Dark Season: The Complete Box Set (19 page)

Hamish

Dedston - 1990

The hospital is almost deserted this late at night. I climb the exterior wall, looking in every window, and eventually I find what I'm looking for.

It's a small room, with horrible yellow walls. A woman is screaming, and a couple of doctors are reaching between her legs. By the bed, a man is holding the woman's hand and watching with a concerned look on his face. After a few minutes, there's the sound of a child screaming, and one of the doctors lifts up a small, bloodied infant.

I can hear them through the window. There's a problem. The baby is premature by five weeks and has to be placed in intensive care. The mother is allowed to see her, just for a moment, and then the child is rushed away. I stay where I am for a while, watching the mother as she falls asleep.

I move to another window, and I quickly find a way into a small, dark storage cupboard. From there, I emerge into a brightly-lit corridor. I wait for a while, and then I go to look at the intensive care ward.

She's in the unit closest to the door. The doctors are fussing around her, making sure she doesn't stop breathing. I watch. There's no need to get closer. I know she'll be okay, that's not why I'm here. I'm here to get her scent. I breathe deeply, and soon I know her better than anyone else here. It's definitely her; the girl from the Book of Gothos.

Anyone except one person.

I look at the large window closest to the baby. In the darkness outside, there's a shape. The humans can't see it, because it's so dark and they're focused on the baby, but I can see it. I smile and give a little wave.

The figure at the window looks at me briefly, but his focus is on the baby. Good old Patrick. I knew he'd be here.

I turn and walk away. I've got the scent now. I won't have to return for many years, at least seventeen or eighteen, maybe more. I can't come back to Dedston too soon, or the girl won't be able to help me; but if I come back too late, I might miss my window of opportunity. After all, once she meets Patrick, Sophie's days are most definitely numbered.

For now, though, I need to go where no-one can find me. Where no-one would even think of looking. I walk out of the hospital and head toward the bus station, where there's a bus waiting to take me to Vegas. That should be a good place to get lost for a decade or two. I mean, come on - I'm gonna fit right in. Garvey and Duncan and Darla and the rest can look for me all they like, but I'll be unfindable. And if I get hungry, no-one's gonna miss a few gangsters and gamblers in the city of sin, right?

Sophie

"You're still here," I say, standing in the cave and staring at Patrick. He's still in position, apparently waiting for the werewolves to attack. "You've been here all this time?"

He stares at me. Still, there's no response.

Sighing, I realize Hamish lied to me. Patrick didn't follow us after I was kidnapped. I guess Hamish just wanted to make me feel safer, and it worked. I'd never have been able to stand up to the Alpha Wolf if I hadn't believed that Patrick was nearby, ready to step in and help if necessary.

"I need to talk to Vincent," I say, stepping past him and heading toward the house. Pausing for a moment, I turn and glance back at him. "You don't need to stand there," I add. "That whole werewolf thing? I fixed it."

He turns to me.

I shrug, and head to the house.

"I was expecting you," Vincent says, looking up from his work as I enter his study. "I trust that everything worked out well?"

"No thanks to either of you two," I reply. "Don't worry, though. Hamish and Garvey are gone. They've headed off to San Francisco. Garvey promised to keep an eye on Hamish, but I'm not really sure if that's gonna work too well." I pause for a moment. There's something I want to ask Vincent, but I'm scared of the answer. "Apparently I'm in some kind of book," I say eventually. "The Book of Gothos?"

"I believe so," Vincent replies.

"So?" I wait for him to give me some more details. "What's the Book of Gothos, and why am I in it?"

"Patience," he says.

"Patience?"

He smiles. "Some things must not be rushed. You'll learn about Gothos when the time is right. One day, you will visit the great house and see it for yourself."

Walking over to the window, I look out and see that Patrick is no longer over by the entrance.

"Where's Patrick?" I ask.

Vincent smiles sadly. "I imagine he's gone to catch up with an old friend."

I stare at him for a moment. "Hamish?"

Vincent nods.

"Does he know where he is?"

"He'll find him."

"Does he know what happened?" I ask. "We made the wolves go away. Does Patrick know that?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Afraid so?" I walk over to Vincent's desk. "We stopped the wolves. We persuaded them to leave Hamish alone. No,
I
persuaded them." There's still no reply from Vincent. "That's a good thing, right? I helped save Hamish?"

"Yes, it's a good thing," says Vincent, but he seems tired. "Nevertheless, Patrick has to make sure it never happens again."

"What do you mean?"

Vincent sighs. "Do you realize how close you came to dying out there?"

"But I didn't. I stopped it all from happening."

"This time, yes," says Vincent. "But next time?"

"
What
next time?"

"Hamish is many things. But he doesn't learn from mistakes. He knows now that he can use you to ward off the Alpha Wolf. Or at least, he thinks he can. And when he needs you again, he will come back for you, of that I have no doubt. Patrick cannot allow you to be exposed to that constant threat."

