by Amy Cross
The stranger smiles, then looks at me. "We got off on the wrong foot," he says, extending a hand for me to shake. "My name is Garvey. I'm sorry if I started you earlier. I'm afraid there was no other way to get the attention of certain people." He glances over at Patrick, and I get the feeling that these two have a certain history.
I shake his hand reluctantly. "Sophie," I say.
"Nice to meet you, Sophie," Garvey says as he wanders over to Hamish and looks down at his wounds. "I hope you will be able to overlook the nature of our first meeting. I'm very sorry if you felt threatened."
"How far behind are the others?" Vincent asks.
"Not far," says Garvey. "I distracted them, but such tactics can only last so long. They'll find their way down here if you persist in giving sanctuary to this creature." He reaches down and pokes one of Hamish's wounds, which causes Hamish to let out a groan of pain. "Let me take him, and all of this will be over."
Patrick moves firmly in his way, blocking him.
"Patrick," says Vincent, "you can't protect Hamish forever. He's not your friend. Not really. He doesn't deserve your loyalty."
Patrick stays where he is, as if he hasn't heard a word Vincent is saying. Keeping his gaze firmly locked on Garvey, Patrick is clearly indicating that there's no way he's going to let anyone get to Hamish without a fight. It's a tense moment.
"Have it your way," says Garvey. "I'll try to hold them off for as long as possible, but they'll catch the scent eventually." He turns and walks to the door. "They'll find their way down here and they'll take him anyway, and they'll kill anyone who gets in their way. They'll probably kill everyone they find." He looks at me for a moment, then back to Patrick. "We both know that a pack of marauding werewolves can't cause you any permanent harm, Patrick. But your friends here? You're putting them in a lot of danger." With that, he turns and leaves.
Patrick turns to look at me.
"There's no way out," says Vincent. "Patrick, you have to accept that you can't help Hamish any longer. You've already done far more than anyone could ever expect of a friend. Every time you help him, he just goes and makes another mistake, and then another. He never learns. It's time to let him accept his fate."
"Isn't there any other way out?" I ask.
Vincent nods. "Yes, but it's no use. Even if we run, Patrick will stay and fight and... The wolves will find their way down. They'll sniff out the trail and they'll overrun us. They'll rip us to pieces if they find us. Patrick, how many of them do you think you can fight at once? Ten? A hundred? For all we know, there could be thousands of them massing nearby. All they want is Hamish, and you know, deep down, that he deserves this fate. A lot of innocent people have already died for him. Don't make more suffer."
I go to look at Hamish. He's unconscious and breathing heavily, but at least he's still breathing. "Who is he?" I ask.
"He's a fool," says Vincent, coming over to check on Hamish's wounds. "He made a deal with the Alpha Wolf, and now he's trying to escape from that deal. He's been running for years. Hundreds of years. I'm impressed he made it this far, but they've caught up with him now and there's nothing anyone can do. No-one can run forever." He glances over at Patrick for a moment. "Sophie, will you help me? We have to carry him to the entrance."
He moves to start lifting Hamish, but Patrick steps forward and pulls him away.
"How did you end up being such an idiot?" Vincent asks, clearly exasperated. "You're going to make the same mistake you made last time, and exactly the same thing is going to happen. Don't you understand? If you insist on protecting one friend, you doom others to certain death. Is that a decision you can make?" He waits for an answer. "This is hopeless! I know what you think. You think that when they get down here, you'll be able to hold them off. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them, and you think you can take on every single one of them. You're not facing reality!"
Without acknowledging either of us, Patrick turns and walks out of the room. I look at the window and see him heading outside, going over to the entrance and presumably waiting for the first of the wolves to arrive.
"Who is this guy?" I ask, looking at Hamish. "Why is he so important to Patrick?"
"They were friends," says Vincent. "Long ago. And Patrick's sense of loyalty to a friend is so great, he'll do anything to save him. Even if he deserves everything that's coming to him. I'm afraid Patrick's default response to a situation is to prepare for a fight." He turns and goes to the door. "There's another way out. We don't have long, but we have to get out of here before they arrive."
