And then, the pain ceased.
The fear and agony vanished in an instant. He was at peace. A voice—perhaps the voice of God—spoke to him in angelic whispers that came from within, promising that the worst was over. At that moment, he understood. The man in the robe, too, had known this bliss that was the voice of God. That voice spoke only of the will of the Conduit, the messenger of the Yellow King. Though he could not understand the abstract thoughts that now spiraled fluently through his mind, he knew he would follow that voice to the ends of the universe. Now, that voice commanded him to his feet.
As his limbs obeyed of their own accord, the beautiful creatures crawling over his body returned to the floor, where their brethren swarmed in a living carpet of red-brown abdomens and appendages. He was almost sad to see them go, but he knew it was for the best. Across the table, the robed man was twitching the last movements of his life. He was sad to see him go, too. His internal organs would have hemorrhaged as the lurking children of the Overspider burst forth. Ross hoped that one day he too could meet such an end.
There came a crash as the door to the interrogation room flew open. The spiders on the ground reacted to the newcomer’s arrival, and Bentley began to shriek in horror as his eyes fell upon the swarm. The world faded a bit more. Ross smiled as the last thought he’d ever have entered his mind. That thought was not even his own, for it came from the mind of the King’s messenger. Bentley must know the love, he thought. I must spread the King’s glory.
The world blurring about him, Ross leapt toward Bentley and tackled him to the floor. Screaming and thrashing, Bentley tried to fight him off, but Ross’s body weight kept him in place. The tide of spiders flowed closer, and soon they would enter Bentley and connect him with the eternal bliss of the god-like being’s consciousness. Together, they would bring the message to all the others. That was the message given to him, and what happened after that was not for him to know. That was for the Conduit, for the King, for the Overspider to decide.
All glory be to the Overspider, the Weaver of the Mists, and for their glory will the Coronation be realized. Amen.
Nemo panted. The wires in the writhing blue abyss of his mind were alight with a burning ferocity. The images flowing within those wires were growing more numerous. With a spark and a hiss, new lines of control roared to life. Alien thoughts swam along the fiery strands in his network. More and more of those mental puppets blazed, and each one drove a dagger into his brain. Their wills were his; their wills were now the Yellow King’s. They were his thralls, just as he was and would forever be a thrall to the False Ones. Long had Dwyre been relegated to his fate. Now, Nemo understood it tangibly.
Was this what he had been born for? He was no more than a tool. His life was meaningless—he was just a means to the King’s ends. But why did that now feel unacceptable? Why was that not a fulfilling fate? Nemo swung his head from side to side as the question drilled into his psyche. Was it not a fate greater than any to live in service to Nayor? He should have been overjoyed to be given rebirth into such a role, and yet it was a hollow joy. No matter what he did, no matter what plans he crafted, it was ultimately those husks that controlled him. He was no servant of the King. He was meant for more. It was not beneath the star of servitude that he had been born; it was beneath the star of the ruler’s staff. He alone was charged with the task of carrying out the King’s edict; did that not make him far greater than the things that scuttled beneath those blasphemous yellow robes?
A hand whipped across Nemo’s face, scattering his thoughts and causing the newborn Hives in his mental network to flicker, dancing in a fog of pain. Jaw trembling, Nemo turned his eyes up at the savage smile on Kaj’s lips. A thin stream of blood crept down Nemo’s nose from the fresh cut on his forehead. He gritted his teeth and growled at the filthy creature who wore the robe in mockery of the exalted King.
“Wipe that scowl off your face, scum,” Kaj said. “Have you spread your influence?”
Nemo clenched his eyes shut and nodded.
“All of them?”
He swallowed hard. He searched the strands dangling from his mind, checking the inventory of pertinent facts locked in the officers’ brains. “Most,” he said, cringing. “Others. Patrolling. I will catch. Them. When they return. To their base.”
“Have you captured the police chief?”
Another check, accompanied by a brief inspection of the lexicon that was Simon Dwyre’s life experience. “Police chief. Yes. Little resistance. He is one. Of them.”
