Dark Season: The Complete Box Set (8 page)

I almost call out to Patrick, to tell him he can't just kill Dexter like this, but then I remember what happened last time and I realize Patrick won't listen to me again. Turning for a moment, Patrick stares at me as if to thank me, and then he slowly starts carrying Dexter down the steps, and as he goes, I hear Dexter start to scream. Eventually they disappear from sight, and I hear Dexter still screaming until, suddenly, the scream is cut off dead.

Sophie

I stand up and grab my trousers, pulling them back on. I run to the steps leading down to the tunnel. For a moment, I consider going after them. Not to stop Patrick, but to see what he does. I feel as if I have to see this side of him too; I have to know how dark and brutal he can be. But as I try to decide whether to follow, I feel Vincent's hand on my shoulder.

"It's not a place for you, down there," he says, as if he's read my mind. "Trust me. There are some things you don't want to see."

"How long have you been watching?" I ask.

"Long enough," he says. "When I heard the screams, I knew it was time. Are you okay?"

"I want to see," I say. But the truth is, if I really wanted to see, I would have followed Patrick by now. The only thing stopping me is my fear. I turn to Vincent. "If I asked him to stop... If I asked Patrick not to kill Dexter... for me... would he?"

He shakes his head. "Patrick is not a beast, Sophie. But he can act like one, when he has to."

I'm about to tell him that I need to see it for myself, when we both hear a loud snap from deep in the tunnel. I turn to look, and then I turn back to Vincent. "I was wrong to stop him before," I say. "I should have let him kill Dexter the first time."

Vincent shakes his head. "You were right to stop him then. But you would be wrong to stop him now."

I nod. "I'll wait," I say. "I want to see him when he comes back up."

"I don't think you should," says Vincent.

"I don't care if I should," I say. "I'm going to stay."

Vincent opens his mouth, to argue with me, but then he seems to accept my decision. He walks away, and all I can do is stand here, at the top of the steps leading down into the tunnel, waiting for Patrick to come back, and dreading what I might see. From the darkness below, I can hear the sound of Dexter's body being ripped apart. It sounds like a wild animal, feeding on its victim.

Patrick

Everyone's blood tastes different. I wish I didn't know this, but I do. Some people have blood that tastes ordinary and bland. It's forgettable. But some people have blood that tastes rich and full. These rare ones come along maybe once a century, but they're worth the wait.

Besides, I have no choice. Every second I delay the kill, more spiders appear on the ceiling. The prophecy is asserting itself.

Dexter Logan's blood tastes old and dull. There's nothing unique about it. I'm disappointed. I expected to be rewarded for killing him so... inventively. But his blood was barely worth tasting. It was sour and thick. It almost sickened me. Perhaps that's why I let him live. But is it really life, what I've done to him? Perhaps I'll ask him one day, if I ever come back down here to see how he's doing.

Sophie

It's getting late and cold and Patrick still hasn't returned. Vincent assures me that although he definitely
will
come back up soon, he might take many more hours. I'm determined to see him again, though, even if it's for the last time. I know I have to see his face, and look into his eyes, because my last ever image of him can't be so monstrous.

"There's something I still don't understand," I say to Vincent, who's sitting at his desk and slowly turning the pages of a big, old yellowing book. "Why me? Hundreds of people get attacked in this town every year. How did Dexter know that Patrick would save
me
?"

"There are some things you don't need to know," he says.

"Tell me."

Vincent closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them to look at me. "Prophecies are strange things. Dangerous things. As you've seen, they can be abused terribly. Patrick has a great sense of how things should be," he says. "He senses destiny. It's almost as if he can hear it in the distance, or smell it on the breeze. It's a unique gift, I've never known anyone who..." He trails off, as if he has already said too much.

"What's that got to do with me?" I ask.

He smiles. "If you could sense destiny, wouldn't you be drawn to it? Wouldn't you be curious? Wouldn't you want to get closer and take a good look at it?"

"He thinks it's his destiny to know me?"

Vincent shakes his head. "He doesn't think, he
knows
. I know too. It's all in the Book of Gothos
."

"The book of
what
?"

"You'll learn eventually," he replies. "You wouldn't understand now, but one day Patrick will take you to Gothos and you'll see it all."

