Tatters of the King (The Warren Brood Book 3)
Page 34
Two girls with unwashed hair walk in with their worldly possessions on their shoulders and you divine that they’re far from their loved ones. Brilliant.
But Kara didn’t notice Spinneretta’s distaste for the practice. She just nodded excitedly, amazed at how he could have known something so obvious.
The man, with a curious look on his face, steepled his fingers and peered at Kara over his hands. “Next, I shall give you an aura reading.” He put his palms out and began to stare at her in a way that made Spinneretta nervous. For a few moments, he made no movement nor sound. He simply gazed at her, his eyes fluttering a little. Then, his expression began to twist into confusion, and then shock.
“Well, what is it?” Kara asked. “What’s my aura?”
Ignoring her, he lowered his hands to the table and began to rap his knuckles across the silken tablecloth. “Please forgive me, madam. The future is not my specialty.”
Kara blinked at him. “Huh?”
He looked away, appearing troubled. “You know what? Aura readings are boring. Why don’t you pick something out from the trinket table?” He gestured to her left, where the largest portion of the assorted novelty gems and dreamcatchers sat assembled.
Her face lit up once more. “Wow, really?”
“Certainly.”
“Thank you!”
“That’s it?” Spinneretta said. “That wasn’t even a full reading. It’s not fair to take her money and give her some trinket that doesn’t even make up for the price.”
The man lazily pulled a woodworking knife out of somewhere and tapped the blade against the table, shaking off a thin layer of dust. “If you are unsatisfied, perhaps next time you should get the special reading.”
His tone was dismissive, almost sarcastic, but Spinneretta was in no mood to pursue the issue. Well, at least you’re giving her something, even if it is glorified trash. She looked over at Kara, who was scanning the cards and necklaces and crystals. At the table, the man inspected the odd bird statue, and then he started to trim away a layer of wood from its wing with his knife. No wonder it looked hand-carved, Spinneretta thought, turning again to inspect the sign beside the table. The Great Garridan was written across the board in an exotic font. “Don’t suppose Garridan’s your real name,” she said.
“That’d be something,” he replied, not looking up from his carving. “Matthew just doesn’t have a mystical ring to it, and marketing is everything in this business.” He sighed, inspecting the statue from another angle. “Lot of good that did. Would you believe most people think only bona fide gypsy women with Madame in their name are qualified to tell the future? As soon as they walk in and see some middle-aged white guy sitting here, half of them just turn and leave. You’d think people looking to the stars for answers wouldn’t care so much about who’s doing the interpreting. Especially in a carnival of all places.”
Spinneretta nodded, not even slightly interested in his plight. She glanced over her shoulder at where Kara was inspecting a pair of fairy-adorned necklaces at the trinket table, and she had half a mind to tell her to hurry the hell up. Then again, as soon as she found something she liked, The Great Matthew Garridan would probably just tell her the offer was only good for a four-dollar zodiac sticker, or some other such salesmanship. The possibility had her beginning to seethe, even though it was still an unhatched possibility. Stupid psychics.
At the table, The Great Garridan blew some wood dust off of his knife and laid it against the beak of the bird. “I know who you are, you know.”
She rolled her eyes behind closed lids. “More sweeping generalizations about how we don’t get along with our parents?”
“You’re the spider children.”
Her eyes shot open. “W-what?”
Garridan kept staring at his sculpture. “Shall I call you by your first name? Or would you prefer Miss Warren?”
The festivity outside had again seemed to take on that discordant tone. Beneath the deranged calliope, was that the sound of glass amnions cracking? “How the hell do you know who we are?” Spinneretta asked.
He blew another ridge of dust from the blade and wiped it on his jeans. “You’re a smart girl, you know. Way smarter than those who come to get their palms read. Smart enough to know fortune telling is nothing but observational charlatanism, I’d wager. But what you didn’t count on,” he said, leveling his gaze upon her, “is that I’m not a fortune teller. What I do is real.”
