Dark Season: The Complete Third Series (All 8 books) (27 page)

"I meant what I said," I tell Abigail. "You look just like your mother. The resemblance is uncanny. I suppose that's why the dress fits, really. You're so alike in every possible way".

She smiles awkwardly.

"What's wrong?" I ask. "Don't you like me saying that?"

"It's fine," she says, but I can see from her expression that she's not being honest. "It's just... When you tell me that I look like her, or that I act like her, I don't know what you mean, because I never met her. It's like she's this constant ghost at my side, and everyone can see her except me. It'd be easier if I'd at least seen a photo of her, but it's almost as if she never really existed".

"Well, that might be how you feel for now," I say, "but who knows, perhaps soon you'll get to meet her?"

"She's dead, "Abigail replies.

"I know," I tell her, forcing myself to say no more. After all, it's only a few more hours before Abigail will get to experience the true secrets of Gothos. "Now come on," I say finally, "we're already running late for dinner".

"I need to find Patrick," she says.

"He's in the dining room," I say, grabbing her arm and leading her across to the west wing of the house, where a large table has been set for our meal. I'm quite sure that Abigail has never seen anything so wonderful and grand, and she must be quite overwhelmed. Even in its current state, Gothos remains one of the most marvelous structures in the world, although I must admit that I've never left its grounds. One day soon, when Patrick has abandoned Abigail and embraced me, I will leave and travel the world. For now, I must be patient. "Isn't this the most glorious place?" I ask, turning to face her. "Can't you feel the wonderful history of Gothos? The great men who have already been in these rooms... They never truly leave, you know. Sometimes I feel as if Gothos is haunted by the ghosts of a thousand centuries".

"It's pretty amazing," she says unenthusiastically, as she spots Patrick seated at the far end. "I need to go and talk to him," she says.

"Wait," I reply, holding her arm firmly. "There'll be plenty of time for conversation over dinner. As you can see, there aren't so very many of us here tonight". It's so sad to see the place looking so barren; I remember the days when the great hall of Gothos was full of people, all laughing and discussing the matters of the day. It was a wonderful time to be here; now, the place is a shell of its former glory. As I lead Abigail to the table, I glance over at the seat where Astley used to sit. Poor Astley; I miss him so much, even if the place is a great deal calmer without him.

"You'll sit here," I say to Abigail, pulling out a chair for her. "It's going to be very cosy tonight. Just a small family dinner".

"Do you have a large family?" she asks.

"Not really," I say, resisting the urge to laugh. The poor thing has no idea that she's my sister. I can't imagine how she'd react if she knew that we're related by blood, but I've been warned by Diana that I mustn't tell her the truth. I suppose it's all part of Patrick's plan to wipe me from the family history books; a plan that can only work while Abigail is alive. "Do you like chicken?" I ask, trying to change the subject as I move around to take my seat opposite her.

"Sure," she replies.

"That's a shame," I say. "We have none. But I'm sure you'll enjoy our offerings anyway. I believe the maids killed a pig this afternoon. They've been very busy getting it ready for the table". Sitting next to Patrick, I force myself to keep smiling. After all, one simply doesn't cause a fuss at the dinner table, even if one feels thoroughly rejected and humiliated by one's own father. I must be patient. Soon I'll have Abigail where I want her, and then Patrick will have no option but to take me with him. After all, he needs a daughter, and if the first choice is indisposed, he'll just have to turn to me. I'm stronger than Abigail; he has to see that eventually. Abigail is fairly pretty, but I'm the beautiful one.

Looking along the table, I notice that the insufferable Mr. Wormwood is joining us for dinner. I don't know why Diana continues to invite him to join us; the man makes my skin crawl, and he always seems so amused by the events around him. He's usually a harbinger of bad things, though he never actually does much of his own accord. In many ways, he's like a refined, brandy-drinking vulture who likes to watch the suffering of others. If I could kill him, I would; unfortunately, he's damn-near un-killable, as many have learned to their cost over the years.

