Mark couldn’t help but smile. “Right. Let us go.” He made for the portal, Annika right behind him. When they passed through the threshold, where two Vant’therax held the stone gate aloft with quivering arms, they allowed it to fall shut behind them. The gate shook the whole cavern with its weight. As soon as it was down, the Vant’therax vanished again into the shadows.
Mark scanned the blackened cavern. The low ceiling was smooth and bore telltale marks of sculpting by human architects. The chamber, a hundred feet deep, sloped downward at a shallow grade before an old sculpted doorway in the far wall.
Annika let out a low breath beside him, tapping the barrel of her revolver with her fingernail. “Hope you have some idea where we’re going.”
He set his gaze upon the flickering glow of torchlight through the tunnel. “Come. I have a feeling we have a long way to go.”
It was like a dream—a terrible, awesome dream. The wall seemed to extend forever, the low defensive barriers on the sides the only constant as the fortress on the shore gradually loomed closer. Arthr had never seen the Great Wall of China in person, but its splendor could not possibly match that of the gigantic rampart they now walked atop. The wall was a full forty feet wide and rose to a dizzying height. It was difficult to estimate, as the land below was still wrapped in shadow and mist, but they must have been two hundred feet up at least.
The wind brushed his dirty hair in the wrong direction, and it made him shiver. The smell of sour bleach from the deathly valley had been replaced by a pungent salt-wind that blew off the dark teal waves in the distance. He looked at Spinneretta, who walked a few paces beside him. Her face was placid. How can she be so calm? This whole ordeal was madness linking unto madness. And the longer Arthr stayed here in this poison-aired world, the deeper the reality of it sank in. It was a reality he couldn’t reconcile with the life they’d lived in Grantwood, blissfully ignorant of the lurkers in the shadows.
He remembered hanging out with Gale and Hank, back before he’d given his body and soul to track. Playing video games until the dead hours of the night. Laughing at whatever inane dribble late-night TV decided to force-feed them. He remembered getting drunk with Rod and Chad in that smoked out storefront in Old Town—it had been his first time, but far from the last. He remembered the first hundred meter sprint that he took first in. He’d been the king of everything for one shining moment. But now that all seemed so far away, like a fairy tale vanishing into the haze of forgotten childhoods.
Evelyn, his first girlfriend and first kiss—a girl he’d never really liked. Natasha. That Mallory girl from English. But more than all of them he remembered Chelsea. The way her cheeks would flush at just a smile. The way she pretended not to notice him when she stayed over at their house with Spins, but always injected herself into his evening when he stayed at Chad’s.
All of those thoughts and memories—each and every one—were utterly insignificant when compared to the Web. His happy, carefree days had just been an illusion, a shadow—and the fortress city was the body which cast it. He was a gnat on the hide of a titan, a grain of sand on the storm-beaten shore.
Over the edge of the wall, the star’s light glinted off something reflective. Expecting little more than the same blackened landscape below, he drifted toward the side and peered down. At first, his eyes were unable to interpret what he was seeing, but when he found the metallic glint again, a semblance of order unfurled from the depths of the shade. Below the great rampart, stretching in all directions, was a jumbled sea of broken stone and metal structures, jigsaw walls cutting in random angles.
He gasped. “Holy shit. This was a city . . . A whole civilization.”
“You’re just now realizing that?” Spinneretta asked, walking up to see what he was looking at. “What’s a king without a kingdom? You must’ve seen it up on the hill.”
He shook his head. “I just didn’t . . . I didn’t realize that . . . ”
What remained of the structures below were but husks built of the same dark red stone and rusty metal that made up everything else in this horrible world. Some of them, he could now see, towered as high as a hundred feet, their broken walls jabbing at the sky like knives. Others were squat cubes that jutted from larger structures at grotesque angles. As far as the eye could see, those interlocking shells of culture grew from the ground and the towering walls leading to the keep. The tallest of the buildings were collapsing against one another like crooked teeth in a mangled jaw. The cracked facades showed uneven windows staring out across the forgotten city. Maroonstone debris and traces of organic matter lay scattered amid the tangled alleys and artificial terraces, all awash in a thick layer of ageless sand that glowed red from the diffuse reflections of the city.
