Tatters of the King (The Warren Brood Book 3)

by Bartholomew Lander

  Take care,

  Rita

  Chelsea read through the first reply Amanda had sent back. It was long-winded, meticulous. That somebody had taken her post seriously had clearly been a great stimulant to her mood. The only part Chelsea found herself reading with any greater focus was the ending, wherein Amanda posed a simple question. That question shouldn’t have been so ominous, but that it was the only query Rita answered in the final message made her look at it again with a cautious eye.

  I’m quite curious about this New Age group, Amanda had written, and was wondering if you perhaps have any more information on them.

  The last message in the stack from Rita was short, consisting of only a single line:

  All I know is their name. They call themselves the Order of the Yellow Dawn.

  “This isn’t some half-baked UFO hack-job! This is a living creature! You can’t even begin to comprehend the amount of money that was spent on the research and development of these specimens—”

  The roar of laughter again washed Wiser’s words away. The audio crackled as the built-in speakers of Spinneretta’s monitor hit their high-end limit. At her sides, her parents watched the pixelated stream over her shoulders. Arthr leaned across the desk, mouth agape in disbelief. Kara sat a distance away upon the bed, hugging her knees to her chest; she was the only one who couldn’t be bothered to care.

  After Harold stormed away and the slimy host’s coprophagous smirk once again filled the screen, the stream sputtered to a halt. Spinneretta breathed heavily. Her heart thudded low in her stomach. “See?” she said. “Told you.” It was the most profound thing she could think to say.

  “Shit,” Arthr muttered. “That hurt to watch.”

  Her dad rubbed his nose with his open palm. “I guess you can stop worrying now. Nobody’s going to come looking for us. Good thing pseudo-skeptics rule the airways.”

  Spinneretta stared at the frozen image of the host. Her mouth felt completely dry. “You’re just okay with this?”

  Ralph nodded, though he didn’t look at all happy. “This is good. This is the best we could have hoped for. Now that he’s been publicly humiliated, the entire idea will be nothing but a joke. Nobody can take it seriously without risking the same, or worse. So we win, then. Obscurity through absurdity.”

  “What’s the problem, dear?” her mom asked, voice small and weary. “Even if those Vanta-whatevers are still looking for us, this won’t be doing them any favors.”

  Spinneretta just shook her head. “But this is . . . This can’t . . . ”

  May tilted her head to the side and her eyelids drooped. “What’s wrong? This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  Spinneretta’s mind hit a wall. This should have been exactly what she wanted. She could find no flaw in her parents’ arguments, and yet everything felt so wrong. She’d always known she and her siblings were unusual. She had just never before realized that they were unbelievably unusual. And the media’s incredulity, somehow, felt just as bad as the fear of exposure had. Had they been exposed, some part of her would have been validated. But theirs was a culture of ridicule, and to be no more than the setup to a tired punchline was a bitter reality.

  And that reality would be her home over the coming weeks as the storm of viral mockery grew ever more violent.

  After braving the wastes for countless days and twilights and darks, I stop to rest upon a shattered outcropping high above the rolling hills. The calling is deafening now, imminent.

  The mists unfurl before me. Down upon the plain, not far from the shores of the pristine teal sea, I behold timeless structures growing from the ground. They are artificial, massive, unthinkable. Overgrown with bizarre flora, they are clearly visible even from the mountain heights where I stand. I can feel the pulsing, the seductive whispers flowing forth from the threshold of the void.

  I know at once that I have found it. It is here, at the tomb of Mother Raxxinoth, that I am meant to settle. This is home. This is where I belong.

  Chapter 9

  Viral

  “Good evening, and welcome to You Entertainment, your one-stop shop for nightly entertainment news. I’m Greg Sanford.”

  “And I’m Julie Loch.”

  “We’ve got a great show for you tonight. We’ll be bringing you the inside scoop on the latest film in the Cycles series, and taking a look at some of the hottest rumors about the cast.”