Her mind halted halfway between disbelief and abrupt confusion. Real? No, that didn’t make sense. He must have seen Kara’s legs, or maybe her fangs, or something. But then how would he know their surname?
As she stared at him, heart beginning to beat faster, her eyes were drawn to the wooden sculpture beneath his knife. It was only then that she noticed what was so odd about it. The hand-carved statuette, which had at first glance appeared to be an eagle, was something else entirely. The creature had not one, but two sets of great wings. Its vulture-esque neck ended in a small head with no visible eyes. It had a two-pronged beak swimming with writhing tongues. The sharp geometric shapes on its lower body were not plumage, but numerous talons that grew in horrific angles, each claw of which ended in another tendril-filled beak. A deathly chill coursed through her. It was the very same eldritch avian form she’d beheld in Mark’s strange book when he first came to Grantwood.
Spinneretta couldn’t breathe. What did that mean? What was that bird and why was it here? Why did he have it, and why did he know who they were? If what he did was real, that meant he was . . .
The man, perhaps sensing her fear, exhaled slowly. “Ever since I was a boy, I’ve had the ability to touch people. Their auras. Their memories. Hard to describe. But once I learned to control it, it became easy to glean impressive details from people’s pasts. It’s a shallow telepathy. Something along those lines. Afraid I can’t explain it much better. Suppose I should apologize. I don’t usually do those sorts of readings without asking deliberate permission. Then again, seeing a pair of young girls who look like they’ve just run away from an abusive father . . . Let’s just say I have a rather brutal conscience about those sorts of things.”
Spinneretta struggled to process his words. Kara, still sifting through the assorted trinkets on the table, paid them no mind. “Wait,” Spinneretta said, “you’re telling me you can use magic?” The words tasted wrong, but it was just like Kara had said. Maybe he really was just like Mark.
The Great Garridan blew on the wing he was working on and hummed. “Magic. Don’t know if I’d use that word. Maybe it’s appropriate. And, uhh, before you ask the question. You know the one. The if you’re psychic, why don’t you just win the lottery, buy a camel and get the hell out of here question. I’ll tell you that it’s the wrong question to ask.”
Though she hadn’t intended to ask that question, now that he’d brought it up it was a compelling one.
“You know that cliche about how great power comes with great responsibility? The power may not be great, but I still have a dire responsibility. I woke up one day, a name in my mind. Very loud, very specific. That name was Cunningham. I don’t know what came over me, but I just knew I had to find this Cunningham person. I don’t know why, but I’ve accepted that my fate is outside my control. So I joined this carnival—had to be this carnival, too—accepting that one day this Bertrand Cunningham would walk in to have his fortune read. I left it all behind. I had a wife, you know. A son. God, he must be all grown up by now. Sad to think about.” He blew on the knife again and watched the dust particles flutter in the lamplight. “And my point is this: everybody has something only they can do. A role only they can play. This is my lot in life. The question that remains is, what role have you girls to play?”
Stunned, Spinneretta could only stare as the man continued to carve micrometer-thin layers from the dire bird’s beak. It was as though her mind had hit a return statement; there was nothing she could say, no words to give back to the monologue.
“Ahh,
” Kara exclaimed, “how about this?”
Spinneretta turned to find Kara holding a small necklace with a beaded charm on it.
The man hummed a low note. “If that is what you desire, then it is yours.”
“Yay!”
While Kara obsessed about the item and played with the clasp, Spinneretta turned once more to look at the carving man. He did not even glance up to acknowledge her any further. Her lips molded the question before she knew she was going to ask it. “Are you going to tell anyone we were here?”
He tilted the bird statue to one side to examine its wing. “Not sure what good that would do anyone. It is not my place to interfere with fate. Run along now. Our crossing has exhausted its worth. Unless you would also like a reading, Miss Warren.”
Still in disbelief, she just shook her head. “Thank you for your time.”
“And thanks for the necklace!” Kara added.
With that, they left The Great Garridan to his whittling and waiting. They passed through the fabric vestibule, bead chains clattering on either side of them. The calliope music grew louder once more, and the bouncy ditty of the carnival festivities now seemed out of touch with what had just transpired.
