by Amy Cross
"Go a little further," I say. "I'll pull the door shut. Perhaps nothing will happen until you're alone." I gently pull the door closed. It's almost impossible to believe that, finally, my dark little plan is coming to fruition. After a moment, I reach into my pocket and pull out one of the keys I liberated from Diana's collection earlier. Slipping the key into the keyhole, I lock the door and stand back. My heart is pounding, but I've finally done it. Abigail is locked in there forever, and not even Patrick will be able to get her out. I hurry over to the window, pulling it open before throwing the key out into the darkness. An icy wind blows in before I pull the window shut. I imagine the key tumbling to the ground and becoming lost in the darkness. A smile crosses my lips, and it's at that moment that I realize there's someone standing behind me.
"Very clever," Diana says.
I turn and stare at her. "It's too late to get her out now," I say, panicking slightly at the thought that Diana might be about to undo all my good work. "The key is gone, there's nothing you can do -"
"So I saw," she replies. "I was hoping you'd have a change of heart at the last minute, but now I see that your little heart is blackened and withered beyond redemption."
"Don't talk to me like that," I reply, barely able to contain my rage. "She was a fool. She walked straight into my trap. She allowed her hopes and desires to cloud her judgment. Any intelligent person would have seen through all the things I told her, but I used her biggest weakness against her. I appealed to her human side. When all is said and done, she could never have been a true vampire. She'd always have had that human voice in her soul, holding her back." I turn to look at the door. I can't imagine what's happening to Abigail in that room, but fortunately I never have to find out. There are ghosts in there, but they don't like letting people leave and with the key gone, the door will surely stay closed forever.
"You exploited her desperate need to meet her mother," Diana says. "That's not something of which I'd be proud, if I were you."
"If I hadn't done it, someone else would have," I reply. "It was only a matter of time. It was a fault in her character."
"You see it as a fault," Diana says, smiling. "Others might see it as a strength."
"She's in the room, isn't she?" I say. "She's in there, and I'm not. Has anyone ever made it out of there alive?"
"They have not," Diana says. "Not in my time at Gothos, anyway." She sighs. "I suppose I shall have to keep a closer eye on my keys."
"It doesn't matter," I tell her. "Daddy's going to have to take me with him now, so you'll be all alone."
She nods sadly. "I suppose Mr. Wormwood will visit occasionally..."
"You could have stopped me," I point out. "If you wanted Abigail to live, you could have stopped me from doing all of this. But you didn't, which means you wanted her to die as well."
She shakes her head. "I don't think I could have stopped you. This was always going to happen. Only one person can stop you, and he's too weak." She pauses. "What are you waiting for, Gwendoline? You've won. Go and claim your prize. Your father is waiting for you. Go and tell him what you've done and see how he reacts." She smiles. "I hope your reward is sweet."
Smiling, I turn and run off to find Daddy.
Patrick
"You're looking rather pasty, old man," says Wormwood, wandering over as I sit by the window. He's been keeping something of a distance since dinner, but apparently he believes it's now appropriate for him to come and start a conversation. I wish he'd just stay away from me. As I stare out into the darkness that surrounds Gothos, I can't help feeling that something - somewhere - is very wrong. I can no longer sense Abigail's presence in the house.
"Funny old night," Wormwood continues, lighting a cigarette. "You don't mind if I smoke, do you? I'm afraid I'm terribly addicted."
I've known Wormwood for many years. He has a tendency to show up when things are difficult, although he never tries to help. He styles himself as an observer, even going so far as to align himself with the Watchers from time to time. He loiters at the fringes, passing comment on the actions of others and generally refraining from taking any decisive actions himself. If it were up to me, his head would have been separated from his body long ago, but Wormwood has friends in high places and it's therefore wise to just tolerate his brief interruptions and wait for him to move on.
"I must say," he continues, "I'm very impressed by young Abigail. The more I see of her, the more I realize she's absolutely top-notch. She has a real spark about her, but I'm worried she might be a little vulnerable. She has certain human qualities, and I think they could cause problems. Obviously I understand that you had to take a human mate, given that all the other vampires are long gone, but I still think there are going to be some complications."