  “And after the skip, we’ll bring you an exclusive interview with Taylor Montgomery, who’s promised to tell us all about the upcoming film adaptation of the Majin Climax anime, a project internet polls suggest may sink his career.”

  “But before we delve into those goodies, let’s talk literature.”

  “I think I know what you’re getting at, Greg.”

  “I bet you do! Over the last week, we’ve gotten so many calls and violently worded emails just begging us to take a look at what some are calling spider fever, a phenomenon that’s sweeping the nation.”

  “You say NIDUS, I say Report—and that spells The NIDUS Report, Harold Wiser’s found-document first-person account of his life held captive in secret labs and underground tunnels feeding what he calls a mammoth industry of human-spider hybridization. What do you think, Greg? Have you read it?”

  “I have indeed and, well, I’m not convinced it’s that good. He may be an intelligent man, but he doesn’t know much about writing, I’ll tell you that.”

  “There’s currently tons of speculation on the interwebs about just what this book is. Considering how it surged to popularity this last week, do you think it’s possible we’re looking at a viral marketing campaign for a more conventional media project?”

  “I think it’s all but certain. Consider the interview with Ronald Turner of Entropic Publishing last Sunday, and the amount of money clearly being spent on marketing this book. He wants this to be read, and I think this is just the beginning. We’ve already seen a terrific outpouring of content creators reacting to the story, with image macros and webcomics playing the more insane of his claims for laughs. Even if this is not a marketing stunt, I think the fruits of his labors are going to be sticking around for quite a while. And if this really is just an appetizer, then sign me up for the main course.”

  “What do you have to say to all the scientists who’ve stood up and decried the book as sensational garbage?”

  “Lighten up.”

  “That’s fair. We’ll be bringing you more details on this so-called fever as it develops, but for now you can view Julie and Greg’s personally selected gallery of the top spider-related memes at You Entertainment’s website. As we say around here, the show must go on.”

  They were laughing. Everybody was laughing.

  Eyelids heavy, Spinneretta glared death at the insipid husks on the television screen. Entertainment News. It left an acrid taste in her mouth. She jammed the power button on the remote and lay back upon her bed, covering her burning eyes with her forearms. This is for the best, she tried for the hundredth time to convince herself. And yet to have their origins mocked as fantasy—or praised as fantasy for that matter—was dehumanizing. She felt worthless, sick. The cicadas chirping outside set her teeth on edge.

  Why did they have to keep showing that picture from the Eleventh Project? She’d been trying to put Isabella out of her mind, but The NIDUS Report had broken what little peace she’d made with that memory. Sometimes she sat awake at the witching hour, staring at the old black and white images within that book. She couldn’t help it. That night still occupied the greatest portion of her thoughts. The harsh chemical stench of the broken containment chamber. The even worse smell of blood sinking into her spiracles, and the intoxication that came with it. The look of loneliness in Isabella’s eyes as she tore out her throat. Why did it have to be her?

  Spinneretta rolled over, spider legs fishing for her copy of Nikolas Popolski’s On the Origin and My Astral Travels There. She’d let it fall closed mid-sentence when the entertainment program had come
on. Popolski was something of a character; he proudly claimed to have received instruction in the supernatural by one Professor Thaddeus Coolidge, whoever the hell that was. This book of adventures through spiritual wonderlands and impossible vistas, while inspiring, offered little substance. But what substance existed almost made up for the syrupy optimism that dripped from the rest of the book. She flipped open to the bottom of page two hundred nineteen, where Popolski’s most memorable words awaited:

  The Origin is the realm from which all souls originate. Known in Kabbalah as Guf, all soul-based life can trace its origins to this point in space, far removed from the attuned matter of our universe. Those souls whose vessels end must, invariably, return to the Origin. For a time, those returned souls merely orbit the Origin, placid. The consequence of being so near the source of all souls, however, is that the soul’s memories are scoured away. When it at last escapes the Origin, once more bound for a physical body, it is most commonly with no recollections of their past lives.

