by Amy Cross
Epilogue
I open my eyes slowly.
It's morning, and the alarm on my phone is ringing. I reach out and switch it off, and then I sit up in bed, look around and see that I'm alone. I have the strangest feeling that I was having a nightmare, but I can't remember the details at all. My mind feels foggy, as if I've lost the ability to remember any of my dreams. I take a deep breath and let my surroundings sink in. I'm still not entirely used to sleeping at Nimrod's apartment. For one thing, he's obviously not short of money and so everything is new and modern; for another, I've always lived at home with my mother and brother, and suddenly I'm sharing an apartment with a guy I don't really know very well. But it has to be this way. My mother and brother can't protect me from Patrick. Nimrod can.
Getting out of bed, I throw on some clothes and head through to the front room, where I find Nimrod reading something from his laptop.
"Good morning," he says, in that slightly-overly-polite way of his. "Did you sleep well?"
"Uh-huh," I say.
"Good," he replies. "You need to sleep. You need all the strength you can get after all the stress you've been under."
"Yep," I say, loitering by the doorway. "What are you up to?"
"Just reading," he says, closing the lid of his laptop. "I have to go out and attend to some business. Will you be okay here until I get back?"
I nod. "Do I have a choice?" I ask, but then I instantly realize how ungrateful I sound. "Sorry," I add, "I didn't mean that to come out like I'm a spoiled brat or something."
"It's fine," Nimrod says, standing and walking over to me. "It must be very difficult being cooped up in here, but it's really the only way to make sure Patrick can't get at you."
I nod again. I know he's right. Last time Patrick found me, he knocked me out and threw me down a well. If I'm going to find Abigail and get us both away from Dedston, I need to accept Nimrod's help, at least for now.
"I'll be back before lunch," Nimrod says, checking his watch. "Don't leave the apartment. You're safe as long as you're here, but if you set foot out the door, Patrick might be waiting." He stares at me. "Do you promise?"
I nod. "I'll be right here," I say. I don't necessarily trust Nimrod completely, but I'm downright terrified of Patrick. I'm happy to stay here for now. I need time to think, and to work out how I'm going to track down Abigail.
Once Nimrod has left the apartment, I go to the window and watch him walk away down the street. Grabbing my phone, I try once again to call Shelley, but she doesn't pick up. I leave yet another voice-mail message, and then I grab Nimrod's laptop and open the lid. Fortunately, I don't need a password to see what he's been doing. I check his browser history and find what appears to be a page about a woman: Evangeline LaCroix. The name seems strangely familiar, although I can't place it. The listing is short:
Evangeline LaCroix (1856 - 1886) was an English aristocrat who, from 1876 to her death, was married to Lord Edward LaCroix of Gabriel Hall. She died during childbirth in 1886. Her son Thomas LaCroix survived her.
I click through to the page about Gabriel Hall, and find that there's a little more information:
Gabriel Hall was an English country mansion in the county of Berkshire. Built between 1820 and 1825, the house initially served as the county seat of the LaCroix family. Ownership passed through successive generations of the family until a great fire in 1885 completely destroyed the building. The cause of the fire remains unclear but the heat was so great that not even the foundations survived. There is no record of the appearance or layout of the house. No attempt was made at rebuilding Gabriel Hall, and the site is today farmland.
I click back to the entry for Evangeline, and this time I check the page for her husband Edward. It's a longer entry, covering his years in government and his work as a political figure, but one passage stands out:
In 1886, following the death of his wife Evangeline, Edward LaCroix retired from public life and lived off his investments. Two years later, he traveled with his manservant Christopher Lively to Eastern Europe, ostensibly to conduct research into the mythology of the region. He was never heard from again and, despite the absence of a body, he is assumed to have died. The body of Christopher Lively was discovered in 1975 during excavation work for a housing project in Warsaw, Poland; Lively appeared to have been stabbed in the chest, and a brick had been placed in his mouth, a tradition that is strongly linked to Eastern European superstitions related to the vampire myth.
"The vampire myth, huh?" I mutter under my breath, smiling. This whole thing seems to be too much of a coincidence. Why is Nimrod looking up the details of some nineteenth century woman who died in childbirth when she was thirty, and who was married to an undistinguished British politician whose main claim to fame seems to have been a hunt for vampires in Eastern Europe? I guess Nimrod has a fascination with vampires, given his history with Patrick, but still...
That name, Evangeline LaCroix, is stuck in my mind. It's as if I remember her, yet I can't remember why, and the other details seem strangely familiar as well; I feel as if I've been to Gabriel Hall, or at least read about it before. But the place is in England, and I've never even left the US. It's almost as if I've been there in a dream; one of those dreams where you can remember a few snatches of detail but overall there's nothing substantial.
I close the laptop again. There's still so much about Nimrod that I don't know. When I first met him, he seemed dangerous, but then he saved my life. I still don't know exactly what happened between him and Patrick, either, but he's the only one who can help me right now, so I have to accept that help and stay close to him. I also have to be wary, because I have a feeling that there's going to come a time when I have to cut my ties to Nimrod. I can't let my guard down for a second. I have to find Abigail, and then I have to run.
