by Amy Cross
“Where is she now?” I ask. “Even if she's dead, her soul must be somewhere.”
She shakes her head. “The way Abby died... It prevented her soul from moving on. The fight against the demons destroyed every part of her, even her mind.”
Taking a deep breath, I try to imagine Abby's final moments, but all I hear in the back of my mind is a scream. “I still should have done something,” I continue finally. It's as if all my concerns were pushed deep down into the depths of my soul, but now they're flooding out. “She was my sister! I should have been there for her!”
“You have a wonderful family,” she replies. “Focus on that, Jonathan. I watch over my grandchildren sometimes, I love to see them play in the garden. Ever since Patrick first arrived in the life of our family, we've been in a state of perpetual chaos. Now that period is coming to an end, and your children can be the first generation who don't have to deal with any of the pain or anger. Embrace that knowledge, Jonathan, and be grateful.”
“I am,” I tell her. “I just... When I told my wife what happened to Abby, I could see the disappointment in her eyes. She thinks I'm a coward.”
“Then show her that you're not,” she replies, “and give your family a full and happy life. Over time, your memories of Abby will fade and you'll see that I'm right.”
Stepping past her, I make my way along the corridor until I reach the door to my kids' room. When I peer through in the darkness, I can just about see them sleeping happily.
“Forget the past,” Sophie whispers into my ear. “Abby is gone and there's nothing you can do about it. Live your own life, Jonathan.”
I open my mouth to argue with her, but somehow all my concerns are being pushed back down, replaced by a sense of absolute contentment. I don't know how she does it, but every time my mother appears to me, she manages to calm my mind, almost as if she reaches into my head and changes the way I think.
“You're right,” I whisper, still watching as my children sleep. “I made the right choice. This is where I belong.”
Part Five
The Time of My Life
Jonathan
Ten years later
“Hey, easy there!”
The guy in the doorway grabs my arm and keeps me steady just as I'm about to fall. Wincing with pain as I hit the side of the counter, I somehow manage to keep from dropping my six-pack of beers.
“Go home, pal,” the guy continues as I slip past him, out into the cold, rainy night where I quickly semi-trip a couple more times. “You look like you need some rest.”
“Go to hell,” I mutter, limping along the sidewalk while clutching the beers to my chest. “I don't need your advice.”
I don't know how late it is, but it must be gone midnight. I lost my only jacket a while back, so by the time I get to the street corner I'm already soaked. At least I can see the lights of the motel up ahead, so I don't have much further to walk. Without even checking to make sure there's no traffic coming, I step out into the road and stagger along, swaying slightly as I feel a bubbling pain in my gut. I swear I didn't used to get drunk so easily, but all these beers are really eating away at me.
“Loser!” a voice shouts as a car flashes past, almost knocking me down.
“Come back and say that to my face,” I stammer, but the car is already taking the next corner, its tires screeching in the process.
Nearby, a dog is barking. This part of town isn't exactly pleasant, but the motel room is dirt cheap and I just need to save money for a while until I can get back on my feet. As rain continues to pour down, I stumble across the parking lot. Sure, life sucks here, but at least it's easy and the alcohol means I don't have to think so much.
***
I let out a gasp of pain as I finally manage to get the door shut. Tossing my beers onto the bed, I start peeling my wet clothes off and then I stumble to the bathroom and hang everything up to dry. I don't really have anything else clean, so I just stay naked as I head back to the bed and sit down, and then I do something I know I shouldn't do.
I grab my phone and bring up Laura's number, and I tap the screen to call her.
“I'm not drunk,” I mutter to myself. “I'm just happy.”
It's true. I mean, I promised after last time that I'd never call her while drunk again, but I'm really not drunk. I'm just enjoying life.
“Jesus Christ, John!” she hisses when she answers. “It's almost one in the morning, what's wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong,” I reply, trying not to slur my words too much. “I just thought I'd call and see how you're doing, and I remember how you always keep your phone by the bed. You still do that, don't you?” I wait for her to reply, but all I hear from the other end of the line is a sigh. “I tried calling you a few times earlier in the week,” I continue, “but you never answered and you didn't call me back. Did you get my messages?”
“You mean the drunk rants?” she asks. “I got them. I didn't listen to them all the way through, but I got them.”
“You didn't listen?” I reply, genuinely hurt. “That was some good stuff! That was premium!”
“Go to bed, John,” she sighs. “You're drunk.”
“I am not! Let me talk to the kids!”
“Not a chance in hell.”
“You don't get to say that to me,” I reply, momentarily slurring my words before remembering to sound a little more sober. “The judge said -”
“The judge said you're a drunk asshole!” she hisses. “More or less, anyway. He was a little more polite. John, listen, I know the divorce was hard on you but it's important that you try to handle it better. I've moved on, the kids are getting used to Barry being here, and you need to sober up. After the last incident, I'm under no obligation to let you see Maisie or Michael until a court-appointed doctor confirms that you -”
“It's because of Abby, isn't it?” I ask suddenly, interrupting her.
I wait for an answer.