Kara giggled excitedly. “This necklace is so cool!”
“Yeah. Hey, Kara, let’s go sit down for a bit, yeah?”
She frowned. “Tired already?”
“No.” I feel a bit sick, though. “But I bet Cinnamon would like a chance to stretch her legs out a bit somewhere private.” She waved her hand at Kara’s backpack, which sagged from the weight of the concealed Leng kitten.
Kara yipped in shock. “Ahh, I forgot all about Cinny!”
“We can just take a bit of a break and then come back until they close.” If this hellish place ever does close. After the meeting with the psychic, she couldn’t look at the other attractions without imagining some sinister dark side that lurked just out of sight. She shuddered again at the thought of the hideous statue.
“Can we get corn dogs after? Please?”
“Do you have money for corn dogs?”
Kara beamed. “Yes!”
Spinneretta gave her sister a half smile. “Then we’ll get corn dogs. Come on, let’s get someplace out of sight so Cinnamon doesn’t cramp herself to death.”
“Okee!”
And with that, they went off toward the rear of the carnival, looking for anything far enough off the beaten path to let their companion free. But more than that, Spinneretta wanted to escape the cacophony of that damn steam organ. She couldn’t wait to leave.
The war has begun.
Those yet loyal to me pledge their allegiance and have sworn no mercy against the heathens. But when I think upon the statue erected in honor of that blackened god, I cannot think their loyalty certain. Those eyes now watch my every move, spreading smoke and lies through the minds of my subjects. In time, even the royal guard may betray me. Before that happens, I must harden my heart. I must purge them. Every single one. Leave no trace of their blasphemy behind.
In the end, I have failed. None of them are anything like me. I have always been, and will always be, alone. I understand that now. I was foolish to believe anything else. But if I am to be alone, then I will take back the gift of life I bestowed upon the unworthy. Servants of the Malefice, soon you will understand. Only death awaits those who oppose me.
Mother Raxxinoth, bless this crusade. I will kill all of them. Every last one of them, I shall murder.
Chapter 26
End of the Road
Sweat already drenched Spinneretta’s neck, even though it was only eight. The empty road, faded blacktop blanketed with cracks and blemishes, stretched on to the south, where the sparse vegetation of the rolling grassland eventually swallowed it from sight. She kept her eyes fixed on the direction they’d walked from, waiting for the next car to appear. Three cars had passed them by this morning, and she was beginning to grow tired of the apparent futility.
Forget this being dangerous for us. Maybe the drivers these days realize we could be the murderers. Thanks, urban legends.
Behind her, Kara sat crouched upon the ground, playing with Cinnamon. After being trapped in the backpack for so long, the Leng cat’s legs must’ve been killing her. Her crackling sounded ecstatic. As bad as the Leng cat being spotted could have been, Cinnamon becoming too bored and restless would likely have been worse. And at least there didn’t seem to be any gawkers in the half-wilderness of . . . Washington? Oregon? Spinneretta had never heard of a city called Crosier before, and she’d refrained from asking anyone. There was something inherently suspicious about the sound of yo, what state am I in?
A red glimmer in the distance. Spinneretta perked up, hope swelling. A car? Please? After a few moments, the shape became more definite. “Car!” Oh man, come on, don’t be in a hurry. “Kara, get her back in the bag.”
As Kara scrambled to get Cinnamon hidden away, Spinneretta extended her thumb and raised her hand. The vehicle seemed to slow as it drew near, and then—to her relief—it began to pull over. When the sedan rolled to a stop beside them, she could scarcely believe their fortune. In the driver’s seat, a young man wearing sunglasses and a polo shirt leaned across the passenger seat toward them. He looked like a stereotypical rich kid on his way to college. “Hey there,” he said, smacking gum with an open mouth. “You girls need a lift somewhere?”