"There's no threat," I say.

"You don't know Hamish," Vincent says firmly. "You don't know his past. You don't know what he has done to people. Good people. Loyal people. He's a dangerous creature. He puts people in danger and then he uses them to save himself. Apart from Garvey and Duncan, most of the other werewolves keep well clear of him. I know you saved him this time, but in a year or two he'll be in another mess and he'll need saving again. And Patrick knows that when this happens, he'll be back here to get you to help him. That can't be allowed to happen."

I think about this for a moment. "What's he going to do to him?"

Vincent opens his mouth to speak, but says nothing. It seems he doesn't want to answer.

"He can't kill him," I say. "They're friends."

"I honestly don't know," says Vincent. "Killing a wolf is not easy. I suspect Patrick will merely arrange things so that Hamish can't ever trouble us again. How he will do that, I have no idea. But I do not imagine he will fail. Hamish will not return."

I don't know what to say. Just when I thought everything was going to be okay, Patrick has to go and do things his own way. "Does it always have to end so violently?" I ask. "Whatever happens, does Patrick always have to use violence to solve everything? Why can't he just let Hamish go?"

"Because Hamish would be back. Again and again. And eventually you would die."

This is crazy. I can't talk to Vincent about this, but the one person I need to talk to is the one person who can't possibly talk to me. "When will he be back?" I ask quietly.

"A few days, I imagine."

I nod. "Tell him... Tell him he's wrong. I know he won't listen, but tell him anyway. And tell him that if he's killed Hamish, then I never want to see him again. Tell him that."

I turn and walk away. I don't wait to hear what Vincent has to say, because there's nothing he can say. Patrick can only speak through violence, but sometimes violence isn't what's needed. I know he's saved my life twice now, but I'm also pretty sure that I won't need my life saving again unless Patrick is around. As I walk up the tunnel toward the exit, I realize the irony: I've finally found how to get down here without help, and now I don't know if I'll ever want to come down again.

Outside, it's almost morning, but there's another surprise: Patrick is waiting for me. I stop as soon as I see him. He looks tired, and his eyes are loaded with sadness.

"Did you do it?" I ask. No answer. "Did you kill him?"

He stares at me for a moment, and then - finally - he slowly shakes his head.

"But he won't come back, will he?" I ask.

He shakes his head again.

As usual, I'm left standing here with so much to say, I can't say anything at all. It's hard to talk to someone who never replies.

I step toward Patrick. Without really thinking, I move closer to him and plant a kiss on his cheek. He doesn't respond, but he doesn't move away either. He just stands there and takes it. I keep my face close to his for a moment, and I breathe deep to try to catch his scent. That's all Hamish talks about: scents. So I should be able to pick up Patrick's scent, right? But there's nothing. I'm just human, I guess, and there's some things we humans just can't do.

Then again, there are some things vampires can't do either.

I reach and take his hand in mine. I don't know why, it just feels like the thing to do. But as I turn his hand over, I see blood wiped on the skin. I take his other hand: it's the same.

"This isn't your blood, is it?" I ask.

He shakes his head.

I step back, and then without saying anything I walk away. I don't look back, not once, and I keep walking through the woods until I get to the edge of the city, to where the leaves of the forest floor give way to the concrete of the outer suburbs. Finally, I stop and look back.

Ever since I first met Patrick, I've felt his presence around me all the time. His eyes watching me, almost like he's reading my mind. But now, for the first time in months, there's nothing. For the first time since I met Patrick, I feel like he's not following me, not watching over me at all.

Hamish

Dedston - 2012

Fucking hell, nightclubs aren't what they used to be. The 19th century was the best time - Paris, Berlin, Prague, Vienna... the list is endless. Great artists and writers smoking opiates and gently going mad in one another's company. Absinthe was the big drink back then. God, I remember when I first drank absinthe - or, rather, I
don't
remember when I first drank absinthe. In fact, I don't remember anything from 1880 to 1885. That's five fucking years of my life when I haven't a clue what I was doing, where I was, who I was with, or anything. Given that I was being chased by a pack of hungry werewolves at the time, it's some achievement that I'm still here at all.

But this place? This is a nightclub in name only. I don't mind the music, and I don't mind the people, all of whom look pleasant enough. It's more the culture of the place. People in the toilets are injecting fuck knows what into their veins in a desperate attempt to feel something. By the bar, kids are passed out, others are kissing, others are arguing. All human life is here, but I can't say I'm very impressed. That's okay, though. I'm not here looking for just anyone. I'm here looking for the one person who can save my fucking life right now, and I can already smell her. I can pick up her scent, all these years after she was born.