The thing in the robe seemed satisfied at the answer. “Good. Then get ready. You’d best learn to master controlling all your puppets. Your next trial fast approaches.”
Chapter 18
False Flag
“Where’s the toothpaste?” Chelsea asked.
Amanda glanced up at her from the couch. “If it’s not by the sink then check under it.”
“Ahh, okay, thanks.”
As Chelsea vanished down the hall again, Amanda called after her. “Oh, did your dad bring your shampoo?”
“Yeah, why? Don’t want to share anymore?”
“Not really.” Amanda put her chin in her hand and stared at the dull newscasters on Channel Six. “You use way too much.”
“Can’t put a price on beauty.”
Amanda sighed. This was, what, day four? Ever since their brief captivity at the Warren home, Chelsea had been staying over. She was so terrified of the gunmen and the robed creature emerging to silence her that she refused to return home, except during the brightest parts of midday. Chelsea’s house, like the Warrens’, was nestled into a relatively secluded section of the forest. And that meant that if someone was going to come for them, Amanda’s family’s apartment was far safer. Nobody would be able to barge in and fill her full of bullets without being seen or heard by a few dozen immediate neighbors. Amanda’s father had permitted it, as he understood her terror after they’d shown him the recording of the thing in the robe.
It’s been this long, Amanda thought with a mild bitterness, and you’re just now getting your own shampoo. Her attention fluttered back to the TV screen. Hurry up and get to the damn press conference. Her heart had leapt in vain hope when Channel Six had broadcast her video. But just as soon as it had aired, it had seemed to be forgotten. But for the police to issue a press conference at this hour . . . She could only hold out hope that it was related, and that they were working to get to the bottom of whatever the hell was going on.
A short while later, a red and blue logo reading Channel Six News Breaking Report appeared to the sound of a patriotic trombone. “This is a Channel Six update,” a man’s voice said.
Wrested from her wandering thoughts, Amanda sat up at once. “Chels, it’s starting!”
“Hrou’re shrittin’ re!” Chelsea called back from the bathroom. Amanda heard her spit a mouthful of foam and gargle for a split second before she tore down the hall and back into the living room.
The flashing amateur graphics disappeared, and the feed went to a tired-looking man sitting in the newsroom. “Good evening and welcome,” the man said. “I’m George Larsen, bringing you a live update on the ongoing investigation into the murder of Simon Dwyre, CEO of Golmont Industries Incorporated.”
Amanda frowned. “That Dwyre guy again?”
Chelsea seemed to feel the disappointment, too. “Why won’t they talk about what was going on at Spins’s house?”
“We now go live to an emergency press briefing with Chief of Police Daniel Browning.”
The image of the man at the desk cut away to a small, cramped room. A line of uniformed police officers stood on an elevated platform, and at the front of their ensemble was a man at a podium. For a few moments, the only sound was the muttering of the local news reporters and regional journalists who had been summoned in the dead of night for an update on the biggest case to hit Grantwood in decades. The man at the podium was oddly pale, slanted. He seemed to be standing at a tilt, supporting himself with one ar
m while the other hung limp at his side. From beneath heavy eyelids, he considered the gathered crowd. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, he addressed them. “Are all here ready?”
The murmuring in the crowd ceased, and the man righted himself in entirely the wrong way. “Today,” the police chief said, sounding like something was stuck in his throat, “tragedy struck our community. You may have heard the sirens. And rumors. As the reports have come in. Murder. Slaughter. Nearly four dozen individuals. Of our fair town and beyond. Have been found. Murdered. Slaughtered. Simon Dwyre was only the first. And we have no reason. To believe it will not continue.”
The crowd on the screen stirred more at that announcement. Looking back and forth across the small room of reporters, the drunk-looking police chief again spoke. “There was a video. Released to the news. Earlier this week. After these events, it became clear. Do not wait for the speculation of the media. We will confirm for you right now. The Norwegian Killer has returned.” Another long pause opened a roar of murmuring from the crowd. “The Norwegian Killer. Is a powerful sorcerer. He kills with occult magic, and nobody is safe. So I am now declaring. A state of emergency. Grantwood is now. Under emergency lockdown.”
