by Amy Cross
I glance at Patrick. "Does he know?" I ask Vincent.
Vincent takes a deep breath. "Not yet," he says. "I must speak to him alone. This will not be easy."
"How long do you have?" I ask.
"Hours," says Vincent. "No more than that."
"You said Patrick was dead," I say. "Why should I believe you now?"
Vincent steps toward me. "I had to let you think Patrick was dead," he says. "However, I would give anything in the world to be able to tell you that I'm going to live. I'm just a human, like you. This day was always going to come."
I look over at Patrick. Still covered in Keller's blood, he stares at us. It's as if he knows that something's wrong, but at the same time it's clear from his eyes that he's still filled with the rage that he used in order to kill Keller. In fact, I don't dare go anywhere near him, because he seems to be... not himself. As I look at his rage-filled eyes, I'm not sure if he'll ever be the same again.
"Leave us," Vincent says, walking across the room. "Patrick and I must talk." He puts a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "You did well," he says, as if he's trying to calm him down. "You did very well."
Martin Keller
Many years ago
"Martin!"
I ignore it. It's just one more distraction. I really need to get a lock for the basement door.
"Martin!"
There's no point answering. I move around the table, checking for anything that might be out of place. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of gears and switches and systems are laid out before me. It's so complicated, so intricate, and so perfect.
"Martin!"
The door to the basement opens. I hate when she does this. She stomps down the wooden steps and storms over to me.
"Are you deaf?" she yells. "Seriously, Martin. Are you deaf?"
I shake my head.
"Didn't you hear me calling you?"
I nod. "I heard you, dear," I say. "I called back, but you didn't seem to hear me." I smile. "Perhaps you're the one who's deaf?"
She instantly jabs me in the ribs. It hurts, but I stay upright.
"I thought we had an agreement," she says. "Remember? You promised to stop playing with this rubbish and start being a real husband. Yes?"
I nod. I do, indeed, remember the agreement. However, I entered into it under duress, so I don't consider it to be binding. Besides, one only enters into - and adheres to - an agreement if one stands to benefit from doing so. Otherwise, what point is there?
"You don't care, do you?" she asks. "You're so wrapped up in your own little world, you don't care about anyone but yourself and this... thing!" She looks at the little community marked out on the table. There are little roads and houses, rivers and bridges, and winding between them is the most perfect little train line. It took me years to get the arrangement right. Years and years...
"I'm busy," I say.
"Oh, you're never busy!" she shouts. "You're always occupied with some waste of time, but you're never busy. Not like real men. You're never actually doing anything that's got anything to do with anything except this stupid train-set."
I consider the possibility that she might be right. After all, I do spend a lot of time down here. But that's not because I like train-sets. To be honest, I find them rather boring. It's just that they offer a certain distraction from... other concerns.
"This is going," she says firmly.
I pick up one of the train engines. Seven inches long, gleaming green paint, it's a perfect replica of a 1911 Henderson Gauge steam engine from the old Mississippi line.
"Do you hear me, Martin?" she says. "I've had enough. Tomorrow morning, this is all going."
I don't reply.
"Martin!"
I turn, pull her close to me and, finally, I ram the Henderson Gauge straight down her throat. She struggles, but she can't get away. I push the train further and further, and I don't stop, not even when blood starts splattering up from the depths of her mouth.
Finally, I let her go and she falls to the ground.
I don't know what killed her. Perhaps it was the Henderson Gauge blocking her airway. Perhaps it was loss of blood. Perhaps it was shock. But she's dead now, and it's an amazing feeling to fantasize about doing something for so long and then to finally do it.
"You're right," I say. "I'll pack it all up tomorrow."
I head over to the stairs. It's time to go up, have a glass of beer and decide what to do next. Still, I have time to think. It's ironic, in a way, that my loud wife is unlikely to be missed at all by anyone at all.