I wait out on the fire escape 'cause I know that she'll end up out here at some point. I've already spotted her in the crowd, and she looks like she doesn't quite fit in here. She seems awkward, as if she'd rather be somewhere else,
anywhere
else, and that's perfect. I could see immediately why Patrick is so focused on her. It's going to be a sad story when it all plays out, but I can totally see Patrick's point of view. I just need to borrow her for a couple of days. That's all.

After about half an hour, she appears. She ignores me and goes to the other side of the fire escape. I wait for a moment, watching her. It's dark, but that gives me a certain advantage. I can see her perfectly and although she's obviously aware that I'm here, she's very carefully not looking at me. And she’s not bad looking, either. Not what you’d call a knockout superstar, not even particularly noticeable in a crowd. Plain, but not bad. Totally not my type, of course.

"I knew you'd come out here eventually," I say to introduce myself, but she doesn't really respond. That's okay. I've already got the measure of her. I've seen her eyes. They're intelligent, brave eyes, and they're exactly what I need. I thought I was here for Patrick, but I'm not. I'm here for her. She's perfect for what I need. And as a bonus, it'll be good to see old Patrick again after all these years. I can always rely on Patrick. But enough talk. It's time to get this show on the road.

"Terribly rude of me," I say, stepping toward her. "Do you mind if I introduce myself?"

Book 4

The Civil Dead

Prologue

I hate Los Angeles.

I mean, I
really
hate it. How I ended up living out here, I'll never know. So far from home. So far from my kids. So far from everything I've ever known. Hell, I'm not even in the movie business: I sell real estate. Seriously, I could have moved anywhere. Why here?

One word: money. I thought I'd make a killing out here, but instead I've just about been hanging on at the bottom of the food chain.

It's Monday night and I'm three hours late leaving work. I was supposed to meet Sharon for dinner, which I can just about still make. I was also supposed to call my kids and speak to them for a bit, try to arrange for them to come out here and visit. This is going to be the second time I rearrange our chat, but I can't help it. That's what life's like out here. Just one rush after another. I guess Sophie and Todd have got used to my unreliability.

Heading to the restaurant, it takes me half an hour to drive a mile, thanks to a series of traffic jams and roadworks. So I ditch the car at La Brea and decide to catch a 42 bus, which takes me much closer to the restaurant and avoids the worst of the bad roads. As I get off the bus, I'm only ten minutes late for dinner. Sharon will be waiting, but she's used to this. Of course, if I'd remembered my cell phone, I could call ahead and let her know I'm almost there...

Somewhere between 5th and Charles St, I take a wrong turn. After a couple of minutes I realize I'm down some dark street I've never seen before. I could keep going and see where I come out, or I could just turn back and accept that I'll be even later. Frustrated, I turn back.

There's a man standing behind me. A tall man, completely in the shadow. Seriously, if this guy was trying to scare me, he couldn't do a better job. It's as if he's just standing there, watching me.

I try to walk past him, but he grabs my arm and holds me in place with a firm grip.

I sigh. "Is this a mugging?" I ask. I've read about this kind of thing. It's actually not that big of a deal out here. All you do is hand over everything you've got, then phone up the bank and cancel all your cards. You don't really lose much, and as long as you cooperate you don't even get hurt. Feeling annoyed more than anything else, I pull my wallet out and thrust it into the guy's other hand. "Here," I say. "You're welcome."

He holds the wallet in his hand for a moment, and then he drops it.

"What do you want?" I ask, starting to get worried but trying to make sure I seem calm. "I don't have a car. If I had a car, do you think I'd be walking down here right now?" No answer. Okay, now I'm starting to panic a little, because I can't think of anything else this guy could possibly want. "I have a family," I say. "And two kids. Okay? Don't hurt me. I've given you my wallet." I look up into this guy's dark face, which is still completely hidden by shadows.

"Okay," I say with a sigh, "let's talk about -"

At that moment, I launch my hardest punch, connecting straight with the guy's head. He loosens his grip on my arm just a little, but then he pulls me close and I feel a terrible pain in my gut. Looking up at his dark face, I feel the blade of a knife grinding against my spine. The fucker's stabbed me in the back.

As the knife is pulled out, I fall to my knees before the guy kicks me in the stomach and I collapse into a crumpled heap on the ground. Unable to move, I feel the knife slice into me half a dozen more times. I swear I can feel blood flooding through my body, rushing into places it shouldn't be. Then I feel his hands on me, and he rolls me onto my back. I still have no idea what he wants. I look up at the dark sky for a moment before his looming dark face appears in my field of vision, looking down at me. He tilts his head slightly; the way a dog does when it's trying to understand something. And then I see his hand, holding the knife, come down directly into my face. I close my eyes but I can feel it - I can almost
see
it - slicing through my brain again and again and again.

You know what I'm thinking about as I die? My kids. I should've spent more time with my kids.