by Amy Cross
I want to answer him, but no words come from my lips. Instead, I find myself just sitting here, hoping that I'll be excused. I feel as if I need to get back on patrol as soon as possible. My mind is full of images from Hoskins' death, and I need to somehow get newer images to take their place. I know I'll be fine, but right now I just have to focus on the future. When I wrote the report, I was hoping that the case would be closed, but I've got a feeling that Edwards doesn't see it the same way.
"I'm sending you for a psych evaluation," he says eventually.
"I don't need one, Sir," I reply quickly.
"That's your opinion," he replies. "When one of my men turns in a report that mentions vampires, I feel obliged for the safety of that man and also for the safety of my entire unit, to ensure that there are no psychological issues that need to be addressed."
"I'll rewrite the report," I stammer. "I'll take out the references to vampires."
"Those references have already been removed," Edwards says, "and a revised version of the report has been submitted on your behalf. To save you from embarrassment."
I open my mouth to argue with him, but it's clear that there's no point saying anything. From the way that he's looking at me, it's painfully obvious that he has doubts about my mental stability following the incident with Hoskins yesterday, so I figure I just need to focus on persuading everyone that I'm fine.
"You're still doing it," he says after a moment.
"What?" I ask nervously.
"The twitch," he says. "Your eye's still twitching."
Before I can reply, there's a knock at the door and three men enter, wearing the distinctive uniforms of the base's medical personnel.
"Private Gregory," Sergeant Edwards says, getting to his feet, "these men are here to take you to your psych evaluation. You have nothing to fear. You're simply going to be asked some questions in order to make sure that your recent experiences haven't left you in a condition that might prevent you from performing your duties. I hope very much that you'll soon be back on active duty, but until then, I wish you all the best. Your recovery must take priority." He pauses. "Unless you can admit to me, here and now, that you don't believe Hoskins was killed by a vampire. If you can say those words, I'll let you go back on duty immediately."
Although I want to say the words, I know I can't. "I know what I saw," I say eventually.
"That's a shame, soldier," he replies. "A damn shame."
Looking over at the three nurses, I realize that I don't have a choice here. I just need to stay calm and get through the next few hours. The problem, however, is that every time I close my eyes, I can still see Hoskins' face, and I can still hear the faint sound of blood spraying from his wound. With my hands still trembling, and my eye still twitching, I stand up and walk over to the door. In some strange way, I'm actually starting to feel a little calm. Maybe calm isn't the right word. More... blank.
Mark Gregory
Today
Sitting in my car, parked opposite the church next to Graves Park, I open the plastic bottle and take out a pill, which I swallow before closing the bottle and placing it back on the dashboard.
I've been sitting here for a couple of hours now, watching the church and waiting to see if anyone goes in or comes out. So far, however, the place just seems to be completely dead. I know this is probably a waste of time, but I need to find out where Abby went, and so far I've already tried her apartment without any luck. The last time I saw her, she said she was going to deal with the problem, and I'm convinced that she was deliberately trying to get me to avoid this church. I want to believe that she's more than capable of looking after herself, but if she's finally come face to face with whoever's responsible for all of this, maybe she's met her match. After all, even...
I pause as I realize that I've been fooling myself for long enough. Ever since this case started, I've been trying to ignore the fact that everything points to the involvement of vampires. I want to dismiss the idea, but I know from bitter experience that there just might be a chance that the stories are true. It's been ten years since the incident in Afghanistan that led to my discharge from the army, and although I've managed to get my life back on track thanks to a combination of therapy and pills, I'm still finding it hard to deal with the thought that somehow vampires might be involved in this situation. For the first time in many years, however, my hands are shaking again.
I have to face this. I have to prove to myself that vampires aren't real.
Part Five
The Hollow Church
Prologue
The light burns his soul, sending waves of pain through his mind. The only consolation is the fact that he knows time is passing. Already, he is out of Patrick's reach forever. His destination might be uncertain, but Gothos is focused on the fact that he will survive. Once again, death has been denied.
Finally, after what seems like mere seconds, he realizes that he is being drawn toward an opening. Someone, somewhere, has reactivated the sphere, bringing the bridge to a new location in which Gothos can start again, far from the war. As he prepares to re-emerge from his journey, Gothos decides that this time things will be different. The war, however, must continue; after all, the war had a purpose, and that purpose has not yet been served. The light of the void fills his mind, and Gothos smiles as he realizes that he's on the verge of resurrection.
Today
Abby Hart
It's dark here, but also bright. Two worlds, co-existing in the same place. One is blisteringly strong and blinding, and the other is dark and empty. They can't last for long, not like this. Eventually, one of them will destroy the other, or they'll both explode.
This room stinks of blood. I know the smell, of course, but I've never experienced it like this before. It's overwhelming, filling my senses and threatening to drown my mind. I'm standing on a small metal gantry that's held to the wall by a series of chains, and far below me there's a huge cauldron of thick, strong blood, churning and boiling. Every so often, the room seems to shake, rattling the gantry and making me wonder for a moment if I might be in danger of falling. There's a machine here, somewhere deep below, and it seems to be struggling to keep going. Occasionally, nearby pipes hiss as steam emerges, and I can't shake the feeling that the entire place is going to be destroyed at any moment. All I can do is wait, and hope.
