by Amy Cross
No response. Nothing. Just those dark, old eyes staring straight into my soul. It's like staring at a dying beast.
"What do you want?" I ask eventually. "Do you just want to die, or is there something else? They..." I look over at the door, to make sure we're still alone. "They say you're dangerous," I continue, turning back to him. "They say you'll kill them all if you're released. Is that true?" I wait for a response. "I don't believe them," I say eventually. "I don't think you're a killer. I don't think you'd kill anyone unless they really deserved it."
For a moment, I think I see a flicker of recognition in his eyes, but it's soon gone and I guess that in my desperation I probably imagined it. I just want some sign of a connection.
"Wait here," I say, turning and taking a couple of steps away before putting my arms around the large metal stake. With all my strength, I try to pull it away from him. After all, if I'm his daughter, maybe I've inherited some of his strength. Unfortunately, I can't make the damn thing budge at all. No matter how hard I try, it feels as if it's rammed permanently into his chest; eventually, I lose my grip and fall to the floor. "Fuck it!" I say as I get back up. I feel like -
Suddenly an image flashes into my mind: it's Patrick, stumbling through a blizzard. He's carrying something in his arms, some kind of package or bundle. The snow is so thick, he can barely walk, and he -
As soon as the image arrives, it's gone again.
"Is everything okay in here?" asks Benjamin as he comes back through.
"Fine," I say, deciding to keep the image to myself for now. I guess I can ask Shelley about it later. "I was just... You know, hanging out and stuff."
He smiles. I'm pretty sure he knows exactly what I was doing. I mean, a place like this probably has a ton of cameras and sensors everywhere. Still, what does he expect me to do? Does he think I'm supposed to not try to help my father when he's being held against his will? What kind of a daughter would just let this stuff happen? Besides, I can't ignore the dull vibration of his pain. I can feel his agony in my heart, and I need to find a way to make it stop.
"So when are you gonna let him go?" I ask.
"When the time is right," Benjamin replies.
"Which is when?"
"I don't know yet," he says. "We can't afford to make any mistakes."
"Who decides?" I ask.
"I do."
"But you are going to let him out of here, right?" I say. "You're not going to just leave him like this until he dies?"
"Of course not," he says. "There's an active discussion going on between the members of our team as to when would be the right moment to let Patrick loose again." He steps closer to my father, whose eyes are closed again. "Did he respond at all when you were talking to him?"
"No," I lie. That brief moment of eye contact was the only contact I've really had with Patrick so far, and it feels like a secret between the two of us.
"I didn't think he'd show any sign of recognizing you," Benjamin replies. "We've been monitoring his brainwaves and he seems to be very subdued. I'm sorry to say that he probably doesn't even know you're here."
"I guess not," I say.
"That time will come," he continues. "For now, I imagine you'd like to learn more about your lineage. We have a great many reference works that can give you an idea of your father's history and the history of the vampire race in general."
There's that word again. Vampire. Since I got here, these people have been acting as if vampires are real, but I still can't quite get my head around it. To me, vampires are creatures in books and films, and it's almost impossible to believe that they could ever exist. Then again, everything about Dedston and these Watcher guys seems to be totally insane, so I guess I have to learn to start believing impossible things. Somehow, though, I feel as if it's all true. I don't know why, but it all seems to make sense to me. For the first time in my life, it's as if I understand where I come from. This feels right.
"Can I go for a walk?" I say, turning to Benjamin. "There's a whole town here, isn't there? I want to go and look around Dedston."
"Not right now," he replies. "You'll need to be accompanied at all times, and Todd isn't available currently. When he gets back, I'm sure he'll be only too happy to take you for a short trip."
"So I can't go alone?" I ask.
"I'm afraid not."
I look over at Patrick. "So I'm a prisoner here," I say. "Just like him."