Taking a deep breath, I wait for him to leave. Everything he says is true, but I hardly need to hear it repeated to me over and over again.
"You have a problem," Wormwood says after a moment. "A big problem, and sitting here staring out the window won't fix it, old chap. Your two daughters are at one another's throats. The green-eyed monster has raised its ugly head, and jealousy is running wild. You need to keep an eye on that Gwendoline girl. She's not what she seems." He takes a sip from his glass. "If I were you, I'd grab young Abigail and get her as far away from here as possible. This isn't the place for her at all." He turns as footsteps echo in the next room. "That'll be one of them now," he says. "Good luck, old man. I'll be in the shadows if you need me. Try not to end up with two dead daughters, though. If you lose the one you prefer, you'll just have to make do with the one that's left."
He's right. I can sense that something has happened; Gwendoline has made a move against Abigail, and it's now up to Abigail to fight her way free. I had hoped it would not come to this, but Abigail is going to have to kill her sister if she's to ever leave this place, and I'm going to have to see my children at war.
Gwendoline
When I find him, Patrick is sitting by the window, staring out at the darkness. I stop by the door, filled with a momentary sense of satisfaction: sometimes I also like to sit and stare out the window, which means Patrick and I are similar. I watch him for a moment. He seems so still and calm, as if he barely has the energy to move. I hate to see him like this, approaching the end of his life not with vigor and determination, but with weakness. I always thought he'd die a glorious death, probably in the heat of battle, but now I see that he's going to die quietly. Hundreds and hundreds, maybe even thousands, of years of life, all dwindling to an end in such a pathetic manner, like a candle slowly burning out.
"Good evening, Daddy," I say, walking across to join him. He barely acknowledges me. "I hope you enjoyed dinner," I continue, standing next to his chair. "The chefs did their best, although in truth we'd have produced a grander feast if you'd forewarned us of your arrival."
Still no response. He's just staring out into the darkness. I wish I could get through to him; I wish I could get him to talk again. When I was a child, he used to speak occasionally. An encouraging word here, or an admonishment there. It was only when the war came that he was forced to fall silent, but I don't understand why he doesn't speak again now that the end is near. Surely, after all this time, he wants to say a few words to me? After all, we've had our differences but I'm still his daughter. I'm his flesh and blood. If he hates me so much, why hasn't he just killed me?
"Anyway," I say, deciding it's too soon to give up, "I thought dinner was scrumptious. They might be common folk, but those chefs certainly know what to do with a dead pig, don't they?" I look over at the piano. "Oh Daddy, shall I sing you a song?" Hurrying across the room, I take a seat. I don't have many skills, but I'm a damn fine pianist and I have a pleasing voice. The last time Patrick was here, I was still learning the instrument; now I've become something of a maestro, even if I say so myself. "Something jaunty?" I ask, starting to play an old ditty from nineteenth century England. "This was all the rage when the Great Exhibition was on," I tell him. "I expect
you know all about that, though. I certainly would have liked to have gone, but there's plenty of time to explore later."
In the absence of any kind of reply, I decide to simply play and sing. It's a light song, really rather throwaway, but I feel it might lighten the mood a little. Besides, I'm sure he'll be impressed when he realizes how good I've become of late. I spend all day, every day practicing and practicing, sometimes until my fingers bleed. I've long dreamed of impressing Patrick; of showing him that I'm good at something, even if it's not a skill he particularly admires. As I get to the end of the song, I wait for him to react, or at least to respond. Instead, he just continues to stare out the window. It's as if he hasn't heard me at all, even though my playing was absolutely perfect.
"You're dying, Daddy," I say, still sitting at the piano. "You don't have much longer left. Couldn't you speak to me one final time? I'd so love to hear your voice. It's been far too long, you know."