Before I can finish, the room shakes again. Losing my footing, I reach out and grab the railing as I drop to my knees. The place is getting hotter and hotter, and sweat is pouring down my face. I can hear valves opening nearby, and pistons spinning. Whatever this thing is, it's like a steam-powered cauldron, struggling to hold its contents. It's hard to believe that so much blood could exist in one place without ripping through the container. Blood has a kind of power that humans don't notice, but which entices vampires, and it's this power that seems to be broiling below me right now, threatening to unleash its immense power at any moment. Turning, I see that there's something written on the metal plates immediately above the cauldron, but the language makes no sense. I've seen such lettering before, however, in the pages of a battered old book that came from my father. Finally, looking down at the cauldron beneath me, I understand what I'm looking at.
Vampire technology.
I remember the Book of Gothos explaining how vampires struggled to create proper, working machines. To vampires, machines were generally unnecessarily. My father's people relied upon brute strength and force of will. When they built houses, this did so with their bare hands; when they traveled, they moved rapidly, by night. Machines, to them, were crude, inglorious things that creaked and groaned and did nothing but support the weak. Occasionally, however, the vampires of old needed to get their hands dirty, and for this they required vast machines beyond the imagination of other species. At these times, they turned to their own alchemists, known as Hecates, who were able to build crude, mechanical approximations of the dreams of madmen. These machines were never entirely fit for purpose, and the Hecates warned
that they could never be truly controlled. It's often said that the machines of the Hecates were not really machines at all, and that they had their own souls. Until this moment, I never believed such stories could be true.
Edging my way along the gantry, I can't help but keep focused on the swirling mess beneath me. So much blood, collected over the course of many months, and now it's been mixed together and heated up. Glancing back the way I came, I see that the Strix have closed the door behind me. I guess they haven't even contemplated the possibility that I was lying; they know my history, and they believe that I've come to pick up where my father left off. I wish I could be so certain, but the truth is that the cauldron terrifies me. I feel like an addict who suddenly finds herself faced with a massive surfeit of everything she could have ever wanted. The hunger inside me, the hunger that has been clawing at the inside of my chest since the moment I was born, is about to be satisfied, and the prospect makes me fear for my own life. Still, I have no choice. I could never embrace my human side. I should have known from the start that this is how things would have to be.
So I let go.
As the room shakes once again, I tumble from the gantry, falling through the scalding-hot steam until finally I plunge head-first into the vast cauldron of hot blood. The first thing I notice is that it's filled with tiny particles, fragments of bodily matter from the hundreds of victims who have contributed to this maelstrom. As I sink deeper and deeper, I finally open my mouth and let it all flood into my body. This is it, then. The choice has been made.
Mark Gregory
"Hello?" I call out as I stand at the front of the church, next to the altar. Having not really spent much time in churches over the years, I'm not sure of the protocol. Is there an office somewhere, or a number I should call, or a bell I should ring? I keep assuming that a little old man is going to come stuttering out of some side room, but so far the place seems to be deserted. And cold. Damn it, this is a warm New York day, but inside this place it's like an ice box.
Figuring that there's no-one around, I step up to the altar and take a look at the marble surface. I'm not quite sure what I'm expecting to find, but I'm convinced that Abby Hart is around here somewhere. After all, she definitely seemed to be headed here a few days ago, despite her protestations to the contrary, and it seems a little unlikely that she'd simply not bother to get in touch once she was finished. While Abby certainly seems like a very capable and impressive woman, I can only interpret her silence as a sign that something went wrong, which means that perhaps something about this church is worthy of further investigation. First, though, I need to play things a little cool and take a casual look around. This definitely isn't the time to come charging in like a bull in a china shop.
"Can I help you?" asks a voice nearby.
Turning, I see a middle-aged man walking along the aisle, headed toward me. I'm immediately struck by his confidence; he seems to be completely self-assured, as if he was expecting me to show up.
"Hi," I say, stepping down from the altar and walking over to meet him. "I'm Mark Gregory. I'm a police officer, but I'm really just here on some unofficial business."
"Unofficial?" He eyes me suspiciously, and I can already tell that he's not happy about my presence. "I wasn't aware that the police had any unofficial business," he continues. "Isn't anything you do, by its very nature, official?"
"I guess so," I reply, figuring I should play things a little cool, with the aim of not making this guy too nervous. "The truth is, I'm just looking for someone. Just a casual inquiry. I was hoping I could ask a few questions, take a look around, and avoid all the unpleasantness that comes with warrants and things like that."
"This is a church," the man replies, clearly going to great pains to sound calm. "I'd be happy to help."