Staring down through the mist that drifted by below, Arthr was overcome by a sense of cosmic helplessness. “It’s like looking into the future.” A dreadful shiver worked its way through his body. “On the door to one of the stalls in the school bathroom back home, somebody once scraped a poem. For two years, I saw that poem every damn day. It said: we build our towers to heaven, but in the end, man is just another fossil. I used to think that was stupid as hell. That whoever wrote it was just some pretentious asshole. But . . . ” His mouth grew dry as the stillness of the ruins mesmerized him. “Our cities. Our culture. One day they’re all just going to get swept away, ground into dust by time. A thousand years from now, nothing is going to remain. We won’t leave any memories behind us when we go. In the end, our race really will be just another fossil.”
“Now’s not the time to get all existential.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t see the loneliness of it all.” He turned to look her in the face and found her gazing down into the shadows, lips devoid of expression.
A long moment later, she turned away from the edge and started off ahead of him, pulling her jacket tight around her and whipping her hair free. “Come on.”
It was difficult to tear his eyes from the sprawl below, but at last he turned and hurried after her before the solitude could swallow his sanity. With each step, the towering citadel drew imperceptibly nearer. The great structure, the home of the Yellow King, his other father.
If this was destiny, he wanted no part of it.
Kara ran. The wind rippled through her hair, sending it streaming in wild ribbons behind her. The dry smell of sand and rattleweed yielded no suggestion of pursuit, but she still threw a glance behind her every few steps to make sure. No sign of Mark or the Vant’therax. At her ankles, Cinnamon clattered questioning tones she could not answer.
Tears stung her eyes. Even Annika is against us. Or maybe she doesn’t realize . . . ? She shook the thought from her mind. Useless excuses; intentionally or not, Annika was their enemy now. If what Mark had said was true, then the only thing to do was stay strong and never open a portal again. That way they wouldn’t be able to slip in unnoticed through the shadows and stop Spins from killing the Yellow King.
The sand turned to asphalt beneath her feet. Another fearful glance behind. Why would Mark betray them? After all he’d done to help, why would he turn on them now? Her temper rose at the thought. Spins loved him, and he’d repaid it only in treachery. But what if it wasn’t his choice? What if the Vant’therax were forcing him to help them? But then why wouldn’t he fight back? What did they have that he wanted? The thoughts nibbled at her brain until screeching brakes and a blaring horn brought her back to Manix.
She snapped to attention and leapt back, narrowly avoiding a collision with the hood of a banana-colored sedan.
“The fuck is wrong with you!?” the driver shouted out the window.
Her heart pounded, and her head swam with the smell of burning rubber. Despite the heat, she tucked her jacket tighter around herself and backed up until her shoes found the curb again. She then turned and sprinted down the road in the other direction, ignoring the enraged cries of the driver.
It was not long before she spotted a convenience store amid a series of
old-looking gas pumps. She gasped a sigh of relief when she saw it was manned. It would be safe there. Or at the very least, she wouldn’t be alone. Minding the empty roads for fear of repeating her narrow miss, she made her way toward the sanctuary.
Carefree bells chimed to welcome her as she slipped in through the door. The woman presiding over the tightly packed aisles of snacks and drinks gave her a half-hearted greeting as she entered.
A cold wind beat against Kara’s face, and frost seemed to form along her crown and neck. Air conditioning. It felt damn good after being out in the sun for God only knew how long. Panting, she beckoned Cinnamon behind her. The woman didn’t notice her pet, and so the two of them crept through the alleys of bright packaging. The Vant’therax wouldn’t show up somewhere with witnesses, would they? But what about Mark? He was injured. It’d be hecka suspicious if he came in here covered in blood. That left Annika. If it was Annika, she’d stand up and scream she has a gun. Yeah, that would work, right?