Slowly, he turns to look at me. There's no hint of love or compassion in his eyes at all; just cold, bitter fury. I'd hoped that our time apart might have changed his attitude to me, and that he'd be able to see how much I've changed. It's clear, though, that he finds me utterly repellant. Getting up from the piano stool and walking back over to him, I kneel next to his chair and look up into his eyes. Despite everything that's happened, at heart I still love my father. It's time to make him see the truth.
"What's wrong, Daddy?" I ask, making certain that he can't hear the sorrow in my voice. "Don't you like what you see when you look at me? Do you still think I'm too weak to take your place?" I pause for a moment. "I suppose you think dear little Abigail is a better prospect. Are you hoping to knock her into shape and make her become your shadow?" I smile, knowing he has no idea what I've done. "There's a problem, though," I continue after a moment. "I understand why you brought her here. She needed to be at Gothos while she changed, otherwise her body would have ripped itself apart. But you should never have left her alone with me. You over-estimated her, and you under-estimated me. You thought your two daughters would play nicely together, but we didn't. Well, I didn't. And now, can you guess where Abigail has ended up?"
He stares at me, and I recognize a flash of anger in his expression. I've finally got his attention. Sitting up, I lean closer to his face, and suddenly I decide that there's no point trying to placate him. I need to just tell him the truth and let him suffer, the way he forced me to suffer for so many years.
"Abigail went into the room to talk to a ghost," I say. "Unfortunately, the door got locked and someone dropped the key out into the darkness. Even if you could get her out of there, you're too late. She'll have been driven completely mad by now. She thought she was going to see the ghost of her mother, and I'm afraid I did nothing to disabuse her of that notion." I start to giggle. I know it's mean of me to take pleasure from someone else's misfortune, but Abigail was such a huge problem in my life and it feels good to have finally got rid of her. "Oh Daddy, do you want to know a terrible secret? It was me! I was the one who locked her in there, and I was the one who threw the key outside. Aren't I a terrible person? But it's not my fault. Remember?"
I wait for him to show some kind of reaction, but still he does nothing but stare at me. He must be blanking everything out on purpose; I know that deep down, though, he must be filled with the most extreme rage, burning through his soul. Why, I half expect him to reach out and wring my neck at any moment. Poor old Daddy. I can't help giggling.
Finally, realizing I have to show him what I mean, I decide to go a step further. I slip the fingers of my left hand into my mouth, reaching further and further down until first my hand, and then my wrist disappear all the way down my throat. Feeling around inside my chest, I feel my dead heart and put my fingers firmly around it, feeling it beat for a moment before pulling it slowly back up until it's hanging out of my mouth. After a moment, I give it an extra tug and I feel it come loose; I pull a little harder, hearing the muscle tear, and finally I hold the bloodied organ out for Patrick to see. "There," I say. "I never needed it anyway. It's been so long since it beat with any real force. At least now, you can see that I'm not the lily-livered little scaredy-cat you always took me to be." With blood pouring from my mouth, I place my heart in Patrick's hand and then force him to clench his fist, squeezing the heart until it bursts; chunks of bloody muscle slip down to the floor. "Are you happy now?" I ask him. "How much more do you want from me? Abigail's gone! You have to choose me! Take me back with you. Teach me. Train me. Show me how to be like you. I'm weak, but I can learn. Please don't push me away again, Daddy. You've got no choice. If you want a child to take your place, it has to be me, and I won't let you down! I promise!"
He stares at me, before looking down at my heart in his hand. Slowly, he opens his fist, before letting the heart's pulpy remains slip to the floor. It's as if he doesn't care; it's as if my heart is just a piece of meat to be tossed aside. His hands are covered in fresh, sticky blood, but perhaps he doesn't see my blood as having any value.
"Is that it?" I ask, feeling myself slowly becoming filled with a kind of cold rage. Since I pulled my heart out, I've begun to feel icy, and I feel that my beautiful skin is starting to go dry. "Is that your answer? You'd rather have no daughter? You'd rather die like a pathetic old childless fool? Am I really so absolutely awful? Can't you even contemplate the possibility of loving me? Can't you look at me the way you look at Abigail? What's she got that I haven't? Why does she get everything you've denied to me? You left me to rot here at Gothos while you went running off after Sophie Hart." I'm shouting now, but I don't care. He deserves this. "You didn't need her to give you a daughter!" I scream into his face. "You already had me!"