"So here's the woman who's missing," I say, pulling a photo of Abby from my jacket pocket and passing it to him. "I don't suppose there's any chance -"
"No," he says firmly, interrupting me. "I'm sorry, but she's entirely unfamiliar. I do hope she's not in any trouble, though. The world can be such a harsh and confusing place, filled with the most terrible evil."
"I'm sure she's okay," I reply, "but I still have to see if I can get some answers. Feel free to take a moment to look at the photo some more. Maybe something'll jog your memory."
"I can honestly say," he replies, passing the photo back to me, "that I've never seen this young woman before. I'm afraid that we don't get many visitors here, as you can see, and I'd most certainly remember a new face."
Glancing across the rows of empty pews, I guess I can kind of see his point. This church seems completely undisturbed, as if there hasn't been a soul here for years. It's hard to believe that full congregations ever turn up here, but I guess a church couldn't survive for so many years if no-one ever came to worship. Even in a city like New York, there's room for small religious groups to go about their business without attracting too much attention. Still, something about this place feels decidedly unusual, and I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched.
"Is there anything else I can help you with?" the man asks after a moment.
"No," I say, turning to him. "I guess maybe this was a long shot in the first place. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name..."
"Paul Rasmussen," he replies, smiling awkwardly. "I help to keep the church looking respectable. While one can't count upon new worshipers to come through the door, one can still ensure that the place is presentable. When one has faith pushing one forward, one is able to achieve great things."
"One would hope so," I reply.
"As I said," he continues, "new faces are a rarity around here, and I'm quite sure I'd remember if that young woman had been here before. She has a very distinctive appearance."
"She has a very distinctive personality," I tell him.
"Might I ask why you came here to make your inquiries?" he continues. "Is there something that led you to believe that the young lady might have come to seek sanctuary in our church?"
"She just mentioned the place a couple of times," I tell him. "I figured she might be trying to keep out of the way, maybe hide out for a while. Still, she obviously isn't here."
"If I can be of any further assistance," he continues, "please don't hesitate to let me know. Otherwise, I'll leave you to explore our place of worship in peace. I should tell you that, in my experience, silence is most conducive to a spiritual awakening. If one is able to achieve absolute silence, one can often start to hear the voice of God."
"I'll keep that in mind," I reply, unable to shake the feeling that this guy is decidedly creepy. As he turns and walks away, I find myself wondering whether he can really be as calm and collected as he seems, or whether there's some kind of deeper identity hidden behind his placid exterior. Can a whole church survive purely because one man thinks that the place deserves to exist? For one thing, there's the question of who pays the rent on the real estate; for another, there's the fact that money talks, and this place is by far the most barren and desolate building I've ever encountered in the city.
Turning and walking past the empty pews, I can't shake the feeling that this emptiness is in some way filled with a strange kind of presence. I stop and turn to look back toward the altar at the far end of the church, but although there's no-one in sight, I still feel as if the place isn't entirely empty. Maybe I'm going crazy, but I can't shake the sensation that I'm being watched, not just by one pair of eyes but by hundreds. After a moment, I realize that the silence of the church is being interrupted by a faint noise, like a kind of gentle rustling sound in the air. I continue to walk along the aisle, between the empty pews, with the noise coming from both sides, and finally I stop and lean a little closer to one of the bare wooden benches. Sure enough, the rustling sound seems much closer, and after a moment I realize what it sounds like: it's as if there are people sitting in the church, quietly breathing in and out. I listen for a moment longer, before suddenly the sounds seems to become louder, as if someone
has turned to face me.
I take a step back.
Figuring that I must be imagining things, I turn and head toward the main door, but at the last moment I spot a side door that appears to have been left unlocked. I glance over my shoulder, to make sure that the guy from earlier isn't anywhere around, and then I head over to the door. A set of stone steps lead down into the darkness, presumably to some kind of basement far below the church, and although I know I should call back-up, I figure I need to have a little more evidence than a bunch of suspicions. After checking once more that there's no-one nearby, I start making my way down the stone steps. The air down here already feels much cooler and more still, and when I get to the bottom of the steps I realize that I'm in a long, narrow stone room, illuminated by a set of candles that burn in an alcove. There's another door over by the far wall, and I can't help but notice that it looks to identical to the main door up above. I make my way over and find, to my surprise, that the door's unlocked. Figuring I've already come pretty far, I decide to take a quick look before turning back. I grab the handle and pull the door open a couple of inches, and finally I peer through to the next room.
For a moment, my mind can't quite process what I'm looking at, but finally I step through the door and stare at the vast scene. It's the same church as before, but recreated underground. Everything about this vast room is exactly the same as the interior of the church above: the pews are in the same positions, the altar is decorated in the same way, even the panels on the walls are identical. The only difference is that whereas the church above has large windows that let light stream inside, down here the windows are a kind of dark red, and the only light comes from candles arranged along the sides of the walls. Although I know I should probably turn and get out of here, I can't help but take a couple of steps forward, marveling at the way in which an exact replica has been created down here. The attention to detail is staggering, and it's hard to believe that a place like this could exist deep beneath the city.