Kara sat down in one of the concealed corners in the back, wrapped her knees in her spider legs out of habit, and began to sob quietly. She couldn’t help Spins now, could she? Spins had mentioned on the way that opening a portal was out of the question, so it must have been pure desperation that led her to go through one now. But if she followed her, what would happen? What if Spins was already dead? Spins had acknowledged the possibility with a solemn certainty, but Kara had been too blinded by optimism to consider it. And now, she was torn between her dueling desires to keep Spins safe from the King and safe from the Vant’therax. No. The portal was still out of the question. And yet . . .
If Spinneretta tries to fight the Yellow King, she will die, Mark had said.
She sniffed once, and Cinnamon scuttled up to her side and nuzzled her. Absentmindedly, she scratched Cinnamon behind her tapered ears. Doubt hung thick in the chemical-chilled air. Mark’s words rang in her head again and again. The certainty. The tinge of fear. The plea for reason. Was it possible that . . . ?
The angels at the door sang again, and Kara snapped to attention. She watched the counter from where she sat, every muscle tight. But it wasn’t the Vant’therax, nor was it Mark or Annika. It was a tall, thin man, who strode with purpose up to the counter.
“Good evening,” he said to the clerk. “I’m looking for an intoxicating beverage. Have you any in supply?”
Kara could hear the hesitation in the clerk’s silence. “In the back,” the woman said.
“Thank you.”
As the man made his way back toward the aisle of coolers, his footsteps clicked against the floor. Kara buried her eyes in her forearms, hoping that he wouldn’t notice her. Cinnamon rattled a little, and she put her hand on the Leng cat’s back to shush her.
But her meager attempt at concealment did little good. The footsteps emerged from the aisle of mass-produced confectioneries, paused, and then slowly drew near. “Why hello, little girl.”
She opened her eyes to find the young man crouched down upon his haunches, hands planted on his knees. Cinnamon growled, and Kara again moved her hand to quiet her. The man gave the creature a quick glance but didn’t seem to notice its alien form.
“What are you doing here all alone?” he asked, his expression kind.
Kara looked away. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.” That was the least of her problems at the moment, but it seemed the easiest way to get him to leave her be.
He laughed. “Well, that’s a very wise choice. But I’m afraid it’s not in my nature to leave people to their troubles. Especially not girls so cute their mothers daren’t look away.” A frown crept upon his lips. “Did something happen? Did you have a fight with your family?”
She sniffled again and stared at the dirt stains on the whites of her tennis shoes. “Maybe.” It was a good guess.
The man flopped into a neat, cross-legged sit. “You know, family can be really frustrating. Bet I’m preaching to the choir, but for all they claim to love and protect, they irritate twice as often.”
The sad air to his voice made Kara study his expression with a renewed discernment. It was forlorn, reminiscent, contrite, almost lost. And yet it was like his kind eyes had seen right through her.
“When I was your age,” the man said, as though to himself, “I had a fight with my big sister. She’d taken my serving of ice cream, without even asking. I must’ve been six or seven at the time. We both said things we didn’t mean. I ran away. Much like you, I’m guessing. I hid in my friend’s tree house for the whole day, just brooding. Hating my sister’s guts. Thinking horrible, terrible things. Constructing every nightmarish misfortune my childish mind could contrive. Punishments outweighing the crime by a thousand orders of magnitude.” He was momentarily quiet. “Eventually, I calmed down. But not before nightfall. When I made it back home, nobody was there.” His voice dropped into a low baritone, dripping with regret. “Hours later, my parents and brother came home and told me that . . . ”
Kara stared at him, her spine tingling. “What?”
He hesitated. “That my sister had been struck by a car while out looking for me. She’d died in the hospital, at the very moment I’d been murdering her in my own twisted fantasies.”
Her heart sank. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not a sorry kind of story, mind you. It’s an Aesop I was chosen to relay.”
Chosen? She sniffled. Everybody has something only they can do. “Are you . . . Are you psychic?”
