by Amy Cross
Nimrod. Ever since he arrived in Dedston, I've been concerned about his plans. Nobody else could have helped Sophie get out of the well; nobody else would have even thought to look for her here, but if Nimrod has her, that means he's working on a plan to get hold of Abigail. I knew he'd try something, but I hadn't realized he was so far advanced. I've spared that fool's life plenty of times, but this time I have no choice but to kill him.
"Why didn't you come back for me?" Twomoney asks.
I turn to her, irritated by the interruption.
"I understand that you needed to punish me," she continues, with tears in her eyes, "but I was sure you'd come back for me eventually. I thought you'd just make sure you taught me a lesson first. Instead, you let me die."
I start to walk away. I don't have time to deal with her stupid problems.
"Do you really think you'll find Abigail?" Twomoney calls after me.
I stop dead in my tracks.
"Surprised that I know about Abigail?" she asks, her voice light with a kind of sing-song inflection that suggests she's enjoying taunting me.
Slowly, I turn back to her.
"You forget that I've read parts of the Book of Gothos" she says. "I could see into your mind once, remember? I know about the child. Abigail's her name, isn't it? I know that she..." She pauses, as if she's trying to remember. "I know that the child can't be separated from her parents unless one of those parents willingly gives the child to someone else. But no parent would do that, would they? You wouldn't, and I've met Sophie and I can tell she wouldn't, not unless... Not unless she feared for the child's life. But what could scare a mother so much that she'd be willing to give up her child to save its life?"
I wait for her to finish.
She starts to smile. "This Nimrod man has really outsmarted you, hasn't he?" she says eventually. Her grin is infuriating. I'd rip it from her face if she were more than a ghost. "He's a clever one, and you... Well, you're a lot of things, Patrick. You're strong. You're persuasive. You're powerful. But this time, you needed to be smart. You needed to out-think Nimrod and be prepared for his plans. And you failed, didn't you?"
I take a deep breath, trying to hold back from ripping Twomoney apart.
"I admire you, Patrick," she continues, "but sometimes you need to learn to think with your head instead of your heart. Sometimes you -"
I step forward and reach out to grab her, but of course she's a ghost so my hand goes straight through her. It's a moment of powerlessness that strikes a cold shiver through my body. I've never felt powerless before, but with Twomoney there's nothing to grab hold of, nothing to bite or destroy. She's just an apparition, a collection of thoughts held together by personality and persistence. She's a ghost now, and I can't kill her. Not again.
She laughs. "Always the same, aren't you? Always using violence to strike out at things that displease you. Can you be smart, Patrick, or will your childish impetuosity cause problems again?" She steps closer. "I know you," she continues, almost whispering as she leans toward me. "I remember what you used to be like, and I can tell from your eyes that you haven't changed. You use force to get what you want." She pauses. "Isn't that why you acquired Vincent and pretended he was your father? You're smart, Patrick, but you're impatient. Why take time to do things properly, when you could just smash your way through life and take everything you want? You hoped Vincent would guide you and teach you better ways. But now you're alone, and you have to come up with your own ideas. You're lost, aren't you?"
I turn to stare at her, and she steps back a little. She's nervous, but clearly not scared.
"You're immature," she continues, "but you can be helped. You just need a little guidance. I can do that for you. I'm smart, I've got the brains and the patience you need." She pauses. "Not that you're not intelligent, Patrick. You are, but your judgment is so easily clouded by passion and anger. Maybe I can help. I wouldn't ask for much. Just..." She reaches out and touches my arm. "I might be a ghost, but can't you set me free? Is it beyond your power to help me find a new body?"
For a moment, I consider taking her up on her offer. She's right that I need to temper my rash decisions. I need to be more patient, to wait and try to out-think my opponents. I could go and find Nimrod right now and rip him to shreds, but would that solve anything? Perhaps this is the one area where Nimrod has an advantage: he plans ahead, whereas I storm in and try to just grab whatever I need. My way is often successful, but sometimes I need to try a different approach. Twomoney could -
No.
