Dark Season: The Complete Third Series (All 8 books) (10 page)

"Wait here," I say, turning and taking a couple of steps away before putting my arms around the stake. With all my strength, I try to pull it away from him. After all, if I'm his daughter, maybe I've inherited some of his strength. Unfortunately, I can't make the damn thing budge at all. No matter how hard I try, it feels like it's rammed pretty permanently into his chest; eventually, I lose my grip and fall to the floor. "Fuck it!" I say as I get back up. I feel like -

Suddenly an image flashes into my mind: it's Patrick, stumbling through a blizzard. He's carrying something in his arms, some kind of package or bundle. The snow is so thick, he can barely walk, and he -

As soon as the image arrived, it's gone again.

"Is everything okay in here?" asks Benjamin as he comes back through.

"Fine," I say, deciding to keep the image to myself for now. I guess I can ask Shelley about it later. "I was just... You know, hanging out and stuff".

He smiles. I'm pretty sure he knows exactly what I was doing. I mean, a place like this probably has a ton of cameras and sensors everywhere. Still, what does he expect me to do? Does he think I'm supposed to
not
try to help my father when he's being held against his will? What kind of a daughter would just let this stuff happen?

"So when are you gonna let him go?" I ask.

"When the time is right," Benjamin replies.

"Which is when?"

"I don't know yet," he says. "We can't afford to make any mistakes".

"Who decides?" I ask.

"I do".

"But you
are
going to let him out of here, right?" I say. "You're not going to just leave him like this until he dies?"

"No," he says. "There's an active discussion going on between the members of our team, as to when would be the right moment to let Patrick loose again". He steps closer to my father, whose eyes are closed again. "Did he respond at all when you were talking to him?"

"No," I say. It's a lie, but I kind of like the idea that I know something this guy
doesn't
know. That brief moment of eye contact was the only contact I've really had with Patrick so far, and it feels like a secret between the two of us.

"I didn't think he'd show any sign of recognizing you," Benjamin replies. "We've been monitoring his brainwaves and he seems to be very subdued. I'm sorry to say that he probably doesn't even know you're here".

"I guess not," I say.

"That time will come," he continues. "For now, I imagine you'd like to learn more about your lineage. We have a great many reference works that can give you an idea of your father's history and the history of the vampire race in general".

There's that word again. Vampire. Since I got here, these people have been acting as if vampires are real, but I still can't quite get my head around it. To me, vampires are creatures in books and films, and it's almost impossible to believe that they could ever exist. Then again, everything about Dedston and these Watcher guys seems to be totally insane, so I guess I have to learn to start believing impossible things. Somehow, though, I feel as if it's all true. I don't know why, but it all seems to make sense to me. For the first time in my life, it's as if I understand where I come from. This feels right.

"Can I go for a walk?" I say, turning to Benjamin. "There's a whole town here, isn't there? I want to go and look around Dedston".

"Not right now," he replies. "You'll need to be accompanied at all times, and Todd isn't available currently. When he gets back, I'm sure he'll be only too happy to take you for a short trip?"

"So I can't go alone?" I ask.

"I'm afraid not".

I look over at Patrick. "So I'm a prisoner here," I say. "Just like him".

"It's for your own safety," he replies. "You saw those Tenderlings at the diner. Believe me, they're nothing compared to some of the other creatures that would like to get their hands on the daughter of the last vampire. You're a very special girl, Abby. Even a sample of your hair, or a flake of your skin, is more valuable than all the gold and silver in the world. You simply can't go wandering about by yourself".

I shrug. "Okay. I guess I'll just hang out here for a while and then I'll come and take a look at those books you mentioned".

"I'll go and tell our archivist that you're ready," he says, turning and heading for the door.

Once he's gone, I walk quickly back over to Patrick. "Can you hear me?" I whisper, looking up into his face. Once again, he slowly opens his eyes and stares at me. "I don't know if you understand what I'm saying," I tell him, keeping my voice down as low as possible, "but I'm going to get your out of here. I don't know how, but I'm going to get this thing out of your chest. Okay?" I wait for some kind of response, but there's nothing. "You just have to promise me one thing," I tell him. "You have to promise me that you won't kill them when you're free". I pause, knowing that there's no chance he'll actually reply to me. "I'm going to trust you," I tell him. "Give me time to figure out how to get you free". I reach up and brush my right hand against his face. It's the first time I've ever touched my father; although he looks young, his skin feels old. Realizing I'm never going to get a proper response from him, at least not in his current state, I turn and walk toward the door.

"Abigail," whispers a voice behind me.

I freeze, feeling a chill as if all my blood has suddenly turned to ice. Turning slowly, I see that Patrick's eyes are closed again. That voice didn't sound as if it came from him; it sounded like a whisper, right up close to my ear, maybe even
inside
my head. It was a male voice, deep and ancient. But there's no-one else in here: there's just Patrick, and me.

I wait, but nothing else happens and the room remains silent. Slowly, I head over to the door. Did I imagine all of that, or did Patrick just say my name? Taking a deep breath, I make sure to pull myself together before walking through to the next room, where technicians are working on the various machines that are being used to keep Patrick in place. Part of me wants to smash those machines to pieces, but I figure I need to be a little more subtle here; if I'm gonna get my father out of here, I'm gonna need to be a lot smarter. Behind me, as I walk away, I sense great pain. He's in pain. Patrick, my father, is going through agony, and I'm the only one who can hear him scream. I guess that makes sense. After all, I'm the vampire's daughter.

Chapter Two

Walking between the gravestones, I find myself stopping to read - and study - each one. I look at the dates and work out how old the person was when they died. Sometimes, there are short testimonials to the life of the deceased, noting that someone was a devoted husband or wife, or mentioning that they died in war; sometimes, there's nothing but a name and a set of dates, which makes me wonder whether the person died alone. One gravestone is completely covered in moss, to the point where it's impossible to read the name or date. Kneeling down, I start trying to pull the moss away. It takes me twenty minutes, but eventually I manage to read the name. For some reason, I decide to stay where I am and keep pulling the moss from the stone. I guess I'm hoping to completely clean this gravestone, so that it'll look perfect and pristine when I'm finished. I keep doing this for nearly an hour, until finally - just as I'm close to being finished - I realize
why
I'm doing what I'm doing. Sighing, I sit back for a moment. I'm delaying the inevitable. I stand up and continue walking. I've already put this off for too long.

Sophie's grave is over by the wall. 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 newness of the plot has faded. 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. 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. He was just a kid when Sophie died, but now he's all grown up and he's become one of the Watchers. It's weird seeing him now, as this kinda hot guy who knows all about Sophie and Patrick and the stuff that happened; back then, he was just some snotty-nosed little kid running around and annoying Sophie.

"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.

"Well, it has to be someone," I say. "People don't go around leaving roses on random graves".

"Actually," he says, "sometimes they do. It's a well-known phenomenon. They're often people who have no strong ties to anyone in their real lives, so they form an attachment to a grave and start visiting regularly. I guess the dead can't argue back. I read a paper on it once. I can't remember what it's called, but it's a known psychological condition. It's like stalking the dead".

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".