“Hmm? Psychic?” He chuckled. “Afraid not. Just a concerned citizen. Because when I see a girl like yourself sitting here, eyes red from some pointless feud with her family, I can’t help but share my story in hopes it will change some dark, divergent timeline. Because I don’t want to see you make the same mistake. It is so much easier to apologize than to bear the burden of something so heavy while you are still so young and fragile. It stunts the growth, molds you into something ugly that can never escape its own broken spine. In the end, family is family, and family is all we really have.”
Kara choked. Her heart caught in her throat. Family is family. What would Mom say if she knew what Spins intended to do? The possibility of dying—one that had been so distant and intangible before—had always been real. She shook her head, trying to cast away the omen that crept into her mind. But we were supposed to be invincible together. Two sisters, the daughters of the beast king, fighting back to back against the world. But Spins wasn’t invincible. And Mark knew that as well, it seemed. The tears blazed under her lids again. What would Mom say if she knew Kara had chosen—of her own accord—to allow Spins to die?
That thought pulsed through her veins like ice water. If Spinneretta died—no, don’t even think it! But it was too late. Without her, I’d be . . . So very . . . She shuddered.
Alone.
Nobody to talk to. Nobody to understand what it means to be part spider. Nobody to bake her cookies on rainy days. Nobody to hug when everything was ugly and dusty. Nobody to reprimand her for eating feral animals. Nobody to remember the good times in Grantwood, the danger in the cult’s heart, Isabella, the Vant’therax, Mark.
Mark. She gasped. Oh, God. Hadn’t he vocalized her own doubt when he’d told her the Vant’therax were protecting them at the plaza? Wasn’t that the only explanation for their behavior? But, if that was true, and the Vant’therax were the only thing that had stood between them and death . . .
And if Mark was working with them, despite their sordid past, then that could only mean one thing: he was desperate.
And even if it was all a trick to capture Spinneretta—even if all that came of it was her being forced to bear the child of the Yellow King—wasn’t that still better than being dead? She shuddered. Spinneretta had told her the exact opposite—but why should that be her decision alone? Her death affected everyone! And that was beside the point; Mark would never have let that happen to her—not after all he’d done for them! Her lips shook as she fought back her tears. Why hadn’t sh
e seen that sooner? How could she have been so blind?
She jumped to her feet, brushing her tears away with her wrist. “Thanks, mister,” she said. “I have to go.”
He gave her a warm smile. “Oh, I helped? I am glad to hear that.” He tipped his purple bowler to her. “Take care, ma’am.”
She nodded and bolted for the door, and Cinnamon was right behind her. The door chimes began to cry, and then they were gone. The dark of twilight embraced her. Her shoes pounded the asphalt and then the sand. She extended her spider legs in all directions from beneath her jacket. Hunting, she thought. I need you now more than ever. Her heart hit an irregular beat, and then a wild warmth began coursing through her bloodstream. When the adrenal rush hit her appendages, the smells of the deserted dust-town sharpened into a vivid clarity. It did not take long for her to catch the trace of the scent of Mark’s blood leading off toward the mountains that sparkled with the final glint of day.
“Let’s go, Cinnamon!” She opened her sprint, tears running down her chin. Don’t be too late. Please don’t be too late!
The Cheshire Man watched as the spider-girl vanished into the distance. He smiled and kicked at the asphalt. “Thank you for lending me your suffering, Ralph,” he said with a malign sneer. “I knew granting it would not be a mistake.” He chuckled, one hand fishing the knife from his pocket out of habit. “Spider children. Mankind. Starblooded spawn of Heu Rin. It’s been a long time coming. You’ve all been sporting opponents, but now the actors have, at last, been assembled for my coda. Unless you have any further tricks up your sleeves, then it seems this is checkmate.”
I launch my ambush from the southern wall. The flame is distracted by a pack of my royal beasts, and I’m able to charge the attack to its fullest. I unleash the Wine in a great, calamitous burst of mist. The magic-woven creature should surely be killed by its force, but when a curtain of smoke coalesces around the flame and absorbs the attack, I know that it is all over.
Tatters of the King (The Warren Brood Book 3) Page 50