Sophie
I walk Shelley home, partly so I can talk to her and explain everything, and partly because I feel I need to give Patrick and Vincent some time alone. When we get to Shelley's house, I promise her that I'll explain everything when I get a chance. I tell her that it's complicated, but that it's important, and I make her promise she won't tell anyone what she saw, not even Rob. She agrees.
"No-one else knows about this?" she asks.
"Just you."
She smiles. "You could've told me sooner."
"I guess so," I say. "Thanks for following me. I'm pretty sure you saved my life."
She nods. "All in a day's work. Come and find me when you're ready to talk about it, yeah?"
"I promise."
Once I've left Shelley behind, I decide that I have to go back to the cavern. When I get down there, it seems at first that there's no-one about. When I was told Patrick was dead, a part of me still held out hope that it wasn’t true. Now that Patrick is back but Vincent is dying, I can't help wondering if maybe there can be another miracle.
The problem is, I've only ever known Patrick when Vincent is around. I've always seen Vincent as a force that stabilizes Patrick and keeps him from become whatever kind of monster lurks within. The truth is, I'm scared of the thought of Patrick living without Vincent, because I'm terrified that Patrick will finally be free of the only influence that keeps him under control.
I can hear movement in Vincent's room. At first, I loiter outside. I don't know whether I'm supposed to go in, whether I'd be welcome or whether I'd be intruding. Eventually I decide to enter, to see what's happening and to find out if I can help. Even if there’s nothing I can do, I want to be there when Vincent passes away. As I enter the room, I see that he's sleeping now, with Patrick sitting watching him. I come close to them, and I put my hand on Patrick’s shoulder.
“Is it true?” I ask. “Is he really dying?”
Patrick stares at me for a moment, and then - finally - he nods. It’s one of the few times he’s ever really responded to anything I’ve said to him. After a moment, he turns, reaches out a hand and brushes the old, gray hair from across Vincent’s face.
"Leave us for a moment," Vincent says suddenly, barely able to speak.
I turn to go, but Patrick puts a hand on my shoulder, as if he wants me to stay. As he heads out of the room, I realize that he was the one Vincent was asking to leave the room.
"Come closer," Vincent whispers. Once I'm sitting next to him, he manages a smile. "I got this all wrong," he says. "I thought I'd have time to help you, but I won't."
"You don't have to help me," I say.
"You must go to Gothos," he replies. "You and Patrick, and you must take The Lock with you. You'll understand when you get there. There will be people waiting to receive you. You have to help Patrick play his final role in the history of the vampires."
"Okay," I say, nodding but not really understanding any of this. "I thought all the other vampires were dead."
"They are," Vincent says, "but there are ghosts to be taken care of. They're all around, in the forest, in the city, everywhere. They're waiting to be released. After Gothos, the old vampires will be dead forever, in every form." He coughs. "The prophecy has asserted itself once again. The Book of Gothos won't allow any deviation, not for long."
I nod. I still don't really get it, but I guess I'll figure it out when we get to this Gothos place.
"You can't die," I say. "You t
old me that there's always a way. You said that no matter how bad things get, there's always a way out if you're smart enough to find it. So come on, Vincent. Find the way out. If Martin Keller bit you and poisoned you, find a way to defeat the poison." I stare at him, and I can see he's fading away. "Do something," I urge him.
"Sometimes," he says, "the only thing to do is to make sure your death save the lives of others."
I think about his death. "Will we ever see you again?" I ask.
"Death is death," he says. "I don't know what happens next, but I don't think I'll be coming back this way again." He tries to laugh, but just ends up coughing.
"And the prophecy?" I ask. "You said there was a prophecy. You told me that Patrick's going to kill me one day."
Vincent smiles. "Prophecy is prophecy," he says. "You can't change what is to come."
There's silence for a couple of minutes, and Vincent's breathing is getting slower.
"I'll get Patrick," I say. I go to move, but Vincent takes my hand.
"When I was young," he says, his voice weak. "I learned that my father didn't need a son." He breathes slowly, carefully. "I learned that my father needed a father."