"We can't leave Patrick here," I say.
"We have no choice," says Vincent. "He's made his decision. Don't worry, they can't kill him, but I dread to think of what they'll do to him, to punish him for trying to stand in their way. It might take him years and years to recover. If they find us here, on the other hand, they'll kill us instantly. I need to gather some things, and then we have to leave, do you understand? Wait here."
He walks out and I hear him making his way up the stairs. I have no idea what to do next, so I go out of the house and walk over to Patrick.
"Is this really your plan"? I ask.
No reply. Not even a response. Not even eye contact. His eyes are focused on the entrance, waiting for the wolves to appear.
"How many are there going to be?" It occurs to me that I have no idea of Patrick's limits. I've seen him in action, killing and hurting people, but I don't know how much punishment he can take. I know he can be killed in extreme circumstances, but I don't know what it would take. If Vincent is right, there could be more than a thousand wolves heading down here, and it seems impossible that he could take on so many.
"He must be a good friend," I say.
Again, though, Patrick doesn't respond. He just remains in place, defiantly waiting for the battle to begin.
"Maybe Vincent's right," I continue. "Maybe you should just let them take this Hamish guy."
No response. It's clear that Patrick isn't going to listen to me. It's weird: he's always silent, but right now he seems even more silent than usual. Silent and completely still, almost like stone.
I turn and walk back to the house, where I quickly find Vincent.
"How many are there going to be?" I ask.
Vincent shrugs. "A few? Hundreds? Thousands? They'll all come, eventually."
"Can he hold them all off?"
Vincent pauses for a moment. "No," he says finally. "No, he can't."
"Will they kill him?"
"They'll hurt him. He knows that, but he believes he has to protect his friend."
I look out the window and see Patrick still in position. I understand why he's doing this, even if I think he's hopelessly misguided. His friend came to ask for his help, and Patrick's not going to turn him away. I admire Patrick's loyalty, but I wish he could see things from another perspective. "So Patrick knows he can't win this battle?" I ask. "And he's still ready to fight it?"
"Yes," says Vincent. "But you should not be here. Patrick is putting you in danger. I'll show you another way out."
"We can't leave him here," I say.
"He'll survive," Vincent says.
"And you?"
"Me?"
I look at Vincent. He's an old man, certainly not built for fighting wolves. "Are you going to come with me?" I ask.
"I'm going to show you the exit," he replies, but I can tell from the look in his eyes that he's not being quite honest with me. "I'll be okay here. I can't leave Patrick."
"But you just said -"
"I can't leave him!" he insists. "Please, try to understand. Even if it means risking my life, I can't let him do this alone. I can try to reason with them when they arrive."
"But -"
"Wait here for a moment," he says, leaving the room. "I'm going to get you out of here," he calls back to me, "whether you like it or not."
I walk through to the study, where Hamish is still unconscious on the sofa. Heading to the window, I look out at Patrick, still at his lonely vigil. I don
't want to leave him here, but I also know that I'm no match for a pack of angry wolves. Why is he so determined to save Hamish? Is it really just friendship? That's the problem with Patrick, you never know what he's really thinking, even if -
Suddenly a hand clamps over my mouth and an arm is wrapped around my body. I try to shout out, but I can barely breathe. I struggle, but I can't get loose.
"Don't make a fucking noise," hisses a familiar Scottish voice, close to my ear. "You're coming with me. I'm really sorry about this, darling, but there's no other way." I try to look around, and for a moment I catch sign of Hamish's damaged, shredded face snarling at me. I look at the window and see Patrick, still on guard and facing the wrong way, completely oblivious to what's happening in here. I try to get loose from Hamish's grasp, and for a moment I think I might succeed, but then I feel a great pressure being applied to my neck, and although I try to struggle, everything quickly turns black and I quickly pass out.