“It's because of my sister,” I continue. “That's why you hate me. The day I told you how I left her to fight for herself, you started to see me differently.” There are tears in my eyes now, but I try to sniff them back. “I explained so many times that I did the right thing, that Abby didn't need me, but you just think I'm this jerk who ran away from a fight.”
Again I wait.
Again, silence.
“You didn't tell the kids, did you?” I ask.
“Tell them what?” she replies. “That their father is a coward?”
“Go to hell,” I whisper under my breath, keeping my voice too low for her to hear.
“I'm not having this conversation with you right now,” she continues, sounding exhausted. “John, it's been ten years since I left you, so the details of exactly who said what aren't really important. The last thing I'm going to do is pick over the bones of the past. You need to haul yourself up and move on with your life, and don't call me again until you're sober and you're ready to go see a doctor. Do you understand?”
“My sister died,” I reply. “You think it's my fault.”
I wait, but this time I hear the line being cut.
“And you're right,” I whisper, tossing the phone onto the bed. “I shouldn't have turned back. I should have kept going all the way to the palace, and I should have been there with Abby when -”
Suddenly I hear a knock on the door. I turn and look across the room, convinced that it was just the wind, but a moment later there's another knock. Sighing, I get to my feet and stumble around the bed before reaching the door and pulling it open. To my surprise, I find that there's no-one outside, although some drunk assholes are shouting at one another in the distance. Leaning through the doorway, I look both ways along the path that runs along the side of the motel, but there's still no sign of anyone.
“Hello?” I call out, taking a step forward. “If this is -”
Feeling something bumping against my foot, I look down and see to my surprise that some dusty old book has been left on the ground. I reach down and
pick it up, before taking it inside and swinging the door shut. As I head over to the bed and sit down again, I turn the book over and look for a title, but there's nothing to be seen. Grabbing a beer, I crack it open and take a sip before turning to the book's first page.
A shiver runs through my chest when I finally see the title.
“The Book of Gothos,” I whisper.
There's a part of me that wants to throw the damn thing out into the rain, but for some reason I flick through to the next page and find a handwritten note that looks to have been added a long, long time ago. The ink is so badly faded, I can barely even read it, but after a moment I'm just about able to make out the words.
“Only read this book if you are part of its story,” I say out loud, before seeing that the note has been signed by someone named Vincent. “Vincent?” I mutter, turning to the next page. “Never heard Abby mention anyone called Vincent.”
Taking another sip of beer, I start looking through the book, although to be honest most of it's pretty incomprehensible. I remember Abby talking about this book, and about how it's some kind of record concerning the vampire race, but the text is written in a way that's almost impenetrable, and all I really understand are the handwritten notes that seem to have been added by this mysterious Vincent guy. Even so, I still don't get what the book is actually about, not even when I flick all the way through to the end. There are some more notes on the final pages, and I immediately recognize this handwriting as Abby's. She told me once that she spent many hours studying the book in the hope of learning more about her heritage, but I also remember her admitting that the book made little sense to her.
“Where did you come from?” I mutter finally, closing the book and wiping some dust from the cover. “Who the hell put you on my door?”
Jonathan
“Okay,” Mark Gregory says as he limps into the room, leaning heavily on a cane, “I don't have much time, so make this quick and -”
He stops as soon as he sees me, and I can tell he recognizes me from that night in New York.
“We only met briefly,” I tell him, extending a hand that he conspicuously refuses to shake. “My name is Jonathan, I'm -”
“I know who you are,” he replies cautiously. As he limps over to the desk, I can't help noticing that his face and neck are badly scarred on one side. “Did Abby send you?”
“No,” I tell him, “Abby didn't send me.”
He leans his cane against the wall and eases himself into the chair, although it's clear that he's in a lot of pain.
“I'm glad to see you made a recovery,” I continue. “The last time I saw you, Abby was leaving you outside a hospital and you looked... Well, I wasn't entirely sure you'd even survive the night.”
“I very nearly didn't,” he replies. “I was in hospital for almost a year. When I finally got out, I found I was the subject of an internal investigation into my links with Abby Hart, and eventually I was fired. Now I make ends meet doing private work for...” He pauses. “I don't see why I need to tell you my life history, it's not a particularly inspiring story. What do you want? Is Abby in trouble?”
“Abby's...” I take a deep breath. “Abby's dead.”
He stares at me. “No,” he says finally. “She isn't.”
“She is.”
He shakes his head. “I'd know if she'd died.”
“I'm her brother,” I reply, “and I do know it. She died exactly the way she knew she'd die, at Karakh. We went straight there after dropping you off at the hospital over a decade ago, and Abby... Well, she and Emilia and Oncephalus didn't make it out alive. The one positive thing is that they seem to have defeated the demons. At least, I assume they did. I don't see demons bursting through into this world, so I guess she must have stopped them somehow.”
I wait for him to reply, but he seems genuinely shocked.
“I'm sorry,” I tell him, “I know you and she were close.”
Opening his desk drawer, he takes out a bottle of whiskey. His hands are trembling as he unscrews the lid and pours a shot into a glass that was already on the desk.
“You want some?” he asks.
“Sure.”
He takes another glass from the drawer and fills it, before sliding it toward me.