My heart turns heavy as I realize the truth.
"Patrick isn't my father by blood," Vincent whispers, "but he raised me. As I got older, I realized that he needed a father figure, so that's what I became. Over the years, I aged while he seemed to stay the same. He's strong and powerful, but he's still so confused."
Hearing a noise over by the door, I turn to see that Patrick has come back into the room.
"I'm sorry," I say.
He keeps his gaze fixed on Vincent, but I swear that for a moment I see a hint of tears in his eyes.
“He’s not dead yet,” I say. It’s all I can think to say to try to make Patrick feel better. “He can still fight this, maybe you’ll find a way...” I stop talking. Somehow, everything I say feels empty and useless.
I look at Vincent’s eyes, which are staring up at me, and I realize something. He’s already dead. It happened while I was looking at Patrick.
I gently slip my hand from his.
Slowly, I lean my head against Patrick’s shoulder. We sit there, the two of us, with Vincent's dead body laid out in front of us. I have so many questions, but I guess this isn't the moment. Now is the time to grieve, to remember Vincent, and to consider how we’re going to go on without him. I keep expecting Patrick to push me away, to turn and storm angrily out of the room, but he doesn't. Instead, he stays where he is, letting me keep my head on his shoulder.
Book 6
Gothos
Prologue
I look up just as the night sky breathes fire straight down at me. There's a massive explosion nearby, rocking everything around me and knocking me off my feet. Scrambling about in the mud, I'm almost deafened by the sound of machine guns and further explosions. All around me, men are shouting and screaming, most of them standing by ladders preparing to go over the top. They're going to die. All of them, they're going to die.
“What the hell are you doing here?” shouts a British soldier, wide-eyed as he helps me get to my feet.
I open my mouth, but I don't know what to say.
He grabs me and pulls me over to one side. “Are you a nurse?” he yells over the sound of more explosions. The whole trench shakes again as another explosion lights up the sky. “What's your name?”
“Sophie!” I shout back. “Sophie Hart! You've got to help me, I shouldn't be here!”
“Join the club”. He looks puzzled. “Are you American?”
“Yes!” I shout.
“What're you doing in France?” he shouts, just as a whistle sounds. He looks over his shoulder for a moment, then back at me. “That's the one-minute signal,” he says. “We're going over the top now. You can't come, but... you can't stay here, they'll destroy you”.
There's another loud explosion, showering the trench with mud. There's nowhere for us to take cover, so we just hide our faces until the debris has stopped raining down on us. Nearby, there's another whistle.
“Thirty seconds,” says the soldier.
“What year is it?” I shout.
“What?”
“What year is it?” I shout, louder than before.
He pauses. “1917,” he says. “Why, are -”
“Damn!” I shout, interrupting him. 1917. That means there's still another year before the First World War ends. I look along the trench at the soldiers – most of them so young – about to go over the top and meet almost certain death. I look at the soldier I'm standing with. “Don't go!” I shout at him. “You'll die!”
He gives me a strange look and turns away, but I grab him and pull him back toward me.
“Help!” I shout. “You've got to get me out of here!”
The whistle sounds again, and this time it doesn't stop. The other men start climbing up the ladders, shouting as they go, and the sound of gunfire intensifies. The soldier with me turns and runs over to a ladder, turning back for a moment to shout: “You never know!” He climbs the ladder, but before he's even over the top he's cut down by a storm of machine gun fire, his body falling back into the trench. I run over and look at him, but he's clearly dead, with several bullet wounds on his face and down his torso.
I run along the trench, deafened by the sound of explosions and gunfire. I have to find a way back out of here. There's no way I can stay, I have to get back to save Patrick. I can't die here, ninety years before I was even born. But as I search desperately for the door, I hear a high-pitched whining sound coming closer and closer. Turning, I look up to see something metal and dark flying through the sky, coming straight toward me. A bomb.
This is it, then. This is how I'm going to die: a bomb in the face. As it reaches me, I turn away and close my eyes tight. There's a flash of light.