Hamish
Norfolk, 1705
"What I've never understood," says a distant, muffled voice in the darkness above me, "is why brains are so cheap, but they'll pay over the moon for a full set of guts."
"Brains are easy," says another voice. "But guts, you have to pull 'em out and keep 'em intact while you wheel 'em over. It's a difficult job. Right, your turn."
There's banging above me. I raise my hand, but I find that the coffin lid is still shut. Damn it, what's holding these guys up? They seem like the most amateurish grave-robbers in all of England. Still, I should be grateful that they're digging me up at all.
"I've got a bad feeling about this one," says one of the voices. "I reckon it's gonna stink."
I close my eyes as the coffin lid is lifted up. It's night, so there's not much light.
"Not bad," says one of the voices.
"Not bad?" says the other. "He's like brand new. We'll get double the money for this one."
I feel them reach down and haul me up out of the grave. So, I'm to be grave-robbed, cut up and sold to medicine men across the city so they can cut me up. What's the world coming to? People these days have absolutely no respect.
"Excuse me," I say, sitting up, opening my eyes and smiling. "Would either of you happen to know the time? And the year?"
For a moment, they stare at me, completely shocked. Then, at the exact same moment, they both turn and run out of the cemetery. I smile, then I get up, dust myself down and walk slowly after them. For a moment, I feel like being merciful and letting them go, but then I realize how hungry I am. I need meat. I sniff the air to get a good scent, and I realize they're now running in opposite directions to one another. I pick the one on the right and race after him. I leap over the cemetery fence and within thirty seconds I'm right behind the grave-robbing fool. I spring through the air and land on his back, biting a chunk from his neck as we hit the ground.
He dies quickly and I spend a good half hour sitting on his body, eating chunks of flesh. Once I've fed, I make my way back to London carefully. It takes almost a month, since they buried me in the provinces in an unmarked grave. It's dark when I reach the city, and I immediately head for Hannah's father's house. The building looks different somehow, and darker, as if a large family no longer lives here.
Rather than walking straight in through the front door, I prowl around to the back. The hearth fire is burning, but there's no sign of life. I manage to get in through a window and it's immediately obvious that the house is more silent and still than I have ever known it to be. There is something disconcerting about this place as it is now, whereas it was once such a happy house. There used to be children here, but now the corridors are empty.
Finding no-one on the ground floor, I creep up the stairs. Still, the place seems deserted and I'm concerned. Eventually I hear a sound of life from a distant room at the far end of the upstairs corridor. I walk toward the door as quietly as possible and wait outside, listening to the sound of someone breathing inside. It takes a moment before I recognize the sound of Hannah. Sniffing the air, I realize it's definitely her. After all these years, I've found her again.
I push the door open and enter the room, but I'm immediately confronted by a sight I never expected to see. There's only one person in here, and it's an old lady in a small bed by the window. She's staring at the ceiling and she doesn't seem to have noticed me. I make my way over to her and see how white her eyes are. She's blind. And as I look at her face, I see - impossibly - that this is definitely Hannah. My Hannah.
I kneel by the bed.
"How long was I gone?" I ask.
Hannah's head twitches a little. She turns to look in my general direction, but she can't see me. She senses me, though, even if she lacks the ability to say anything.
"What year is it?" I say, having never realized I was in that coffin for so long.
Hannah's white eyes search for me hopelessly. Does she recognize my voice? My smell? She reaches out a hand, but it's an old hand, withered and dying. I can't take it.
I stand up, turn and walk out of the room without looking back. I walk straight down the stairs and out of the house. I can't stay there and watch her die. I'd rather be a dream she had on her deathbed, a hint of something beyond the grave, something that might give her comfort as she dies. To be honest, I've never been very good at watching people die. I always like to move on before things get to that point.
Sophie
I wake up to the smell of grass. Opening my eyes, I find I'm face down in a field. It's a bright, sunny day. I sit up and immediately realize someone is behind me. I turn and see Hamish sitting nearby. His wounds have already started to heal, but they're still visible. Feeling something itchy, I reach up and find that there's a thick rope tied around my neck.