I mustn't allow myself to think like that.
Twomoney's just a distraction. I trusted her once before, many years ago, and it was a mistake I don't intend to repeat. I have no reason to believe that her ideas are good enough to help me in this situation. She's wrong, anyway: I am smart enough to sort this out without help, and I can use brute force. There is no problem that cannot be resolved with the judicious use of power and strength, applied in the right places. Nimrod might be smart and patient, and he might play a good game, but his neck can still be snapped and suddenly his plans won't do him much good.
I turn and walk away from Twomoney, stopping as I reach the overhang beneath which her bones have been placed. They look pathetic, like the remains of some unremarkable person. Reaching down, I start to gather the bones in my arms.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
I continue gathering the bones until I have them all, and then I carry them back over to the well.
"What are you doing?" she asks again, with a hint of fear in her voice this time.
I reach the well and stare down into the dark depths. Sophie might have been able to get away from me, but Twomoney can rot in darkness for the rest of her life.
"No!" she shouts. "You can't put me back down there!" She runs at me, scratching and clawing at my body to try to get me to stop, but she has no chance, and I drop the bones down into the darkness. As they land with a clatter at the bottom, the scratching and clawing suddenly stop. For a moment there's silence all around me, but finally I hear her voice calling up from the bottom of the well. "Please!" she shouts, her voice pathetic and desperate. "Don't leave me in the dark again."
I slide the covering back over the well. She deserved no better.
Nimrod
Today.
"Soon," I say, checking my watch again.
Sophie stares at me with a harsh, disbelieving look on her face. It's as if she's running out of patience with me, but I understand: she's waited so long to finally hold Abigail, and now the moment is almost here.
"I promise," I add.
We're standing in a clearing in the forest. Patrick will be far, far away right now. I have left a series of clues dotted about town, and it will take him many hours to understand that he is being manipulated and distracted. I need him out of the way right now, but I also need to know that when the time comes, I can call him to us. This is a delicate game that I'm playing, almost like a game of chess. Sophie, Patrick, Abigail and the others are all pieces on the board, and I must make sure that they're each in the right position when the trap finally snaps shut. Like all good chess players, I have to ensure that my opponents focus on the smaller battles and don't notice the bigger picture until it's too late. So far, everything is going according to plan. Just a few more moves are needed before everything is ready and the trap can snap shut on all of us.
"I swear to you," Sophie says, her voice almost trembling, "if this doesn't happen, I'll..." Her voice trails off.
"I wouldn't bring you here if I wasn't sure that -"
"I'm serious," she says, interrupting. "I don't like being caught up in someone else's game."
"This isn't a game," I say.
She sighs.
"You've held her before, you know," I say, trying to calm her a little. "You don't remember, but you held her briefly after she was born."
She nods. "So I've heard," she says, "but... if I don't remember, it doesn't count."
"It might n
ot count for you," I reply, "but for Abigail it certainly counts."
"Were you there when she was born?" Sophie asks.
I shake my head. "No, but others were, and I've heard stories. Believe me, when they heard that Patrick had finally obtained a child of his own, all the ghosts went to watch. Abigail was born in the snow. Patrick let you hold her for a moment before he snatched her away. You barely had time to even look at her face."
"Did I choose her name?" she asks.
"You did," I say, "but you were guided by the prophecy. She was always going to be named Abigail."
"Guided by the prophecy?" she says. "So it got into my head and made me choose that name?"
"Partly," I say. "The prophecy looked into the future, saw that you would name the child Abigail, and ensured that things wouldn't change."
"That's crazy," Sophie says. "I could have named her anything I wanted. I wasn't being controlled by some stupid prophecy."
"I know," I say, "but these things work in dark and mysterious ways."