12 hours earlier
(or 95 years later)
Sophie
Something rustles in the bushes behind me and I turn quickly, but there's nothing there. I swear, I'm getting more and more paranoid these days. Standing in a forest clearing, with probably not another living creature for miles, I keep thinking I hear something nearby. It's an odd sensation, as if something is walking around close to me, pacing back and forth just beyond the corner of my eye. There's nothing there, of course, but I've learned recently not to take things at face value. Although I think I'm alone here in the forest, there's a good chance I'm not.
I'm waiting by a small door built into an earth-bank. I've been stood here for almost an hour, ever since Patrick indicated that I should wait outside while he went through the door. I've no idea what he's doing down there, and I guess I just have to wait for him to return. Damn it, things were easier when Vincent was alive. I could ask him, and he'd – usually – fill me in. Now it's just me and Patrick and, since he never speaks, I'm just going to have to trust him.
I hear footsteps from behind the door, and finally Patrick emerges, with an old man next to him. The old man hides his eyes from the sunlight, so I guess he's been down there a while. Patrick just stands there the same as always, not saying anything and with no real expression on his face.
“What are we doing?” I ask.
Patrick turns to look at the old man, who's wearing nothing but rags. After a moment, he turns and starts walking away.
“I think we're supposed to follow him,” the old man says, squinting in the bright sunlight. He turns to me, and a curious smile cross his lips. "I think I know who you are. Sophie Hart, I believe." He stares at me for a moment. "I expected you to be taller," he says eventually, "but I guess it doesn't really matter. I guess things can really start moving, now that Patrick's found you."
Glancing across the clearing, I see that Patrick is walking away from us.
"I'm the Lock," the old man says, before setting off after Patrick. "Come on. We might as well get going."
“Where?” I ask, trying to decide whether I should just blindly follow them.
/> “Hasn't he told you?” asks The Lock, grinning as he looks back at me. “I suppose not. Old Patrick isn't very talkative, is he? Not anymore”.
"I want to know where we're going before I agree to anything," I tell him.
“Did Vincent ever tell you about Gothos?” he asks.
“He mentioned it,” I say. “But only in passing. It's a place, isn't it?”
“You'll see,” says The Lock as we arrive at another door, where Patrick's waiting for us.
“Where did all these doors come from?” I ask.
Patrick turns the handle and pulls the door open, revealing stone steps leading down into the darkness.
“Are we going down there?” I turn to Patrick, then to The Lock.
“She's a human, Patrick,” says The Lock sternly. “You know what it means if you take a human to Gothos”.
Patrick glances at me, and then he heads through the door and starts walking down the steps.
“Are you sure about this?” asks The Lock.
I shake my head.
“Come on,” he says, almost seeming friendly for a moment. “They're waiting for us”.
“Who?” I wait for him to answer. “Who's waiting for us? Why are we going to this place?”
“We've been invited for dinner,” says The Lock. “I'm sure they've got the table set by now”.
I think about this for a moment. “They know we're coming?”
The Lock smiles. “They have spies everywhere,” he says. “And scouts, watching over us. Haven't you ever felt like there was someone behind you in the forest?”
He starts following Patrick down the stone steps. I glance over my shoulder. Behind us, I can see only the green expanse of forest. To be honest, however, I've often as if I'm being watched out here, and in town too, as if there are ghosts on all the roads. I used to dismiss the feeling as paranoia, but now I'm not so sure.
Astley
According to mother, I'm an ungrateful, obnoxious, foul-mouthed, idiotic little bastard who has no understanding of the world in which I live. Shows what she knows. After all, mother is hardly a paragon of virtue. She spends all day shuffling from room to room in that pathetic old gown like some kind of demented toad, slinking to the windows in order to look out over the gardens, with a gin and tonic clasped delicately in her wiry old hands. There's nothing in her demeanor or gait that implies she is a person who is even remotely qualified to pass judgment upon others. Quite where she gets her ideas from, I have no idea.