Book Five
Shelley
Prologue 1
"Hey!" shouts a voice from behind me. "Where do you think you're going?"
I limp to a halt. Damn it, why do I have to get interrupted tonight of all nights? Sighing, I turn slowly to see the security guard marching toward me. He looks so full of himself, so pumped up on petty authority. I can't put into words the extent of my anger; to think that a thick-headed idiot like this has the right to stop me going about my business.
"This is private property," he says as he reaches me. He looks down uneasily at the can in my hand. "What's in there?" he asks.
"Nothing," I say. "I'm sorry, I thought this was a public park." It's not a bad excuse. Most of this area is open to the public, but this corner is closed off. There's an old factory, long since abandoned but still owned by the Watcher Corporation.
"Didn't you see the signs?" the guard asks.
"Signs?" I reply, trying to seem innocent. "I'm sorry, no."
He stares at me. I can tell he's not entirely buying my story. "What's in the can?" he asks again.
"Nothing," I say.
"Show me," he insists.
"I'll leave," I say. "I'm sorry for the misunderstanding." I turn to walk away, but he puts a hand on my shoulder.
"Show me what's in the can," he says firmly.
I pause. "It's just paint," I say. "You really don't want to -"
"Let's get one thing straight," he replies, interrupting. "You're going to show me what's in the can, or I'm going to take you down to the station and have you charged with trespassing, okay?"
I turn to him. "Fine," I say. I hold the can out. "Take it. Open it."
He shakes his head. "I'm asking you to open it, Sir," he says.
Sighing, I put the can on the ground. Pulling a small knife from my pocket, I use the blade to pop the lid. Once the can is open, I stand back so that the security guard can see it properly.
"What the hell is that?" he asks, obviously sickened by the sight.
"It's a human liver," I reply. "Well, 80% of one, and that's more than enough. It's soaking in human blood. I don't have much time, it needs to be refrigerated in the next ten m
inutes or there could be irreparable damage. There's -" I stop speaking as the guard steps back and draws his gun, aiming it at me.
"Don't fucking move," he says.
"Is something wrong?" I ask. No answer. He just stares at me, holding the gun up toward my face. "I know what you're thinking," I say. "You're thinking that if you'd just let me get on my way, none of this would have had to have happened. Am I right?"
"Where are you taking that?" he asks.
"To my lab," I reply. There's no point trying to hide anything now. I've already accepted that I'm going to have to kill this idiot, so I might as well let him know the truth before he dies.
"Where's your lab?" he barks.
I notice his finger resting on the trigger of the gun. One slight squeeze, and I'd take a bullet to the face at close range. I wouldn't survive. "Over here," I say. "In the factory."
"Show me," he says.
"Show you?" I ask. "Why?"
"Show me," he says. "Walk toward it."
I shrug and turn, walking toward the abandoned factory.
"What's your name?" the guard asks.
"John Smith," I say. "What's yours?"
He doesn't reply. As we continue to walk, I don't look back, but I'm fully aware that he's right behind me, with the gun aimed at me. Eventually we reach the small iron door in the side of the building.
"Is this the way in?" he asks.
"It is," I say. "Do you want to see inside?"
"Open the door," he says.
I do as he instructs, and then I turn to him. There's a determined look in his face, but it's all an act. He's trying desperately hard to seem authoritative and strong, but the truth is that he should have called for back-up already. He's trying to impress his bosses by handling this himself. He's a fool, and his bravado will get him killed.
"In," he says.
I head into the factory. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I hear the guard follow me inside.
"Where's your lab?" he asks.
"On the next level," I say. "There's nothing down here, just -" For a moment, I hear something moving in the distance, something scuttling among the debris. I smile. "Everything you want to see is up there," I say, pointing to some wooden stairs in the corner.
"You go first," he says.
Sighing, I head over to the stairs and start walking up to the next level. Again, I briefly hear the sound of something moving far off in the building. The creature wasn't supposed to encounter strangers for a few more weeks, but I suppose this will be a good early test of its abilities. If it shies away from the guard, I'll have to find a way to instil it with a greater sense of aggression. Conversely, if it attacks too soon, I'll have to temper its passion and show it the virtue of patience. Sculpting this creature's mind, turning it into the beast that I desire, is a long process and one that requires careful, incremental steps, but this is a challenge for which I have been preparing many years, and I am quite certain that soon the creature will be ready for the next stage of its development. This security guard's arrival, though certainly unexpected, could turn out to be a welcome blessing if it helps to hone the creature's taste for blood.
"It's okay," I say, "he won't hurt you."
"Who won't hurt me?" the guard asks.
I turn to him and smile. "I wasn't talking to you."
He suddenly spins around as he hears a noise off in the distance. There's nothing to see, though, and he turns back to me. I can see the fear in his eyes, but he's not about to show me that he's terrified. "You go up first," he says.
At gunpoint, I carefully walk up the wooden stairs until we both reach the next level, where the satisfying hum of my laboratory fills the air. There are various computers and machines working away on desktops, and some pipes leading to and from the main vat. It doesn't actually look too suspicious, even though its existence in this supposedly abandoned warehouse might raise some questions.