“I didn't think Abby could die,” he says finally. “I thought she'd outlive the rest of us. I thought that one day I'd be a little old man, and she'd walk through the door and still be the same beautiful woman as the last time I saw her. Kind of romantic, huh?” He drinks a shot of whiskey and immediately pours himself another. “I thought she was too smart and too strong to let anyone ever take her down.”
I watch as he spills a little of the whiskey thanks to his shaking hand.
“You were in love with her,” I suggest.
He shakes his head.
“It's okay,” I continue, “there's no shame in that. For what it's worth, she never talked to me about that kind of thing, but it was pretty obvious that she cared about you a great deal. Maybe... Well, if she was in love with anyone, I'm sure it was you. She did mention you a few times while we were at Jagadoon, and I always felt like she wanted to come back and see you again some time.”
“I don't need to hear that,” he replies.
“I guess not.” Taking a deep breath, I realize that there's not much point holding some kind of impromptu elegy for my dead sister. “I got your message,” I tell him, “so here I am. What do you want?”
“Message?” He frowns. “What message?”
“The book.”
I wait, but after a moment I realize that he doesn't seem to know what I mean.
“Someone left the Book of Gothos outside my motel room,” I continue. “At first I didn't understand who, but then I remembered Abby saying that she'd left the book with you for safe-keeping, so I assumed you'd finally tracked me down. I mean, it seemed like you were the only person it could be.”
He shakes his head.
“She didn't leave the book with you?” I ask.
“She did,” he replies, “and I held onto it for her until about six months ago, when I got home late one night and found that someone had broken into my apartment. The Book of Gothos was the only thing missing, so I assumed Abby had come back for it and that for some reason she didn't want to see me.” He pauses. “I guess that theory's out the window now, unless...” Another pause. “Maybe she did survive after all, and she's the one who left it outside your door.”
“It can't have been her.”
“Are you certain she's dead?”
I nod.
“Then who stole the book from my apartment?” he asks.
“I have no idea,” I reply. “There were some notes in the margins from a guy named Vincent. Whoever he is, I guess maybe he could be responsible.”
“Abby told me about him,” he replies. “He was some guy who looked after her father for a while, before she was born. I don't really know the full details, but she said he's long dead.”
“Someone left that book for me,” I point out. “If it wasn't you, then I can't think of who else could be trying to get my attention.”
***
“Is it true?”
Turning as I get to the door of my motel room, I find my daughter Maisie standing behind me with pure anger in her tear-filled eyes. She's only in her early teens, but for the first time she doesn't really look like a child.
“Is what true?” I ask. “Sweetie -”
“Mom told me everything,” she continues, pulling away when I try to put a hand on her arm. “She said now I'm old enough, it's my right to know.”
“I told you about my background a long -”
“I'm not talking about that!” she hisses. “I know about all that vampire stuff! I'm talking about what you did to your own sister!”
I glance both ways, to make sure that no-one can overhear us. “Why don't you come inside?” I ask. “I think I need to explain the whole -”
“Is it true?” she asks again.
&
nbsp; “Maisie...”
“All I want to know,” she continues, “is whether what Mom told me is true!”
I can't help sighing.
“It is, isn't it?” she adds, almost spitting the words out with anger. “You left your own sister, my aunt Abigail, to die! You were supposed to go and help her, but instead you turned around like a goddamn coward and you ran away!”
“This all happened before I married your mother,” I tell her. “Please, Maisie, you can't possibly understand. Just let me try to explain.”
“Explain? What's the point? You'd just offer a load of excuses.”
Sighing, I unlock the door to my room and push it open. When I see the unmade bed and the empty beer cans on the floor, however, I pull the door shut again and turn to her. I can't let her see the mess I've become; I'm sure she's guessed, but I still don't want her to actually get proof. “Let's go to a cafe or something -”
“I just wanted to see it in your eyes,” she says firmly, interrupting me.
“See what?”
“The guilt.” She stares at me for a moment, her whole body shuddering with rage. “When Mom told me the story, I didn't believe it at first. I couldn't. I mean, I know you're an alcoholic, Dad, so I learned a long time ago not to look up to you. But I still thought that somewhere deep inside your heart, somewhere beneath all the drinking, you might be a good person. Or that you were a good person, a long time ago.”
“Honey, I am a good person,” I reply, with tears in my eyes. I reach out to take her hand, but once again she pulls away.
“As Mom kept talking,” she continues, “and it began to sink in, I felt sick. Like, I actually thought I was going to throw up. You abandoned your own sister and let her go to her death!”
“There was a prophecy -”
“Oh, so that makes it alright, does it?”
“My own mother appeared to me -”
“You told me she died before you had a chance to meet her!”
“She appeared as a -” Sighing, I realize there's no way I can explain this to her. Even having been there myself, I sometimes feel as if I can't wrap my head around everything that happened. “I didn't belong in Abby's world,” I tell her finally. “I tried, really I did, and there were times... When I fought at Gothos, I briefly felt as if I could handle myself, but that all fell to nothing. I tried so hard, but I didn't belong and my mother's spirit helped me to see that.”