Chelsea shook her head, sputtering. “Norwegian Ki . . . L-lockdown!? What the hell is—they can’t do that! Can they? They can’t, right?”
Amanda stared at the screen, numb. She swallowed hard. “Something’s wrong. Really wrong.”
The reporters were moving restlessly, and two armed officers entered from the sides, staggering like seasick orangutans. They began to usher the reporters toward the doors. “Stay inside,” the police chief said directly to the camera. “We will catch the Killer. Do not leave town. You will be arrested. Do not leave your homes. After dark. You will be arrested. Do not worry. You are safe. Everything will be. Safe. Grantwood is under lockdown. Starting now. Grantwood is now. Under lockdown.”
Amanda sat straight up, eyes fixed to the police chief’s wan face. “What the hell is going on?”
“Shit, what are we going to do? They don’t have the legal authority to . . . Who can we call about this?”
“I don’t know.” Amanda watched as the figure on the television tried to walk out of the room. He even moved like a robot, she thought.
“It’s one guy!” Chelsea said. “What is this, the Soviet Union?”
“What was it he said a minute ago? He said that the Norwegian Killer was a sorcerer. That he killed with occult magic.”
Chelsea snorted. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Don’t tell me you forgot already how he just disappeared into—”
“I know that, for God’s sake. But isn’t that a bizarre thing to say?” She hugged her knees to her chest, staring at the Channel Six logo that cut in over the conference. “What normal person talks like that? Any of that?”
“What are you getting at?”
Amanda shook her head, an intangible draft flowing from somewhere unsettling. “I don’t know. There’s something going on, and I think it goes a lot deeper than just the Killer. If that’s even who that was back there.” She shivered. “And whatever’s going on, I think it has something to do with Spinneretta and her family.”
The next morning, Spinneretta awoke to the warmth of the sun caressing her cheek. Thankful that she hadn’t woken up to Cinnamon’s soulless gaze, she sat up and stretched her legs as her ritual indicated she should. A glance at the clock on the wall told her it was just after eight in the morning. At least she hadn’t slept to midday. Maybe there was yet hope that her sleeping schedule could be salvaged. The sound of conversation and the smell of bacon flowed from the direction of the kitchen. After taking a moment to run a brush through her hair, she went to investigate.
She found Annika, Mark, Kyle, and Kara sitting around the table in the center of the kitchen, where plates of omelets were spread about. “Morning,” she said.
“Good morning,” Mark answered with a smile. “Make yourself comfortable.”
She pulled up a chair and did just that, flopping down beside him. “You didn’t cook these did you?”
“Nah,” Annika said. “Picked them up from a place called Eggcellent Choice.” She passed a plate to Spinneretta without making eye contact. She seemed to be too busy watching the news on the small flatscreen mounted above the counter.
Spinneretta nodded and pulled the plate closer. “Well thanks,” she said. She glanced about the table. Kyle was staring off into space with a ghastly expression, barely picking at his omelet. It was a face that suggested he may have finally met Cinnamon. Kara, too, seemed transfixed by the news program, and Spinneretta gasped when she saw the girl’s jaw moving. “Kara, are you actually eating?”
Her sister gave her a dissatisfied glance and puckered her face. “Annie forgot to pick up meat for me.”
“Growing girls need eggs,” Annika said.
Spinneretta gave Kara a proud smile. “I didn’t like eggs when I was your age. They’ll grow on you.”
Kara plucked a chunk of bacon out of the yellow block and popped it into her mouth. “Liar.”
Spinneretta began to pick at her own omelet, already wondering what she was going to do today. Something scuttled between her ankles, and it took a conscious effort to avoid shivering as Cinnamon passed by with the quiet clicking of chitin on tile. Without anything else to distract her sleep-numbed mind, she began to stare blankly at the newscast.