"Prophecies are just witchcraft dreamed up by people who should know better," she replies. "Nobody's forced to do anything. Do you really believe in stuff like that?"
"Basically, yes," I say. "And -" I pause, hearing a noise nearby. Turning, I see that we are finally being joined by the Flesh Weaver who has been taking care of the child. Stepping slowly through the forest, the creature is twice as tall as a man, and most of its body is covered in a shawl. In its arms, it's carrying a small bundle, and in the bundle there is a sleeping child.
"Is that her?" Sophie asks. She moves to rush forward, but I hold her back.
"Wait!" I say. "Don't make any sudden movements. Flesh Weavers like to take things slow."
"Let go!" Sophie says, trying to squirm out of my grip.
"Wait!" I say again. "You've waited this long, just be patient for a few more seconds. The Flesh Weaver has carried Abigail a great distance."
"That creature has been looking after Abigail?" Sophie asks. She sounds shocked and horrified, as if she can't imagine that such a beast could ever show tenderness or care to a child. I can understand her concern: Flesh Weavers can look rather hideous, terrifying even, although they are actually quite gentle creatures in many ways. They do, though, have a habit of stripping the flesh from their victims, but they're not monsters. They just have different customs and traditions.
"He has done a very good job," I say. "Don't always judge on appearances, Sophie. Flesh Weavers can be the kindest and gentlest creatures in the world."
As the Flesh Weaver finally reaches us, it leans down and holds Abigail out. Tentatively, carefully, Sophie takes the child and holds her in her arms. Once, not long ago, she thought she was holding Abigail, only for the child to dissolve into a bundle of worms. This time, mother and child are finally reunited. It's a beautiful moment, but one that is tinged with sadness because of what must happen soon.
Nimrod
1960.
The funeral is sparsely attended. A few old family friends, some acquaintances of my parents... David didn't have any real life of his own. He was still so young when he died - when he was killed - and he'd not had much chance to enjoy himself. So while the priest gives a moving, if rather impersonal, eulogy, and while the half dozen people gathered at the graveside stand respectfully and give the impression of sorrow, this is ultimately a rather drab and soulless event. Of the people in attendance, I'm the only one who really knew David, and the only one who truly understood the tragedy of his brief life.
"I'm sorry for your loss," says one of the mourners as the the service finishes.
I say nothing, merely nodding. I have no idea who this man is, or how he knows my family.
"Sorry for your loss," says another mourner, barely even making eye contact as he wanders past.
I nod politely.
"My name is Benjamin," the man continues, pressing a business card into my hand. "I won't bother you at such a troubling moment, but I'd be grateful if you could give me a call some time. I believe we have a great deal in common."
"Of course," I reply, even though I have no intention of wasting my time. Pocketing the business card without even looking at it, I smile politely before turning to greet yet another stranger who wishes to offer his condolences.
As rest of the mourners say their goodbyes and trudge away, I'm left alone by the grave as workmen move in to fill the space with dirt. Even the priest is leaving as quickly as possible, his duty completed. There's a very light, fine rain falling, not enough to really get any of us wet but enough to serve as an excuse for those who wish to get away. Nevertheless, I stand by David's grave and try to think of some way in which I might be able to honor him. Ultimately, I come up with nothing. David's death was dishonorable and cruel; no amount of after-thought can ever restore him to glory.
And I killed him.
I can't deny it any longer.
It was me. I killed my own brother.
But I had a good reason!
I did it for Patrick. I did it in order to show Patrick my loyalty. No, that's not quite right. I did it because I believed Patrick would bring David back to life as a vampire. I was wrong. He just left David to die. So who is to blame for the fact that my brother's cold body is in that casket now, about to be buried forever?
Of course, I can blame Patrick for goading me, for encouraging me, but ultimately I was the one who cut into my brother's body and caused the blood to flow from him. I was the one who took razor blades to my teeth, fashioning them into sharp little points. I was the one who believed that David and I could belong to Patrick's world. I truly believed that once Patrick saw the depths of our devotion, he would usher us into his inner circle. Instead, he seemed to be shocked by what I had done. I still remember how he looked at me that day; it was as if he was repulsed by me.