  However, Professor Coolidge has spoken at length of the existence of Old Souls—powerful souls that, upon returning to the Origin, are strong enough to escape prematurely. These souls, belonging to those elucidated by the whispers of the nameless ancients, most often return whence they came. They find new bodies and begin new lives with fragments of their past experiences intact, and thus seek to complete that which they failed in their previous.

  While abstract and fanciful, Spinneretta couldn’t ignore how close that worldview resembled what Mark had told her about soul mechanics. Had he not used the word Origin as well? And the portion about powerful souls returning to complete that which they had failed sounded an awful lot like the word he’d used for the phenomenon: inertia.

  She found herself reading those words over and over. Powerful soul. Elucidated. Was it referring to the Chosen? She wondered if Isabella had been a so-called powerful soul. If that poor child returned to the Origin, would she be slingshotted back to life before forgetting her murderer? What task would she return to complete? Somehow, those paragraphs, buried within walls of sentimental sediment, were reassuring. They dulled the edge of her lingering guilt, even if only a little. Perhaps she was being too gullible, but she wanted to believe in reincarnation. At least Popolski’s writing seemed more credible than the sugarcoated New Age crap that stunk up the occult section.

  A soft knock came from her door. Spinneretta exhaled and let her book fall closed once more. Her spider legs folded about her shoulders and hips. “Who is it?”

  “Me,” Kara said from the other side.

  Spinneretta slipped out of bed. The blood rushing back to her skull caused starbursts to erupt over her vision. She fumbled and permitted her spider legs to carry her the rest of the way to the door. On the other side, she found Kara sitting upon the unlit floor of the hall. Her legs were crossed, and Cinnamon appeared to be sleeping in her lap. How long had she been sitting there? Her hand stroked the Leng cat with an absentminded, mechanical rhythm.

  “What’s up?” Spinneretta asked, trying to sound casual and not startle the elusive girl away.

  “I think I’m ready to talk,” Kara said. Her voice was distant, detached.

  Spinneretta blinked down at her. Ever since they’d found The NIDUS Report, she’d been so distracted by her own fears and worries that she hadn’t found the time to help Kara deal with her own issues. To have all that talk of false memories and black science unfold on her birthday must have been unbearable. No wonder she’d cloistered herself away in her room and put them back to square one. Spinneretta beckoned Kara to her feet. “Alright. Cool. Let’s talk.”

  They retreated back inside the room. Kara sat on the bed while Cinnamon aggressively tangled herself in the covers, clacking with glee. Spinneretta sat in her desk chair without a word. She didn’t want to push Kara, so she’d wait for the girl to speak on her own. And for a long while, Kara just waited there at the foot of the bed, twiddling her spider legs with her gaze on the wall.

  At last, Kara dared to meet Spinneretta’s eyes. Her brilliant blue irises held all the warmth of a glacier. “Aren’t you going to ask me something?”

  Spinneretta frowned. “I thought you were the one who wanted to talk.”

  “I do,” she said, already clenching her jaw in frustration. Her spider legs coiled around her in a fetal posture. “I just don’t know where to start.”

  “How about starting from the beginning?” Spinneretta said. “Take your time.”

  Kara stared off into space, but this time it was the cover of Spinneretta’s bed that her gaze fell upon. Cinnamon poked her head out of the blanket salad and rested her chin on Kara’s lap with a low purr. Kara began to scratch the Leng cat behind her ears. “The stuff about the Yellow King. All that stuff. None of that was ever a surprise to me. But you probably know that already, huh?”

  “When you say all that stuff,” Spinneretta said, “what do you mean? Just to make sure we’re on the same page.”