“—getting around to it before the end of December. Of course, nobody wants to draw any wild conclusions while we’re still in the summer.”
“Of course. There’s always two sides to it, as they say.”
“There sure is. Next up, we have a late-breaking story from the heart of Placer County, where law enforcement officials in the town of Grantwood have apparently declared some form of martial law.”
Forks clattered and chairs shifted around the table. Spinneretta was back on her feet, mouth agape at the television screen. “What!?”
“Earlier today, certain Grantwood media outlets and countless individuals contacted the county seat of Auburn to report the development of what some are calling a draconian crisis that has been going on since late last night. We have gathered from inside sources that, following an apparent murder spree by a local menace known as the Norwegian Killer, the city has locked down all roads leading into the city until the culprit can be apprehended. At press time, the county announced that it will be investigating the matter, but so far officials have been unable to reach the Grantwood Police Department for comment. As always, we will keep you posted as the situation develops.”
“Quite scary, isn’t it, Rick? It looks like the conspiracy theorists were right all along.”
The anchor chuckled. “Yes. It seems the president has finally declared martial law, probably in a plot to seize all the guns from the liberal bastion of Grantwood,” he said with a sarcastic grin. “Hope that bit of dystopian news hasn’t drained you of your love for baseball, because coming up next we’ve got sports with Sam Sanders, so stay right where you are.”
“No!” Spinneretta yelled. “Don’t just skim over that on your way to sports! Don’t even think about sports! What the fuck was that about a goddamn murder spree?!” The fucking Norwegian Killer? she thought, ice blossoming in her lungs. Is this some kind of joke? That’s impossible!
“Oh, Jesus,” Annika said. “Looks like we got out of there just in time.”
Spinneretta’s entire body felt numb. Her spider legs curled around her, shivering. “What does that mean? This is NIDUS, isn’t it?”
Mark nodded. “No doubt about that. If I had to guess, it seems the cult has unleashed the Hives.”
Spinneretta looked at him, confused. “Hives?”
“Aye. They are incubators, ill-fated individuals whose bodies house innumerable spiders—the Nothem. They’re used to breed the parasites, though to what ends I . . . well, I suppose I may now hazard a guess.”
Annika nodded. “Your good friend Doctor Morton was carry
ing some of those, and so was that yellow-robed fuck we killed. They seem to link the host’s minds directly into Dwyre’s.”
Spinneretta blinked at her. “You have to be kidding me. That sounds like some goddamn science fiction shit.”
Annika scoffed. “Says the spider-girl. Do you have a more convincing explanation for why the police would declare lockdown now, if not under the influence of . . . ” Her voice trailed off as a dark revelation brewed in her eyes. “Wait a sec. Simon Dwyre is dead.”
Mark seemed to have reached the same conclusion. “Aye. But if he is dead, then who is controlling the Nothem?”
Spinneretta shook her head, barely understanding the train of the conversation. “Could there be somebody else? Someone other than Dwyre who . . . ?”
“No,” Mark said. “I plumbed his mind. I learned nearly everything there was to know during that time. But I’m certain that there is nobody else who could control them.”
A deathly chill crept along Spinneretta’s spine. “So . . . what does that mean?”
“I haven’t the damnedest.”
“But that’s . . . If they’ve had mind-control spiders this whole time, then why haven’t they been using them?”
“They have,” Mark said. “Just in places the public cannot see them. Dwyre was too paranoid to do anything like what they’re doing now; he knew that you can’t just take over a whole town without turning heads.”
“Well, what do you think about all this, Marky?” Annika asked.
Though her mind was still reeling from the casual dismissal of the crisis, Spinneretta still took bitter exception to her use of the name Marky.
He took a deep breath. “To put it bluntly, I believe we are in trouble. If NIDUS is now desperate enough to release their mind-control spiders . . . ”
“What the fuck are you all talking about!?” Kyle said from where he sat.
Everyone else at the table glanced at him, and then promptly ignored him.
Helixweaver (The Warren Brood Book 2) Page 21