"I don't know about that," I say. To be honest, I'm not sure that I want to go anywhere with Patrick. There's something about him that I don't quite trust. In fact, I'm starting to think that maybe I'm in shock. How else could you explain the fact that after everything that's happened today, I haven't run away screaming? I'm not exactly a strong person.

"It's your destiny," Vincent continues, "just as it's your destiny to..." He pauses, and a sad look enters his eyes.

"Tell me," I say.

He takes a deep breath. "Patrick knows that it's his destiny... to one day kill you."

I shake my head. "That's impossible."

"It's what will happen," he says quietly. "One day, Patrick will kill you."

I shake my head.

"It's all true," Vincent continues. "There are forces, Sophie, that are far greater than anything we can see. Pulses and currents that run through our destinies, binding us together in subtle ways."

"I'm not going to sit around and wait for someone to kill me," I say, heading over to the door.

"You have no choice," he says. "Besides, when Patrick kills you, it'll be your fault. One day, you're going to do something so awful, so terrible, that he'll be filled with anger and he'll end your life."

"Then I'll keep away from him," I reply.

"There's nothing you can do to avoid your destiny," he says. "The prophecy of the last vampire is quite clear on this point."

"The last vampire?"

"Patrick's the last," says Vincent. "He's been the last for a very long time."

I think for a moment. My mind is racing, and my heart's beating so fast it might leap out of my body at any moment. "1959..." I say quietly. "He was the last vampire in 1959?"

"As I said," Vincent says, "he's been the last vampire for many years."

We both turn out heads to look at the door as we hear footsteps getting closer. Patrick is finally returning.

"You can't tell him that you know any of this," says Vincent hurriedly.

"I'm getting out of here," I say, hurrying from the room. Even though I don't believe in destiny and all that stuff, I feel as if I need to get as far away from Patrick and Vincent as possible. As I make my way out of the house, however, I come face to face with Patrick once again. He’s a horrific sight. There’s blood all around his mouth, and smeared on his face and on his hands. His clothes are torn. He seems to be out of breath and totally shocked, and there’s a look in his eyes that tells me there’s nothing I can say or do right now. He stares at me, and I stare back at him, and finally I realize it's all true. He really
is
a vampire, and he really
could
kill me one day.

"I'm sorry," I mutter, "I have to go."

He reaches out to stop me.

"Don't touch me!" I shout, before turning and hurrying across the chamber. I run along the tunnel that leads back up to the forest. When I reach the clearing, I pause for a moment, feeling as if Patrick is standing right behind me. When I turn to look, however, there's no sign of him.

Book 2

Sentinel

Prologue

Dedston, September 30th 1959

I go down to the beach to wash the blood from my hands, my face and my clothes. Although it comes from two very different bodies, all the blood is the same: hot, red and sticky.

Wading into the ocean, I walk out until I'm completely submerged. The current is strong and I struggle to stay on my feet. Eventually I return to the shore.

I look up the hill toward the lighthouse. For a moment, I consider going back. But there's nothing for me to do there. And I'm so tired, I feel I could sleep for years. Plus, Vincent will be waiting for me, to learn what I've done. I'll have to tell him everything.

I hold my hands up. They're still marked by traces of blood. Humans think vampires revel in blood, but that's not true. I haven't taken blood from a human in years. It feels strange and it shames me. Even though I knew this tragedy was coming, I would rather I had never had to play my part. But I will accept this fate and move on. I have that luxury. Others do not.

They'll find Jessica Harper's body, no problem. They'll pick up the chunks of her bones and flesh. That's fine by me. I hope they examine every inch of her. But they'll never, ever find Rose Tisser.

Sophie

Dedston - Today

After knocking on the screen door, I stand nervously on the porch of John Tisser's house. I can't help looking over my shoulder, wondering if anyone's watching me or has followed me here. Recent events have taught me to be extra-cautious. And even though I can't see him, I know there's a good chance Patrick's somewhere around. In which case, I really hope he doesn't know whose house this is. I don't think he'd be too happy that I came.

The door opens and a friendly-looking, smiling old man appears. "You must be Sophie," he says. "I'm John. Come in."

He leads me into his house. His wife is pottering about in the kitchen, but she doesn't come through to say hello. Instead, John goes and fetches some coffee and cookies from the other room, coming back and setting them out in front of me.

