by Amy Cross
"Don't fight it!" Abby says firmly, grabbing me. My blood is smeared all over her face, with some of it dripping from her lips. I can feel more blood flowing freely from the wound in my neck, and when I try to speak I realize that my throat is also full of blood. Turning my head, I see that blood is spraying out of my neck and onto the wall. Moments later, Abby puts a hand on my neck and tilts my head back toward her. I stare up at her, and I see Sophie still standing behind her. I want to talk to Sophie. I want to ask her what comes next, but there's no time. Abby sinks her fangs back into my neck and continues to drink from me. I reach up to Sophie, but instead I end up wrapping my arms around Abby and holding her closer. Patrick was wrong about Abby. He played a dangerous game, and he lost. He tried, and I tried, and we failed.
Slowly, I feel Death claim my soul. The end is here.
Epilogue
Dedston, Many years ago.
"Sorry about earlier," says a voice behind me.
Stopping and turning, I find that Sophie Hart has followed me along the street. School ended a few minutes ago, and all I want to do is get home and lock myself in my room; the last thing I need is to have a god-damned conversation with someone, especially the girl who caused me to get into so much trouble. I don't even know why she'd want to hang out, anyway. She must have realized that I'm nothing but trouble.
"It's okay," I say cautiously. I wait a moment, expecting her to say something else, but finally I turn and carry on walking.
"I didn't mean to tell Mrs. Hardstone that you swore," she continues, hurrying after me. She seems kind of desperate to hang out.
"It's fine," I reply, staring straight ahead as I walk. "Do I look like I care?"
"I just thought you were upset," she says.
"I'm not upset. Do I look like I'm upset?"
"A little bit".
I stop again. "Well, I'm not," I say firmly. I can feel the tears starting to well up in my eyes again, but this time I'm determined to make sure I don't cry. It's weird, but after crying so much during the day, I feel different now. It's almost as if my old crying habit has dried up; as if all those tears have vanished and they won't be coming back. Honestly, I think I might never, ever cry again. Something's changed inside my head, and I'm stronger than I was before.
"Sorry," Sophie says.
"Stop saying that," I reply. There's an awkward pause. "Is that all you wanted to say? 'Cause if it is, you should probably go now. I'm not a good person to hang out with".
"Why not?" she asks.
"I don't know," I say. "I'm just not. I get people into trouble. I don't mean to do it, but it happens. It sucks. Don't you have any friends of your own?"
"Not really," she says.
"Not even one?" I ask, a little surprised. I mean, this Sophie girls seems a little plain and boring, but there's nothing particularly wrong with her. Everyone has friends, even if they don't like them. Hell, even I've managed to have a few friends over the years, even though they've always turned out to be losers in the end. If Sophie doesn't have any friends at all, there must be something wrong with her. That, at least, is kinda interesting. Everyone has to have at least one friend, don't they? Everyone except me.
She shrugs. "I guess I hang out with my little brother sometimes, but he's annoying. He's just a baby".
"You should make friends with someone," I tell her. "It's not hard. Just go hang out with new people until you find one who likes you. Find someone who likes the same kind of stuff you like".
She pauses. "I don't really like anything," she says.
"You must like something".
She stares at me. "Like what?"
"Playing?"
"Not really".
"Music".
"I don't know".
"Noting at all?"
She pauses for a moment. "Do you want to hang out?"
"Me?" I smile. "You're really bad at picking friends, aren't you?"
"Am I?" She raises her eyebrows, looking genuinely shocked.
I laugh. Damn it, there's something really naive about this Sophie girl. It's annoying, but it's also kinda interesting and it maybe - maybe - makes me like her a little bit. "I'm the worst person to choose for a friend," I tell her, figuring I should be upfront. "Didn't you hear what Mrs. Hard-Ass said to me today?"
She shakes her head.
"Well, it...." I pause. "It was pretty mean, but it was pretty true. If you're friends with me, you'll get into trouble. Lots of trouble. Do you want that?"
She shakes her head again.
"So beat it," I continue. "Go and play with someone else. I don't even have any cool stuff. I play in the yard, in the dirt. The only thing I ever get to play with is worms and snails and stuff like that".
"I've got some stuff," she says.
"Good for you".
"You can come to my house," she adds. "We have a yard. I've got some dolls. Not, like, many, but some".
"I hate dolls".
"Me too".
"Then why do you have them?" I ask.
"I don't know". She pauses. "My brother's got some trucks and stuff".
"I hate trucks and stuff," I say, although that's not totally true. Trucks are better than dolls, at least.
"Do you want to know my favorite game?" Sophie asks.
"Not really".
"I like to bury my dolls up to their necks, and then drive the little trucks at them at full speed, and try to knock their heads off".
I stare at her. "Seriously?"