"It's for your own safety," he replies. "You saw those Tenderlings at the diner. Believe me, they're nothing compared to some of the other creatures that would like to get their hands on the daughter of the last vampire. You're a very special girl, Abby. Even a sample of your hair, or a flake of your skin, is more valuable than all the gold and silver in the world. You simply can't go wandering around by yourself."
I shrug. "Okay. I guess I'll just hang out here for a while and then I'll come and take a look at those books you mentioned."
"I'll go and tell our archivist that you're ready," he says, turning and heading for the door.
Once he's gone, I walk quickly back over to Patrick. "Can you hear me?" I whisper, looking up into his face. Once again, he slowly opens his eyes and stares at me. "I don't know if you understand what I'm saying," I tell him, keeping my voice down as low as possible, "but I'm going to get you out of here. I don't know how, but I'm going to get this thing out of your chest. Okay?" I wait for some kind of response, but there's nothing. "You just have to promise me one thing," I tell him. "You have to promise me that you won't kill them when you're free." I pause, knowing that there's no chance he'll actually reply to me. "I'm going to trust you," I tell him. "Give me time to figure out how to get you free." I reach up and brush my right hand against his face. It's the first time I've ever touched my father; although he looks young, his skin feels old. Realizing I'm never going to get a proper response from him, at least not in his current state, I turn and walk toward the door.
"Abigail," whispers a voice behind me.
I freeze, feeling a chill as if all my blood has suddenly turned to ice. Turning slowly, I see that Patrick's eyes are closed again. That voice didn't sound as if it came from him; it sounded like a whisper, right up close to my ear, maybe even inside my head. It was a male voice, deep and ancient. But there's no-one else in here: there's just Patrick, and me.
I wait, but nothing else happens and the room remains silent. Slowly, I head over to the door. Did I imagine all of that, or did Patrick just say my name? Taking a deep breath, I make sure to pull myself together before walking through to the next room, where technicians are working on the various machines that are being used to keep Patrick in place. Part of me wants to smash those machines to pieces, but I figure I need to be a little more subtle here; if I'm gonna get my father out of here, I'm gonna need to be a lot smarter. Behind me, as I walk away, I sense great pain. Patrick, my father, is going through agony, and I'm the only one who can hear him scream. I guess that makes sense. After all, I'm the vampire's daughter.
Shelley
Dedston, Today.
Sophie's grave is over by the far wall of the cemetery. In my head, I imagined it being this really new, freshly dug grave, but the truth is that it's been sixteen years since Sophie died and her body was placed here, so the grass has grown over the plot. I've imagined this moment over and over again, but I always managed to find an excuse to stay in New York instead of coming back to Dedston to see where my best friend was buried. It looks like just another old grave, except the letters on the headstone send a shiver down my spine when I see Sophie's name. It's really her.
Looking down at the grass, I imagine her body six feet under, trapped in a wooden box. After sixteen years, she'll have rotted away to just bones by now, all her skin gone. She was buried, I've been told, in an old white gown that had originally belonged to her grandmother. The funeral was sparsely attended, and apparently Sophie's mother broke down in tears. I was supposed to attend, but at the last minute I got cold feet and decided to stay in N
ew York. It's a decision I regret now, because I kind of feel that Sophie - resting in her coffin - would have liked it if I'd been here. In some way, maybe my presence would have made her less scared. I know that's crazy, but I can't shake the feeling that I let her down.
"Sorry," I say quietly, under my breath.
Sophie's death was front-page news in Dedston at the time. She was found on a street-corner with her guts ripped out. Obviously no-one knew about Patrick or any of that stuff, and to the rest of the world she was just an unremarkable girl. It was naturally assumed that she'd been murdered, which was kind of true, and the police spent six months actively searching for her killer. There was a brief media furore, as reporters speculated that perhaps there was a serial killer on the loose. For a few weeks, the streets of Dedston were apparently quite dead at night, as everyone kept out of the shadows in case the killer was lurking, waiting for his next victim. They weren't to know that Patrick was long gone by that point. Eventually, after just a few weeks, things went back to normal, and the newspapers moved on to other stories while Sophie's murder was never solved. Thousands of miles away in New York, I occasionally saw the story in the news, but I managed to keep myself detached from it by drinking a lot and skipping the details; it was a tactic that worked until just a few days ago, when the Watchers turned up to bring me here so I could help with Abby. Finally, I knew I had to come and see Sophie's grave. It took me long enough to get here.