Suddenly, Patrick pushes me aside and stands up. He walks to the window and stares out once again at the blackness. It's as if he wants to pretend I'm not here: his own daughter, bloodied and screaming, with her heart torn out, and I'm not even worthy of his pity. I've waited so long for him to come back, so that I could find a way to prove my worth to him, and this is how he responds. I want to reach up and hurt him, but such a move would be futile. All I can do now is wait for him to die.
"What are you looking at?" I shout as he continues to stare out the window. "What's so fascinating out there that you'd rather stare into the darkness rather than look at me?" Sobbing, I get to my feet and grab him by the shoulders, shaking him. "Why won't you look at me?" I scream, turning to look out at the darkness all around Gothos. "Why don't you -" Suddenly I stop. For a moment, I find it hard to understand what I'm looking at, but finally I understand what it is that has caught his attention. Letting go of him, I step closer to the window, peering out and seeing that there's a light in the darkness. It's far, far away, up in the mountains... but there's definitely a light. A tiny light, like a pinprick sparkling many miles away. Something is out there, something that has no business being there, something that has never been there before. Until this moment, the lands around Gothos have been completely dark at night.
"What is it?" I ask, before turning to find that Patrick has moved away from me. I watch as he opens the patio doors and steps out into the garden. "Where are you going?" I shout, running over but stopping before I get outside. "You can't just leave!" I scream. "It's not safe out there!" I look over at the distant light. It's just not possible that anything could be burning a fire out in the wilderness. There are creatures, yes, but nothing that would draw attention to itself in such a brazen way. I watch as Patrick walks away, disappearing into the darkness of the garden as he heads toward the distant light. "Come back!" I shout. "Don't leave me here! Come back!"
But it's too late. He's gone, off toward the distant light.
"Daddy!" I scream, dropping to my knees as tears roll down my face. "Daddy, come back!"
Book 5
Ruins II
Prologue
Many years ago.
"Daddy!" Gwendoline shouts, running across the moor. "Daddy, wait for me!"
I t
urn and look back, seeing her in the distance. In my haste to reach the hunting ground before midday, I had forgotten that she might fall behind. I suppose I shouldn't be too harsh: she's only five years old, after all, and this is her first trip outside Gothos. Watching as she races toward me, I find it hard to believe that such a small thing could possibly grow up to take my place one day. Still, I have to give her a fair chance.
"Why do you walk so fast?" she asks as she reaches me. Barely half my height, she puts her arms around my waist and hugs me tight. "You scared me, Daddy. I thought I was going to become hopelessly lost out here." She glances over her shoulder, at the sight of Gothos in the distance. "It looks so small from up here," she says. "We must have walked miles and miles."
Reaching down and taking her hand, I lead her across the scrub-land. She seems to be struggling to keep up with me, but I have to make sure she stays close. There are creatures out here that would dearly love to get hold of her and rip her to pieces, but they will stay back while I'm around. The hills of Gothos are filled with cowardly beasts, most of them left over from the war. Another reason not to let her fall too far behind.
As we walk on, I glance down at Gwendoline. I never expected to find the raising of a child to be so difficult. I had hoped her mother might be of more help, but Cassandra lost her mind during child-birth. Foolishly, perhaps, I assumed Gwendoline would be much stronger by now, yet I can't help feeling that as she grows older, she shows more and more signs of weakness. When we're together, she seems more interested in playing the piano or dressing her dolls. I struggle to hide my disappointment, but the truth is that I fear she will never be strong enough to assume the responsibilities I hope to place on her shoulders. If I'm right, there is no point in having her around. Perhaps I should kill her if she fails today's test, although I'm sure Diana would disapprove. Still, I'm getting ahead of myself; Gwendoline might yet prove me wrong and show some hitherto hidden strength.