That’s why I’m doing the stupid thumb thing. What else would we want? She swallowed the comment and smiled as sweetly as she could. “Yeah. Don’t suppose you’re heading south?” Her gaze darted over her shoulder to Kara, and she was relieved to find Cinnamon sequestered away in the backpack upon her sister’s shoulder.
“South, huh?” He laughed. “Think I can do south. Go ahead and hop in.”
She raised an eyebrow. Not even going to ask where we’re going?
He opened the passenger door for her, almost falling on his face in the process, and Spinneretta climbed in. Kara opened the rear door and slipped into the back seat on her own. Something rattled against metal as she did.
“Ahh, just push all that stuff over,” the man said. “Sorry it’s such a mess. Wasn’t expecting any company.”
“It’s fine,” Kara answered. When Spinneretta looked into the back seat, she found her sister shoving over a pile of sports equipment made up of weird sticks and hoops.
They pulled away from the side of the road. The gentle hillocks swelled and lurched past them like waves on the open sea, and soon the speedometer’s quartz readout announced they were pushing seventy. Hope no police are out and about. If they’re still looking for us, then . . .
“So, where you girls headed?” the young man asked. Then he snickered. “Ahh, damn, I should’ve asked you first. Sorry, this is my first time picking up hitchhikers.”
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. What’re you so excited about? “We’re headed to a town called Manix.”
“Manix? Where’s that?” He laughed again. “Don’t tell me I just signed up to take you two to, like, Florida or something. That’d be hella far out of the way.”
Hella? “It’s in California. San Bernardino County. Obviously, you don’t have to take us all the way to—”
“Hey, that’s not too far out of the way at all. I mean, I’m on the way to LA for a concert, but I’ve got plenty of time if it’s just to . . . Uhh, where was it again?”
“San Bernardino?”
“Yeah, that’s not bad at all. I can do that. Way better than Florida, right?”
She forced a smile and giggled politely. “I’d say so. Thanks a lot. Seriously. You’re a real lifesaver, uhh . . . ?”
He grinned down over his sunglasses at her. “Bert. And you two are?”
“I’m Sarah. And this is Melody.”
“Hi,” Kara said from the back.
“Nice to meet y’all. So, uhh, what’re you girls heading to Manix for? And why’re you hitchhiking? Don’t you know that’s dangerous as hell?”
He shrugged. “Well, I don’t think a pair of girls is statistically likely to murder me. And better I got to you before the weirdos that prowl these roads, eh?”
“I suppose so.” She forced another laugh. God, she felt hollow.
A soft abrasion began to swell from the speakers—barely loud enough to distinguish from the drone of the road and the wind on the glass. Bert reached for the radio. “Ahh, yeah. This is my jam right here.” He cranked the volume. Pounding drums and crunching guitar filled the vehicle. “You ever heard this band, Sarah?”
“No,” she lied. She was reasonably certain she used to listen to this song back in middle school.
“Disturbed. They’re sweet.”
“Mm.”
“Ha, that was a dismissive sound if I’ve ever heard one. Fine, not your jam. That’s cool.” He reversed direction on the radio until the music was quiet but still clearly audible. “What’re you girls into? Maybe I have something on the ’pod.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I like weird stuff, I guess.” Don’t you know music is one of the three forbidden topics of conversation?
“Weird? I can dig weird. Lay it on me.”
She hesitated, frightfully embarrassed of her own answer for some intangible reason. “Uhh . . . I like . . . After Forever, I guess. Sirenia. Lunatica. And so on.” Come to think of it, when was the last time she’d listened to any of them? Not since Lake Cormorant happened, she thought.
Bert nodded enthusiastically to himself. “Symphonic metal. Cool. You into Skeleton Patrol? They’re a symphonic melodeath group. They’re sick.”
What part of what I said suggested I’d like melodeath? “No, never heard of them.”
“Ahh, a shame. Actually don’t have any on the ’pod right now. I’m seein’ them in LA in a couple days, but it’s bad luck to listen to the band you’re gonna see live on the way, y’know? I’d say you two should come to the show with me, but I’m sure you’re busy.”