"I hope you don't mind me coming," I say. "I don't want to stir up any bad memories."

"Nonsense," he says, pointing to a chair. I take a seat as he sets the coffee down and starts pouring. "I don't mind taking about it. Just..." He glances back at the kitchen. His wife gives us a quick, dark stare before carrying on with whatever she's doing. "Don't forget that this stuff all happened 50 years ago. My memory's not quite as sharp as it used to be. And don't expect anything from my wife. She sees things a little differently."

"I don't want to cause any bother," I say. "Like I said on the phone, I'm just doing a college project and your sister's murder came up." That's a lie. A total lie. I'm not even
at
college.

He nods. "Do you know they never found her body?"

"Yes," I say. "But there was so much..." I pause, wanting to be tactful. "There was so much evidence, and they didn't have the capabilities to analyze it all. I'm sure it'd be very different if it happened today."

"You're right," John agrees. "They
did
claim they couldn't analyze it all. And I have no specific reason to doubt them." For the first time, he looks a little uncomfortable. "I'm glad they didn't identify her body in all that mess. I went to the other girl's funeral, Jessica Harper. As they carried the coffin past, someone slipped and jolted the coffin. Heard all sorts of stuff in there slopping about. That girl wasn't in one piece, that's for sure."

I hadn't planned to go into too much detail today. I'd assumed John Tisser would be keen to avoid talking about the more gruesome aspects of the whole thing, given that whatever happened to Jessica Harper probably happened to his sister as well.

I take a sip of the coffee John has prepared for me. It's time to broach the one part of this discussion that I really don't know how to start. "There were some pretty wild theories about the whole thing, weren't there?" I say.

John visibly bristles. "Yeah," he says.

"John!" his wife calls forcefully from the kitchen. She's been listening.

"In a minute," John calls back. He takes a deep breath. "I remember when they came and told me about Rose and Jess. Told me they'd been killed. And I couldn't wait to find the son of a bitch who killed them. Fifty years later, I've still got that anger. If someone tells me today who did it, I'll be down there and I swear I'll beat the life out of them."

"Some people said it was a vampire," I say, hoping I'm not being too blunt.

"Or Mickey Mouse," John says, smiling. "No, the vampire thing was a misunderstanding. She had a boyfriend, and some people didn't like him. Hell,
I
didn't like him. But... it wasn't a human that killed the girls. It was some kind of animal." He seems lost in his thoughts for a moment. "Did you know my sister was going to be a writer?"

I shake my head.

"She was writing a novel," he says.

"Really?"

"Wait a sec," John says. He gets up and goes to a bookcase, quickly pulling out a scrappy little item. "This is what that mix-up was all about," he says, passing me the book. "Rose wanted to be a writer. She was writing a novel about a vampire. Some fella in the press got hold of it, started saying she and Jess were killed by a vampire."

I look at the front of the book. It's tatty, old and almost falling apart.

"You can take it," says John. "Read it. It's entertaining enough. Would've been published, I'm sure, if she'd lived long enough to finish it. She was a great little writer."

"I'll bring it back," I say.

"No hurry," he says. "The thing is, I know that Rose's body is still out there, buried somewhere. Whenever I read in the paper about some new housing project, or some new construction scheme, I can't help wondering if they'll find her bones hidden in an unmarked grave. But you know what? Whatever happened to her, happened. I'm at peace with it now."

"John," says his wife, who has come to the door between the front room and the kitchen. There's urgency in her voice. "You need to fix the garage door." He gives me a look that betrays great contempt.

"I can go," I say, standing up. "You've been very helpful."

"Hope it helps with your college work," John says.

"Thanks for lending me the book," I say.

"Are you sure she should have that?" John's wife asks.

"It's no problem," John says, smiling at me. "Keep it as long as you like. If I've fallen off my perch by the time you're done, you're welcome to keep it."

While his wife disappears back into the kitchen, John walks me to the door. "She was such a good little writer," he says. "So much imagination."

I open the book and glance at a page. It's handwritten, in an old-fashioned script that I can barely understand. It's going to be a challenge to get through this, and it might even be a waste of time. But then I notice something: each chapter has a date written next to it.

This isn't a novel. It's a diary.