Dark Season: The Complete Box Set (103 page)

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 New 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.

"Abigail?" Benjamin asks, and the image fades.

"What?" I ask.

He eyes me suspiciously. "Are you okay?"

I nod, trying not to let him see that something's wrong. "I'm fine," I say. It's weird, but I feel like I'm experiencing someone else's memories.

"Patrick is incapable of love," Benjamin continues. "In all the years I've studied him, admittedly from afar, I've never seen any indication of an emotion that comes close to love." He pauses for a moment. "He needs things. Sometimes those things are people, but that doesn't mean he loves them." He sighs. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't say things like this to you. If you take a look at that book, it should fill you in on the history of the vampires. If you have any questions -"

"Does he love
me
?" I ask, interrupting him.

He pauses for a moment. "Love is a human construct. It doesn't apply to creatures such as Patrick. He needs you, just as he needed your mother. But love? No. He's incapable of love. Don't blame yourself. He can't love anyone. Don't make the same mistake your mother made. She trusted him. She fell in love with him, and she believed he reciprocated that feeling. It was this error that led to her death. She was romantic and naive."

"How did she die?" I ask, feeling as if there's a lump in my throat. I'm scared of the answer he might give me, but at the same time I feel that I have to know.

"Learn about the vampires first," he says, turning and heading to the door. "When you understand their history, you can start to understand where you fit into the story."

"So you won't tell me?" I say.

"As I indicated," he replies, "the answers are in the books. It's best that you read the history of the vampires first, so that you understand everything. In order to understand what you are, you must first understand where you come from."

"Am I a vampire?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "I wish I could give you an easy answer. You're something new, something born of a union between two different species. As far as I know, nothing like this has ever happened before. We'll have to wait and see what happens as you develop." He smiles. "We have an excellent archivist who can help you find the answer to any question you might have. I have to go and check on some things, but I'll make sure Constance comes and introduces herself to you."

I take a deep breath. "Do you know where Shelley is?" I ask. I've been wanting to speak to her, to ask her about my parents and about the past, but she seems to have disappeared.

"I think she went out for a few hours," he replies. "I'm sure she'll be back soon. Don't worry. You have everything you need right here."

"Great," I say with a sigh, as he leaves. Looking through the book, I find that it seems to be some kind of long, drawn out history book that goes into great detail about events that occurred hundreds of years ago. There's mention of loads of names and places and things that mean absolutely nothing to me. Picking a page at random, I try reading a passage out loud:

"When Gothos chose his new homeland, he commanded his slaves to build a grand palace. It took them nearly a century, but finally the work was complete. Finally, Gothos named this great building after himself, and it is here that he was buried when his long life eventually came to an end."

I flick forward a few pages:

"Cassandra's heart was prized by all the children. They kept it on display, and from time to time they taunted her with it. She never failed to be moved to tears, nor to try to snatch it back, but the children were too cruel to let her go so easily."

Closing the book, I stare across the room at the many shelves that contain other volumes. It's kind of daunting to think that I've got so much to learn. At the same time, I feel as if I'm
never
going to learn about myself by reading dusty old history books. It's almost as if Benjamin is trying to shut me up, to distract me by encouraging me to spend my time reading. As time goes by, I'm starting to have more and more doubts about whether I can truly trust that guy.

Walking over to the shelves, I slide the book back into place. What I really want to be doing right now is coming up with a plan for how to get Patrick free. Sure, that might be the worst idea in the world, but I can't accept that my father is some kind of monster who needs to be kept in this place. If my mother loved him, there must be a good side to him. I don't want to learn about myself by reading books; I want to learn about myself by spending time with my father and talking to him, and getting to know the limits of my own existence. Anything else is just marking time.

"You must be Abby," says a voice nearby. I turn to find a woman standing by the door. She's young, maybe in her early twenties, and tall, with blonde hair curled tightly into a bun on the back of her head. She walks towards me. "My name's Constance. I'm the librarian here. My job is to handle the archives for the Watchers, but Benjamin has told me to help you with any questions you might have. It must be a little overwhelming to see all these books, and not to know where to start."

"I'm not sure I need a book," I reply. "I need to speak to my father." An image flashes into my mind: I'm in an old house, like some kind of country mansion from hundreds of years ago, and there's a woman staring at me. She's wearing old-fashioned clothes.

"Let me show you something," Constance says, and the image dissipates. She walks over to another of the shelves and pulls out a large book. "Everything you need to know is in here," she tells me. "The Watchers have kept detailed records for hundreds and hundreds of years. There are no mysteries. At least, not if you know where to look for the answers you need." She places the book on a table over by the wall. "What do you want, Abby? Whatever you need to know, it's all in here."

"That's exactly what Benjamin said," I tell her, feeling as if she's been primed to come in here and reinforce his message. I'm definitely being encouraged to spend my time in this part of the facility, reading, which makes me want to do the exact opposite. It's almost as if Benjamin wants to put
me
on a shelf, so he can come and get me later when he needs me. Figuring I might as well pretend to be interested, I decide to see if I can find a book that will give me some basic ideas. "What's a Tenderling?" I ask, figuring I might as well begin with something I've at least seen.

"I have just the book for you," she says, walking to another shelf and pulling out a large, dusty tome. "This is the complete history of the Tenderlings, as collated by generations of Watchers." She smiles as she hands me the book. "Why do you want to know about them?"

"I saw some," I tell her.

"Where?"

"At a diner." I put the book on the table. "Loads of them."

"You must be mistaken," she says. "Tenderlings hate one another. If two of them met, they'd rip each other apart."

"That's what Todd said," I tell her, "but they were swarming all over the place. It was like they were working together."

Constance stares at me for a moment. "Things must be changing," she says. "I suppose it's only to be expected as we move into the Age of Chaos." She turns to the books, with a worried look on her face. "A lot of the archive will have to be rewritten. Perhaps I'll need an assistant." She glances at me. "Are you interested in a part-time job?"

"Not really," I say. Opening the book, I find it contains lots of illustrations that show the little red creatures that attacked the diner. "You should digitize everything," I tell her. "It'd make it easier to add changes."

"Maybe that's something you can help me with," she replies.

I shrug. The thought of hanging around here long enough to help with a big project doesn't really get my blood pumping. Still, leafing through this book about Tenderlings is kind of fascinating. It's hard to believe that these creatures could exist without being noticed by the 'regular' world. I can't imagine how the destruction of the diner got reported by the local news, but I suppose they came up with some kind of explanation. If only people knew the truth.

"I mean it," Constance says as she turns to leave. "I could use some help around here. I've got a new spider husk to catalog, and it's not an easy job. If you change your mind and you want to keep busy, just come and find me."

As soon as she's gone, I close the book. I feel like every second I spend here, I'm getting dragged deeper into their world and I'll find it harder to leave. I have to go and free Patrick so that he can take me away and help me learn the truth about myself. Maybe setting him loose is a bad idea, but he's my father and he's in pain, and I want to talk to him. Something tells me that Benjamin and his pals are going to keep Patrick confined for as long as possible, and I don't think they're being entirely straight with me. I can't really explain it, but I have this overwhelming desire to help my father. It's almost as if he reached into my mind and showed me where my loyalties should be directed. All my life, I've struggled to fit in. Finally, I've found someone who might understand me, and I'm not going to let anyone keep me from him. I'm going to find a way to get him out of here.