Dark Season: The Complete Box Set (87 page)

Nimrod

1960.

The funeral is sparsely attended. A few old family friends, some acquaintances of my parents... David didn't have any real life of his own. He was still so young when he died - when he was
killed
- and he'd not had much chance to enjoy himself. So while the priest gives a moving, if rather impersonal, eulogy, and while the half dozen people gathered at the graveside stand respectfully and give the impression of sorrow, this is ultimately a rather drab and soulless event. Of the people in attendance, I'm the only one who really knew David, and the only one who truly understood the tragedy of his brief life.

"I'm sorry for your loss," says one of the mourners as the the service finishes.

I say nothing, merely nodding. I have no idea who this man is, or how he knows my family.

"Sorry for your loss," says another mourner, barely even making eye contact as he wanders past.

I nod politely.

"My name is Benjamin," the man continues, pressing a business card into my hand. "I won't bother you at such a troubling moment, but I'd be grateful if you could give me a call some time. I believe we have a great deal in common."

"Of course," I reply, even though I have no intention of wasting my time. Pocketing the business card without even looking at it, I smile politely before turning to greet yet another stranger who wishes to offer his condolences.

As rest of the mourners say their goodbyes and trudge away, I'm left alone by the grave as workmen move in to fill the space with dirt. Even the priest is leaving as quickly as possible, his duty completed. There's a very light, fine rain falling, not enough to really get any of us wet but enough to serve as an excuse for those who wish to get away. Nevertheless, I stand by David's grave and try to think of some way in which I might be able to honor him. Ultimately, I come up with nothing. David's death was dishonorable and cruel; no amount of after-thought can ever restore him to glory.

And I killed him.

I can't deny it any longer.

It was me. I killed my own brother.

But I had a good reason!

I did it for Patrick. I did it in order to show Patrick my loyalty. No, that's not quite right. I did it because I believed Patrick would bring David back to life as a vampire. I was wrong. He just left David to die. So who is to blame for the fact that my brother's cold body is in that casket now, about to be buried forever?

Of course, I can blame Patrick for goading me, for encouraging me, but ultimately I was the one who cut into my brother's body and caused the blood to flow from him. I was the one who took razor blades to my teeth, fashioning them into sharp little points. I was the one who believed that David and I could belong to Patrick's world. I truly believed that once Patrick saw the depths of our devotion, he would usher us into his inner circle. Instead, he seemed to be shocked by what I had done. I still remember how he looked at me that day; it was as if he was repulsed by me.

So I
did
kill my little brother, even though it wasn't my fault. It was Patrick's fault, and he must pay for what he did. Unless I can persuade him to reconsider and take me into his confidence, in which case I can avenge David's death by becoming all-powerful. I'm absolutely certain that David would consider his own death to be a price worth paying if it could only bring me closer to the destiny I know is mine. Patrick was wrong not to admit
both
of us into his world, and I must show him that this is the case. If I can become like Patrick, I am quite sure that David - wherever he is - will look on with understanding. He was a good brother, and I feel certain that he possessed the ability to understand my predicament.

"You were right to kill me," he says.

Turning, I find David standing right beside me. I was expecting him to return as a ghost at some point, and it had already occurred to me that he might choose to do so at his funeral.

"I'm glad you agree," I say.

"Patrick will see that he was wrong to reject you," he continues. "If my blood is the balm that heals the rift between the two of you, then so be it."

Something moves behind me.

I turn and see nothing, but I know what I felt. Patrick was here. I look over at David, but his ghost is gone. I take a few steps toward the trees, keeping an eye on the scene in front of me. My senses are finely-tuned and I do not make mistakes. There was something there, something large; the only logical conclusion is that it was Patrick. Yes, it makes sense now. Patrick came to see me, to observe my brother's burial. My heart lifts a little as it occurs to me that perhaps this was all part of Patrick's test. Perhaps he wanted me to reach an absolute low, a true nadir of the soul, before he admits me into his world. Perhaps, finally, I am to receive the welcome that I deserve. Perhaps Patrick simply wanted to push me to the brink of defeat, before returning to grant me everything that I have wanted for so long. If this is the case, he has taught me a valuable lesson.

I walk closer to the trees. I'm convinced he's here, lurking somewhere. He's watching, and waiting. He must see value in me after all. I just have to show him that I'm strong, and that I can be of use to him. I know he wants someone to take over his role as the last vampire, and I can do that. All he has to do is give me the blessing that will turn me into a creature like him. It's insane not to give this to me. I am the only person who is in a position to succeed Patrick; I am the only person who can not only take his place, but rise higher and higher.

"Come out," I say carefully, not wanting to scare him away. "I heard you. I know you're there. I need to talk to you." I step into the undergrowth, desperate to find him, but he's not there. "Patrick!" I call out, hoping against hope that he'll make himself known to me.

"Are you okay?" a voice asks.

I turn to find that one of the cemetery workers has come over to check on me. He looks concerned, and his colleague is watching from a distance.

"I'm fine," I say, bristling at this interruption by such a common man. "I thought I saw -" I pause. "I thought I saw a friend over here, that's all." It feels wrong to describe Patrick as a 'friend', but how else can I explain it? A stupid cemetery worker would never understand a creature such as Patrick; nor would he understand my own ambitions.

"There was someone," the man says. "I saw him. Looked like he didn't want to be seen."

"You saw him?" I ask.

The man nods. "He seemed pretty keen to make sure you wouldn't see him."

"Why didn't you tell me before?" I ask, almost shouting at the fool.