"What's all this shit for?" the guard asks.
I turn to him. "This shit is for my experiments," I say. "I figured that since this building is abandoned, no-one would mind me using the space." I glance at the gun, which is still pointed at me. "I see that I was wrong."
"What kind of experiments?" he asks.
"Symbio-genetic deviation," I reply, knowing full well that this ignorant fool won't have a clue what I'm talking about. "Replication, stratification, that sort of thing." I smile. "None of these things are particularly ground-breaking when taken alone, but when you put them together in the right way -"
"This isn't legal," the guard says. "You need permits for this kind of thing."
"Probably," I say. "I never bothered to ask. Benjamin said it would be okay."
He turns to me. "I'm calling in back-up," he says, pulling a phone from his pocket.
"That's fine," I say. "I'll wait right here." I turn and wander over to the window. Outside, the park looks so dark and foreboding. It's good to be home.
"This is Officer Logan," says the guard behind me. "Requesting full police assistance at -" Suddenly his voice cuts off and I hear the phone fall to the floor. A fraction of a second later, there's a horrific scream. I turn to see that my creature has, as expected, sensed that it's time to attack the intruder. It's a magnificent sight, seeing the beast as it bites into the guard's head and chews on his face. The guard is still alive, desperately clawing at the creature, trying to get it to fall back. But it's no use. The creature is far too strong and far too hungry, and soon it has started to chew on the guard's skull. Within a few minutes, the guard has stopped fighting back and falls limp while the creature crushes his head with its jaws. Blood and brain matter flow from the cracks, and eventually the creature's long tongue reaches into the skull cavity and extracts the brain, dropping the rest of the body so that it can chew on the real prize.
"You're doing very well," I say, grinning with paternal pride. The creature might not be my child biologically, but in every other way I am most certainly its father. I created it, I raised it, and I am training it. I walk over to the mobile phone. A voice is repeatedly asking the guard if he's okay. I pick up the phone and disconnect the call. The police will soon be able to trace the location of the phone, so the creature and I will have to leave this place. A shame, but perhaps I should take the move as a good thing. It's time for the creature and I to head out into the real world. We have a place to wait; somewhere we can be safe while the creature learns to be a more efficient killer.
I pull my own phone from my pocket and dial the only number listed in the address book.
"How are things going?" asks Nimrod as soon as he answers.
"You'll rejoice to hear," I say, "that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of the enterprise."
"Is it ready?" he asks.
"We need a little longer," I reply. "We're going to move to the other location, for security reasons. The original laboratory is being abandoned. It's not a problem, though." I glance over at the creature and see that it has started to pull out the spinal column from the guard's body. "I think you'll be very pleased with how things are going. Is there any sign of our mutual friend?"
"Patrick's being kept busy," Nimrod says, "and Sophie's in my apartment. Benjamin is a little impatient, but I've told him to wait. The Watchers will get what they want, but not yet."
"Sounds like everything's going just fine," I say. "I'll let you know when we're in position, but rest assured that everything is running according to plan. The creature is gaining strength every day. We might even be ahead of schedule."
"Good," Nimrod replies. "I was starting to wonder if you'd let me down, but now I'm rather confident. Don't be a stranger." And with that, he disconnects the call.
I look over at the creature. More than half of the guard's body has now been consumed. Although time is tight, I'll allow the creature to finish its meal before we get going. I want it to enjoy the taste of blood, and to understand the value of a corpse. The project might be a long way from being completed, but
the signs so far are good. We have created an entirely new life-form, bred for a specific purpose. We have created a killer, and now we're almost ready to send it after its target. It was difficult to get the job done without obtaining a sample of Patrick's blood, but we found ways to work around the main problems. When we're done, the last vampire on Earth will be consumed by such agony that he will never be able to trouble any of us again.
I look over at the jars by the window. Each one contains a small fetus; each of them is a failure. It took me so many years to get everything right. My notebooks are filled with accounts of failure after failure, but finally I created the ultimate killing machine. Its body is a little unstable, but it will serve its purpose. Born and bred to slaughter, it will find its target and it will be unable to think of anything but hatred.
Suddenly there's a blinding pain in my shoulder. I turn to find that the creature has bitten me. For a moment, I feel I should try to fight, but then I realize there's no point. Realization dawns and I understand that I've taught him well. Too well. He has recognized that he is stronger than me. He knows that he doesn't need me anymore, and like all good sons, he is going to throw off his father in the most violent way possible. I could try to fight, but somehow that would seem wrong. This is the final test. He has to kill his own father.
He slowly releases my shoulder from his jaws. He stares at me. I can't imagine what's going through his mind. Is he even capable of compassion? Or have I succeeded in creating something that's full of nothing but pure rage and evil?
"Good boy," I say, determined not to scream or to show fear. "Very, very good boy."
He opens his jaws and takes my head into his mouth. Everything goes black, I hear a loud snap, and the world - for me, at least - comes to an end.
