushed her palms together. “Then let’s get out of here.” She looked over to where Mark and Spinneretta stood. “Ready to go?”
Tongue frozen by the woman’s brazen threat, Spinneretta could only nod.
Annika took a few steps from the doctor, flashed another menacing glance at the nurses, and then marched toward the door with Kara close behind. As Spinneretta turned to follow them, she couldn’t stop herself from giving the hospital staff an apologetic glance. The doors opened, and they exited into the bracing midnight air. The cream-colored walls of the waiting room were replaced by a pitch-black horizon above a dimly lit sea of asphalt. The few cars that sat in the parking lot stood like lonely boulders in the surf, stoic survivors of the night sea.
Tatters of the King (The Warren Brood Book 3) Page 1