"If you're wondering what's going on," Hamish says, smiling at me, "allow me to illuminate the situation for you. This is a good old-fashioned kidnapping, my darling. Like they used to do in the old days."
I try to pull the rope loose, but it's no use; Hamish has tied it tight and fast.
"You'll just waste energy doing that," he says. "Give it a rest, eh?"
"Where are we?" I ask, turning and looking across the field. I don't want Hamish to see that I'm panicking, but I can't help worrying that a pack of wild wolves is about to appear at any moment. "Where's Patrick?"
Hamish shrugs. "Probably still waiting to face down a bunch of wolves. Or maybe they've arrived and he's in the thick of it, snapping their necks one by one. To be honest, I don't really know. When we left the cave, he was just standing there waiting for an attack. Didn't even notice us leaving, though that's mainly 'cause I sneaked us out of a back exit. So fixated on one thing, that's good old Patrick. You get used to that after a while. The guy's got a one-track mind."
"You just left Patrick there?" I ask, still trying to loosen the rope.
"He'll be fine."
"He was willing to die for you," I say. "And you just left him there?" I figure I need to keep him talking while I work on getting free.
Hamish shrugs. "He won't die. The most he'll get is a few scratches until they realize I'm not with him, and then they'll leave. See? It'd be worse for him if I'd stayed. He'd have insisted on sticking with me. Anyway, I don't need him."
"Then why did you come to ask for his help?"
"I didn't." He fixes me with a curious stare. "I came to ask for your help."
I look at him and try to understand. "Me? I'm just..." I pause for a moment. "You had a choice between a powerful vampire and me, and you chose me?"
He nods. "Aye. I must be suicidal, mustn't I?" He pauses. "You're just a straggly little streak of piss. So. Are you backing out?"
I look around. We're on the edge of the forest. I'm not exactly sure of the way back home, but I know the rough direction. Still tugging on the rope, I realize it's futile; I'm never going to get loose.
"You know what the rest of the pack's doing right now?" Hamish asks. "Well, one of two things. Either they're having a ding-dong fight wit
h Patrick, or they're following a bunch of false trails through the forest. Whichever it is, they're not gonna bother us for a few hours. Still, we'd better get going, 'cause if they find us, they'll kill us." He stares at me. "Both of us."
"We have to go and find Patrick," I say. Despite what Hamish says, I know that Patrick's the only one who can save us.
"No," he says. "Sorry, but we can't do that yet. I've got a bit of a plan, I just need your help. A couple of hours and we can sort all of this out, and we can both be on our way, okay?" He smiles. "I don't know about you, but I don't wanna give Patrick the satisfaction of thinking he's the only way we can get out of this. We don't need him." He makes his way over to a nearby tree, which he sniffs for a moment. "We've gotta get moving," he says eventually. "Follow me."
I stand and stare at him as he starts walking away. He's got the other end of the rope in his hands, and after a moment I have no choice but to follow him.
"If we sit here," he calls back to me, "we're only gonna have all those wolves overrun us."
"You think Patrick won't save me?" I shout back at him.
"I think he would if he could," says Hamish, "but I think he's a bit busy right now. And I think you'll be a lot better off coming with me, because unlike Patrick, I do have a plan, and I do know how to get out of this situation without getting into a big old fistfight. And if I'm right, it's not you who needs saving. It's me, and it's Patrick. So come on. You've got a job to do."
"I'm not going anywhere with you," I say, stopping in my tracks.
"You think you can just stop and walk back?" he asks, pulling hard on the rope, making me keep walking. "They'll find you, and they'll rip you to pieces for fun."
I stand my ground, trying to resist his attempts to pull me along. When he realizes I'm not following, he stops and turns again. "You want to know how far behind us those wolves are? About two, maybe three hours. Do you really not want to live more than two or three more hours, eh?"
"So your answer is just to run," I say. "Just keep running."
He nods. "I've been running for five hundred fucking years," he says. "I'm good at it."