"None of my business," the man says, walking back over to the grave.

"None of your business?" I ask, shocked. There's a part of me that right now would love to go and tear that damn fool's head off. He has no right drawing another breath, yet this is the side of me that I must suppress. Patrick is a passionate creature; he lives for the moment and he rarely seems to think ahead. I admire Patrick very much, but I see this impetuosity of his as a weakness. While I very much aspire to be like Patrick in many ways, there are a few ways in which I would like to be subtly different. I am more intelligent than most men, after all, and I might as well use that advantage as best I can. You could even say that in this regard, Patrick and I are complete opposites: he relies upon strength and passion, and I rely upon logic and rationality.

This is something I must change if I'm ever to find a way to defeat him. I must become like Patrick.

Nimrod

Today.

"Thank you," I say to the Flesh Weaver. "I trust you're happy with your payment?" The creature lets out a long, slow moan before turning and slowly walking away. An old debt has finally been repaid, and the Flesh Weaver can return to its home safe in the knowledge that it will never again be forced to play a role in the prophecy.

"Believe it or not," I say, turning to Sophie, "that's the happiest I've ever seen a Flesh Weaver."

Sophie isn't listening to me. With tears running down her face, she's holding Abigail in her arms, unable to stop looking at her. Abigail stares back up at her mother, and the pair of them are slowly bonding as they get to know one another.

"She's so beautiful," Sophie says eventually, her voice cracking as she tries not to sob. "I can't believe she's... I can't believe I'm her mother, but it feels so right. It just feels like -" She pauses for a moment. "There's no trick here, is there? This is Abigail, right?"

"I promise," I say. "You can trust me. Besides, can't you tell? Deep down, can't you feel that this is your daughter? I thought a mother could always tell such things about her child?"

She pauses. "I'm sorry I doubted you," she says, glancing at me.

"Completely understandable," I say.

She looks back down at Abigail. "I know this is gonna sound crazy," she says, "but I swear she's got my Dad's nose."

I smile. It's so strange seeing Sophie like this. It never occurred to me that I would find this part of the plan so emotional. I'm almost tempted to try to find a way for mother and child to be together for longer, but ultimately I know that the prophecy would never allow that. This is the last time that Sophie will ever be truly happy.

"There's a hint of your eyes too," I say.

"You think so?" she asks, still crying.

"Definitely," I say. I pause for a moment. "A hint of Patrick's too."

Sophie bristles at the mention of his name. "Is it too late to make sure she's nothing like him?" she asks. "I don't want her to grow up and remind me of her father."

"I'm sure that won't happen," I say.

"She's a baby," Sophie says, "and she's free. She doesn't have to be or do anything. As long as I raise her properly, and as long as I keep Patrick away from her, she doesn't ever have to know anything about her background. I'll tell her I had a one-night stand or something. Anything to avoid having to tell her the truth about Patrick."

"You might not be able to -"

"Don't say it!" Sophie hisses at me. "Look at her. She's got the whole world ahead of her, her whole life. Don't tell me there's some prophecy that says what's going to happen to her, or what she's going to decide to do. There's not. She's totally free. We're all free."

I open my mouth to respond, but then I realize I have nothing to say. Sophie truly believes she can sever the connection between father and child, and I don't see why I should tell her that this isn't true. Let her believe, for the final few hours of her life, that Abigail can have a long, happy and normal existence. The truth is: there's very little that's normal about this child, even if her true nature will only become apparent much later. Still, I can't help but feel a little resentful; after all, Abigail has been born with qualities that I have desperately wanted for so many years. If I could become her, if I could take her place, I would do so in a heartbeat.

"We should get moving," I say. "Patrick won't be far behind and we need to get away."

"Where are we going?" Sophie asks.

I smile. "I have everything worked out," I say, leading Sophie and Abigail back toward the town. Everything is working perfectly, and the plan is moving into the final phase. I want to smile, but I manage to keep a worried, earnest expression on my face. "It'll be okay," I add, "all you have to do is trust me."

Nimrod

1970.

"Please..." the whore whimpers. "Don't hurt me!"

I look down at her face. Is it possible that she's still alive, after everything I've done to her? I wait to see if she speaks again, but there's nothing.

"Did you hear that?" David whispers in my ear.

"A trick of the wind," I say, but as I drop the girl's body from the window of my apartment, she seems to turn her head to look at me. I watch as she plummets through the snowy evening and lands hard against the ground, her body exploding like a blood-filled bag. "She was barely alive when I met her," I say as I slide the window shut.

"Your apartment is a mess," David says.

"It's always a mess after a kill," I reply. "Don't you have anything to do other than just standing there making obvious comments?"

"That's not a very nice way to talk to your brother," he says as I go and fetch some cleaning equipment. "Especially considering you're the one who killed me."

Ignoring him, I start wiping blood from the door.

"Do you think he was watching tonight?" David asks.

I pause. He means Patrick. "Perhaps," I say. "Yes, probably."

"Do you think he's proud of you?"

I sigh. "How should I know?" I ask, feeling a little impatient. "I'm sure he's watching, and I'm sure he's learning that I'm far more powerful and dangerous than he ever realized. I'm sure I'm making an impression." I turn to David, but he's gone. Typical. He always disappears just as I'm arguing with him, but everything I said is true. I don't know how, or why, but I'm absolutely certain that Patrick is watching my every move. He must be. He wrote me off as some pathetic failure, but I'm showing him that I have the necessary blood lust. Soon, when he's seen enough, Patrick will come to me and finally do what he should have done long ago. I
will
become a vampire.