  Kara leaned back a little. She shifted her weight to her arms, and her spider legs began to clack against one another. “There’s a lot. Of those memories, I mean. Things I’ve always known. Things it never occurred to me nobody else knew. I know that the Yellow King is the child of Raxxinoth. He is the Chosen of the spider god. He sits upon the throne in Zigmhen, awaiting the return of his children.”

  Spinneretta’s skin prickled with a chilling familiarity. “He awaits our return, doesn’t he?”

  She nodded slowly. “I’ve always known about his sign. And how to use it to open the gate to Zigmhen. And that I shouldn’t use it until it’s time to return. And I guess I’ve always known about our purpose. Or what should’ve been our purpose. That one day I would return to Zigmhen using that sign. And there I would become the mother of the next Chosen of Raxxinoth. The one who would at last unite man and spider, and release Raxxinoth from her prison.”

  Hearing the words come out of Kara’s mouth was repulsive. The prickling along Spinneretta’s skin grew more insistent until it seemed she’d never feel warmth again. “And you were just okay with this?”

  Kara’s face drooped, devoid of emotion. “It was only natural. And it was something I didn’t think about. Like, the thoughts were there, deep down, but they were so old and true that I can’t even acknowledge them. Even now they’re fuzzy, just because I know that I know, and even that feels weird.”

  “But if you knew all that, even if they were just weird thoughts, why didn’t you say anything about it?”

  “Because I shouldn’t have to!” The outburst caused Cinnamon to leap off her. The Leng cat slithered to the floor and scuttled over to where Spinneretta sat. She flowed effortlessly into Spinneretta’s lap, where she curled into a furry and chitinous pillow. “I thought if I had those thoughts,” Kara said, “then everyone else must have them, too. I was born with these ideas swimming in my head, so how the hell am I supposed to know it’s weird!?”

  Spinneretta raised her palms toward her sister. She could feel a storm brewing in the heavy air. “Kara. Calm down.”

  Kara looked like she was going to shout again, but her anger melted into futility. She let out a helpless sigh and buried her face in her hands.

  Seeing her distress, Spinneretta jumped at the chance to change the subject. “What about the, uhh, the Hunting? What do you know about that?”

  Kara shook her head, her face still hidden behind her fingers. “I don’t know. It’s an instinct we inherited from the King, I guess. Or maybe it’s related to motherhood. Like how mosquitoes drink blood to make their eggs.”

  Inherited from the King. She didn’t need that reminder of their heritage. Their father’s parasitic affliction had carried the genetic material, and that meant fully a quarter of their blood was the Yellow King’s. Her spider legs shivered as she tried to put the thought out of her mind. Acknowledging the purpose of their births was horrible enough without bringing incestuous undertones into it. “I don’t think we’re anything like mosquitoes,” s
he said at last.

  Kara again looked down, edges of her lips quivering. A wet sheen sat in the whites of her eyes. “I don’t like this, Spins,” she said, her voice cracking. “All these things I thought I knew. If these memories and feelings I have aren’t real, then how do I know anything’s real?” Her spider legs curled tighter around her chest. “How do I even know I’m real?”

  Spinneretta slipped out of her chair and onto the bed, slid over to her sister, and put her arms around her shoulders. “Kara, you’re not allowed to have those kinds of existential thoughts yet. Not until you’re a teenager. Like it or not, you exist. We both exist. And for better or worse, we’re in this together.”

  Cinnamon must have sensed her distress, for she hopped back up and buried herself in Kara’s lap again. With a helpless croak, Kara broke down in tears. She leaned into Spinneretta and hugged her back tightly, their spider legs furtively tangling. Spinneretta hated the way chitin on chitin felt, but it was a small price to pay for giving Kara some sliver of comfort in this morass of theirs. She held her sister tight for a long while, listening as her breath gradually stabilized into a normal rhythm.

  When Kara eventually recomposed herself, she sat back up and tried to hide her puffy eyelids. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s nothing to be sorry about. But I can’t help wondering.”