"I knew this is where you'd be," says a voice behind me.
I turn to find Todd, Sophie's sister, standing a little way off.
"I don't really come here very often," he says, stepping closer. "Someone does, though."
I look down at a single red rose that has been left next to Sophie's headstone. It looks fresh, as if it was left there in the past few days. "Does your Mom come?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "She died a few years ago. Heart attack." He walks to the headstone and picks up the rose. "The few times I come, there's always a fresh rose on the grave. I can't work out who leaves it. I mean, Sophie had friends, but no-one I'd have thought would care enough to do this." He puts the rose back in place. "For a while, I thought maybe it was you."
"Me?" I take a deep breath. "I've been in New York. Anyway, roses aren't exactly my style."
He smiles. "Then it's a mystery."
"Could it have been Patrick?" I ask.
"Definitely not," he replies. "Patrick left town straight after it happened. He was in the mountains for years. When he came down a few weeks ago, we picked him up immediately and took him down to the holding facility."
I stare at the rose. "Someone must be leaving them," I say, trying to remember if there was anyone else who was particularly close to Sophie.
"Did she have some hidden boyfriend that none of us knew about?" Todd asks. "I don't really remember too much about her everyday life, so maybe there was someone?"
"No," I say. "There was Adam, but he died." I pause for a moment. "There was that Charles Nimrod guy. What happened to him?"
"Dead," Todd replies. "No doubt about that. The Watchers found his body, or what was left of it, down in the sewers. Ripped apart, probably by Patrick. I think we can pretty safely rule him out." We both stand in silence for a moment. "I guess it's a real mystery," he continues.
I look down at the grass that's growing directly over the grave. "So..." I pause for a moment. "Okay, this might be a really inappropriate thing to ask you, but I figure you're the kind of guy who'd know." I take a deep breath. "Sophie was mixed up in some pretty weird shit, right? Vampires, werewolves, these Tenderling things... I mean, I've been meaning to ask you or Benjamin about..." I swallow hard, wondering whether I can even ask this question. "Is it possible that she could come back as a ghost?"
"No," he replies.
I stare at him. "That simple, huh?"
"Vampires are real," he says. "Werewolves are real. Tenderlings, Golvs, Flesh Weavers, all sorts of fucked-up things. But ghosts are just a myth. If they were real, the Watchers would have found some proof by now."
"How can you be so sure?" I ask.
"If something exists, it leaves traces," he replies. "Ghosts aren't real."
"I don't believe that," I say. "There's something after death. I don't know what, but there's something. Sophie's somewhere. She's got to be." I turn to him. "How can you believe in vampires and werewolves and all those things, but you don't believe in ghosts?"
"I don't believe in vampires," he says. "I've seen them. I see one every day. I've read about them. I know they're real. Ghosts are just fairy-tales designed to make adults feel better. They're supposed to make us feel less afraid of death."
"So are you afraid of death?"
He pauses for a moment. "Terrified," he says eventually. "Aren't you?"
I look down at Sophie's grave. "She once told me she was scared of dying," I say. "We were having a sleepover and she told me that dying was the only thing that really worried her. And now she's down there, which means she knows what it's like. I'd prefer to think that she's somewhere. Maybe she's not looking down at us, and maybe she's not sitting on a cloud and playing a harp, but she's somewhere. Her soul is out there."
"I'm more interested in that rose," he replies. "Aren't you? That's a solid, tangible thing and I'm damned if I can explain it. I can't think of a single person who'd leave a rose for Sophie, especially not after all these years."