So I did kill my little brother, even though it wasn't my fault. It was Patrick's fault, and he must pay for what he did. Unless I can persuade him to reconsider and take me into his confidence, in which case I can avenge David's death by becoming all-powerful. I'm absolutely certain that David would consider his own death to be a price worth paying if it could only bring me closer to the destiny I know is mine. Patrick was wrong not to admit both of us into his world, and I must show him that this is the case. If I can become like Patrick, I am quite sure that David - wherever he is - will look on with understanding. He was a good brother, and I feel certain that he possessed the ability to understand my predicament.
"You were right to kill me," he says.
Turning, I find David standing right beside me. I was expecting him to return as a ghost at some point, and it had already occurred to me that he might choose to do so at his funeral.
"I'm glad you agree," I say.
"Patrick will see that he was wrong to reject you," he continues. "If my blood is the balm that heals the rift between the two of you, then so be it."
Something moves behind me.
I turn and see nothing, but I know what I felt. Patrick was here. I look over at David, but his ghost is gone. I take a few steps toward the trees, keeping an eye on the scene in front of me. My senses are finely-tuned and I do not make mistakes. There was something there, something large; the only logical conclusion is that it was Patrick. Yes, it makes sense now. Patrick came to see me, to observe my brother's burial. My heart lifts a little as it occurs to me that perhaps this was all part of Patrick's test. Perhaps he wanted me to reach an absolute low, a true nadir of the soul, before he admits me into his world. Perhaps, finally, I am to receive the welcome that I deserve. Perhaps Patrick simply wanted to push me to the brink of defeat, before returning to grant me everything that I have wanted for so long. If this is the case, he has taught me a valuable lesson.
I walk closer to the trees. I'm convinced he's here, lurking somewhere. He's watching, and waiting. He must see value in me after all. I just have to show him that I'm strong, and that I can be of use to him. I know he wants someone to take over his role
as the last vampire, and I can do that. All he has to do is give me the blessing that will turn me into a creature like him. It's insane not to give this to me. I am the only person who is in a position to succeed Patrick; I am the only person who can not only take his place, but rise higher and higher.
"Come out," I say carefully, not wanting to scare him away. "I heard you. I know you're there. I need to talk to you." I step into the undergrowth, desperate to find him, but he's not there. "Patrick!" I call out, hoping against hope that he'll make himself known to me.
"Are you okay?" a voice asks.
I turn to find that one of the cemetery workers has come over to check on me. He looks concerned, and his colleague is watching from a distance.
"I'm fine," I say, bristling at this interruption by such a common man. "I thought I saw -" I pause. "I thought I saw a friend over here, that's all." It feels wrong to describe Patrick as a 'friend', but how else can I explain it? A stupid cemetery worker would never understand a creature such as Patrick; nor would he understand my own ambitions.
"There was someone," the man says. "I saw him. Looked like he didn't want to be seen."
"You saw him?" I ask.
The man nods. "He seemed pretty keen to make sure you wouldn't see him."
"Why didn't you tell me before?" I ask, almost shouting at the fool.
"None of my business," the man says, walking back over to the grave.
"None of your business?" I ask, shocked. There's a part of me that right now would love to go and tear that damn fool's head off. He has no right drawing another breath, yet this is the side of me that I must suppress. Patrick is a passionate creature; he lives for the moment and he rarely seems to think ahead. I admire Patrick very much, but I see this impetuosity of his as a weakness. While I very much aspire to be like Patrick in many ways, there are a few ways in which I would like to be subtly different. I am more intelligent than most men, after all, and I might as well use that advantage as best I can. You could even say that in this regard, Patrick and I are complete opposites: he relies upon strength and passion, and I rely upon logic and rationality.