As the maids bring dinner to the table, I sit quietly. Although I'm usually full of energy, and desperate to talk, I'm sometimes overcome by a stranger feeling of calm. I watch Abigail as she smiles politely at the maid who sets her plate on the table; poor Abigail is so dumb and unrefined, she even seeks to ingratiate herself with the staff. She clearly doesn't realize that by being friendly with the maids, she merely makes herself seem rough and stupid. Sometimes I wish I had my father's strength, so that I could perhaps rip my dear sister apart. Unfortunately, I'm far too weak to do such a thing; instead, I must use my wits, and that's why I'm going to get what I truly want. By the end of the night, Abigail will be lost forever and Patrick will have no choice but to do what he should have done long ago: he'll accept me as his true successor.

Patrick

Gothos is full of ghosts. Thousands and thousands of them, wandering aimlessly through the corridors. They seek salvation, but they'll never get what they want. They had their time once before, and now they're lost to the winds of time. As soon as they accept their fate, they'll disappear in the blink of an eye. This is true of all things: destiny must be embraced, not fought against.

Most of the people at Gothos don't see the ghosts, of course. They prefer to block them out, to pretend they can't see them. If Diana or Gwendoline saw the ghosts on a daily basis, they'd be driven mad. I understand the problem: if I lived at Gothos, I too would choose not to see these faint, blurry images of the dead. But they're all around, and occasionally I notice them.

Abigail seems not to have seen the ghosts; or, if she has seen them, she has kept her reactions in check. I still don't fully understand how Abigail's mind works, and whether she sees the world in the same way that I see it. She seems oblivious to some of the stranger things that are happening around her. Still, she can't be entirely unaware of the ghosts; perhaps she sees them out of the corner of her eye, but doubts her own perceptions. She'll learn; there are the things that she'll discover as she spends time at Gothos. Her body is changing and healing, and her mind is developing. She is becoming more and more like me.

I worry about Gwendoline, though. The way she looks at Abigail is so dark, as if she harbors an ambition to somehow derail Abigail's ascension. I'm realizing with every passing moment that I should have killed Gwendoline as soon as I was sure I wouldn't need her. If I had my usual strength, I would kill Gwendoline immediately; as it is, I must simply watch and hope that Abigail will be able to defend herself against anything that Gwendoline tries. Perhaps this is a good test for Abigail, though; it will show that she is stronger than her weak sister.

"Rough old night, eh?" says a voice nearby. I turn to find that Wormwood has joined the table. Of all the people I'd rather not have to deal with right now, he's top of the list. "I must say," he continues, "you look rather peaky, Patrick. It's been a while since I last saw you, though. I'm sure time hasn't been much kinder to me, has it?"

"This is Mr. Wormwood," Gwendoline says, turning to Abigail. "He's a... Well, I'm not sure what he is, really. Mr. Wormwood, can you explain what it is you do, exactly?"

"I don't think I know myself," Wormwood replies with a grin. "I suppose I'm retired from something, though my memory isn't what it used to be and I'll be damned if I can remember what tricks I used to get up to". He leans over and whispers directly into my ear. "I must say, Patrick, you have two fine daughters here. Gwendoline seems a little sickly, but that Abigail is rather wonderful, and she's the spitting image of her mother".

The maids bring another course of food to the table, a process that takes several minutes and thereby serves as a useful distraction from this interminable conversation with Wormwood. I've never liked the man, having always seen him as a coward who flits from place to place with no sense of permanence. He's drawn to darkness, to pick over the bones of the dead. He was in the Nazi concentration camps during the Second World War, enjoying the suffering of others; later, he walked the streets of Nagasaki after the atom bomb was dropped; it's even rumored that he was in New Orleans when the levees broke, drinking cocktails as he watched the dead bodies float past. Still, he has seen a lot of the world, and his opinion might be useful. I certainly can't afford to ignore him entirely.

"It's very nice to meet you," Wormwood says, leaning across the table and shaking Abigail's hand. "I've heard a great deal about you".