I stare at the rose for a moment. "If you're so curious, why don't you find out? Set up cameras and see who turns up."
"I tried that already," he says. "It didn't pick anything up, but there was a fresh rose after a few days."
"Must have been a ghost," I say.
He smiles. "Must have been." Taking a deep breath, he turns to walk away. "I have to go back to the facility. You coming?"
"Later," I say.
"Abby was asking after you," he says. "I think she wants to talk to you about Sophie."
"Later," I say again.
He stares at me. "She just wants to know about her mother. You knew her better than I did. If you can talk to her -"
"Later!" I say a third time, annoyed that he won't just accept my answer. "I have something to do first."
"Suit yourself," he says, walking. As I watch him go, I find myself wondering whether I can really trust him. I've got this general suspicion about the Watchers, and I'm not certain that they're right to keep Patrick as a prisoner. I've also got my doubts about their decision to bring Abby here. After all, Benjamin says he wants to protect her, yet he's brought her to arguably the most dangerous place on the planet. I guess I'll have to talk to her at some point, and tell her about her mother, but that's not a conversation I want to have right now. Maybe that makes me weak, but I can't help wanting to bottle everything up. I know Abby needs me, but I'm not ready to be there for her. Soon, but not yet. She'll just have to get along without me for a while; she'll be fine.
Abigail
Dedston, Today.
"The war was long," says Benjamin, pulling an old, heavy book from the shelf. "It raged across many centuries, and there were times when it threatened to spill over into the human world. Some believed it would never end." He turns to me, placing the book carefully on the desk. "If your father hadn't done what he did, the war would have continued and I'm quite certain that the whole world would eventually have been consumed by fire. In many ways, Patrick is a hero. He made the difficult decision that no-one else could make. He ended it all and for that, if for nothing else, we must all be eternally grateful."
I slide the book across the table and open it to the first page. The writing looks ancient, and I can't make out any of the words. "What did he do?" I ask, flipping slowly through the pages.
"Genocide," Benjamin replies. "The only way to end the war was for all the vampires to be wiped out."
"Huh," I say, feeling a little overwhelmed. I mean, I was fully prepared to find out that my father isn't a saint, but genocide's a little on the heavy side. I feel
as if these details are washing over me, rather than sinking in. Squinting, I try again to read the first page of the book, but eventually I have to give up. "Is this written in, like, vampire language or something?" I ask.
"It's a dead tongue," he replies. "The number of people who can read that book can be counted on the fingers of one hand."
I look over at him. "Let me guess," I say. "You're one of them?" My voice squeaks slightly. Damn it, I need to practice speaking, so that my voice sounds better.
"I've studied the vampires all my life," he says, reaching across the table and picking the book up. He places it back on the shelf. "When the vampire war was over, I was puzzled at first. I didn't understand why Patrick had not followed his brethren into death. It was only when I studied the Book of Gothos that I learned of an obscure prophecy." He pauses for a moment. "Patrick had to wait for your mother to be born. He needed her to sire a child. He waited and waited, even though he longed for death."
"Why her?" I ask. "Why couldn't he just find someone else?"
"He wanted the perfect mate," Benjamin says. "Believe me, he tried mating with other females, but the offspring were never satisfactory. He knew that most human females wouldn't be able to carry his child to term. The prophecy told him that the right woman would be born close to the end of the twentieth century, so he waited and finally she arrived." He turns back to the shelves and pulls out another book. "Try this one," he says, setting it on the table and sliding it across to me. "It's a little easier to read."
"Did he love her?" I ask as I take the book. As soon as my hands touch the cover, however, another image flashes into my mind: this time, I see a dark landscape, with mountains in the distance, and some kind of castle burning in the foreground. At first, I don't notice the darkness that covers the land, but finally I look around and realize that I'm surrounded by a sea of dead bodies. Thousands and thousands of them, perhaps even millions.