"Like what?" she replies, looking a little concerned

"Oh, well, nothing much," he says. "Just that it was known you'd one day come to Gothos in your mother's footsteps. Sophie was such a wonderful girl, I always -"

"Yeah," Abigail says, interrupting Wormwood. "I get it. She was great".

"Oh, but she was," Wormwood continues. "She -"

"I get it!" Abigail says firmly.

I look down at my plate and smile. Already, Abigail is tiring of the constant mention of her resemblance to Sophie. That's a good thing. It's true that she looks like her mother, but beneath the surface - beneath the skin - her meat is made of stronger stuff. With every passing hour, I can feel Abigail growing stronger and more complete. At her age, I was an impetuous, hot-headed fool; Abigail, on the other hand, seems entirely level-headed. She might, in the past, have had a childish obsession with learning more about Sophie, but now she's past that phase and she's developing rapidly. Within twenty-four hours, her transformation should be complete and we'll be ready to leave Gothos forever. Once we're gone, this wretched place can fall to the ground as far as I'm concerned; and all the people left inside can die, since their time is over and they will serve no further purpose. Gothos is a shell of past glories, a reminder of a war that only I now remember; once I myself have passed on, Gothos will crumble to dust. The moment of truth draws near.

Gwendoline

"Do you want to go into the garden tonight?"

I turn to find that Abigail has come to join me. Dinner has been over for half an hour, and I've been sitting by the window, lost in my own thoughts as I stare out at the darkness that surrounds Gothos. I know so little about this land, but I know that there are things out there; things that crouch in the mountains and stare down at this house. When the war ended, Gothos was the only building left standing, which means that it's the only light to be seen. Like moths to a flame, creatures are drawn here, but they never come closer than the garden; when they get within a few hundred meters, they're struck by fear and they turn back. Most of them, anyway. Sometimes I think I see dark shapes moving a little closer; from time to time, even scratches on the window-frames.

"Are you really keen to go out there again?" I ask, surprised by her boldness.

"Sure," she says. "I let my imagination get the better of me last time. Anyway, I don't want to go far. Just out onto the platform, so we can look up at the night sky".

"Not this evening," I say. "It's so cold out there, and I'm a little tired Maybe another time?"

She shrugs. "I just thought things seemed a bit quiet around here. I mean, what exactly do you guys do for fun?"

She's right. Dinner was fairly sombre, with not much conversation. I tried to get people talking, but it was obvious that Patrick's frailty was bringing the atmosphere down. Now Diana and Patrick are alone in the drawing room, Wormwood is in the library, the maids are cleaning up, the ghosts are being quiet, and the house has fallen into a kind of hush. "I'm afraid you mustn't expect too much of us," I say to Abigail. "It's usually just Diana and me here. We do our best to entertain visitors, but we have such meager resources. I hope you're not too disappointed".

"No, it's fun," she replies. Turning back to look out the window, I realize after a moment that Abigail is still standing behind me. "You seem different," she says.

I smile. My plan is working. I made a mistake earlier today when I tried to lock Abigail out of the building; I made her suspicious of me, which means it'll be harder to get her to trust me tonight. Harder, but by no means impossible. I simply have to make her like me more, and that means appearing to be more thoughtful. It's a change I can handle easily enough. "The evenings do this to me," I say. "When the house is surrounded by total darkness, I start to think about all the things that are out there. I imagine all the eyes far away, looking down on this place".

"What kind of eyes?" she asks, stepping closer to the window.

I pause for a moment, figuring I might as well blend some truth in with the lies I'm telling tonight. "When the vampires were fighting, all sorts of other creatures came to join in. Some wanted to support one side or the other, some just enjoyed the carnage of war. Many of them were killed instantly, a few survived and ran away when all the vampires were dead. Some of them remain nearby, watching for any sign that the war might continue. It won't, of course, but these are pitiful, war-ravaged creatures, desperate for more bloodshed. So they sit and they watch Gothos, desperately hoping that there'll be another outbreak of violence. How many of them are left, I can't say, but I know they're out there. I feel their eyes burning into me every night".