She nods. "It's pretty hard to get enough speed to do a straight decapitation," she continues. "You usually have to kind of ram them a few times. It depends on the doll. Like, how their heads are stuck to their bodies. Some of them come off easier than others".
I smile. "You're pretty weird," I say eventually.
"No I'm not," she says, scowling.
"You don't think so?" I ask. "Cutting the heads off your dolls with trucks? That's not normal".
She shrugs. "I just thought you might want to come and watch or something," she says. "It's kind of fun. There's not much else to do".
I sniff. She's right: there's very little to do in this crappy little town. "I'm evil," I say eventually. "Are you sure you want to play with someone who's evil?"
She shrugs again.
"I don't know if I feel like playing today," I add.
"Okay," she says, looking a little disappointed. Without saying anything else, she turns and walks away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk. I watch her walk away, and I realize I have nothing else to do with the rest of the day. Sure, I could go home and sit around in the yard, playing in the mud and hoping my parents don't call me in any time soon. On the other hand, I could go and at least try hanging out with Sophie. She seems nice enough, and I guess it can't suck any more than being at home. Sighing, I start walking after her; after a moment, I start running.
"Wait!" I call out as I reach her.
She stops and turns to me.
"I could come to your place for a couple of hours," I say as we start walking again. "I don't wanna meet your parents, though. I just wanna see what you do with the dolls and trucks. That's all. We're not friends or anything like that. I just wanna make that totally clear, right from the start. Just 'cause I'm gonna hang out with you today, it doesn't mean I'll hang out with you again. I'm not the kind of person who has friends".
It's true. Friends are for losers. Friends get you into trouble.
Book 8:
The End
Prologue
Gothos, many years ago.
"Look at them," Cassandra says, standing before me in the great hall of Gothos and reaching out her bare, shaking hands. "Look at my hands, Patrick. Tell me what you see".
I turn away. After everything that has happened recently, the last thing I need is a lesson from her on the costs of this war. I know how our species has suffered; I know the sacrifices that have been made. To see a noble woman such as Cassandra, reduced to a trembling, fearful human, is more than I can bear.
"Look at them," she says again, "or I will always consider you to be a coward".
Taking a deep breath, I look down at her hands. Slowly, I reach out and touch them. They're soft and smooth, and they feel weak and fragile. It feels as if I could easily crush them, and the broken bones wouldn't heal. There's a part of me that wants to hurt her, to taste her blood, but I know I'd be filled with shame. Fortunately, I've learned over the years to calm my urges.
"These are human hands," Cassandra says, close to tears. "This is a human body. I even have a beating heart, to replace the one we gave to the children. This is the sacrifice I made, Patrick. All the power I possessed, all the strength... It's all gone. All that's left is my mind, and my memories of how things used to be. I remember being strong, I remember what it was like to above the world, but now I'm weak and pitiful. Have you seen my teeth?" She opens her mouth for a moment. "I'm not a vampire any more," she continues. "I thought I could handle the transition, but I can't. I can't live like this".
I stare at her for a moment. While I appreciate her agony, there's nothing I can do to reverse the process. She chose to abandon her vampire form in order to survive the war, and now she must face the consequences.
"I've changed my mind," she says, stepping closer. "I want you to turn me back, Patrick. Let me be a vampire again, even if it means I must die instantly, even if it means I must burn. I'd rather have one more moment of true power than a thousand years of pitiful humanity".
I shake my head. Cassandra was one of the few who chose to throw off their old vampire bodies and become human. It was the only way for them to survive the final moment of our race, which all the others burned. There are just a dozen of these changelings, and they will live out their mortal lives far from Gothos. I could have joined them, but the prophecy demanded that one vampire should survive, and I deemed it appropriate that I should be the one who suffers that burden. Although I shouldn't allow my own feelings to cloud my judgment, the truth is that I'm glad Cassandra lives. Her body might be weak and fragile, but her soul remains the same.
"I can't do this," Cassandra insists, with tears in her eyes. "After living for centuries as a vampire, I can't live as a pathetic, weak human. I find it offensive! This is no way to exist! I don't know how those humans can go about their lives, living day after day with no power, and filled with the knowledge of their impending deaths". She pauses. "Why don't you answer me? Are you really taking this vow of silence so seriously? Surely you can speak a few words of comfort to me? Please, Patrick. I can't do this without you". She stares at me, searching my face for an answer I can never give. "Say something!" she pleads as tears roll down her cheeks. "Tell me how to live like this!" Using her finger nails, she scratches the skin on her neck, and a thin line of blood seeps out. "Look how easily I bleed!" she says. "It hurts! I actually feel the pain!"
I turn to walk away, but she grabs my arm. When she was a vampire, she was strong enough to hold me, but now she's weak and the gesture is futile. Still, I stay where I am, waiting to see what she'll do next. Proud, noble Cassandra has been reduced to the status of a human, and she's starting to panic. She sees that her immortal life has been snatched away from her, and now she faces the prospect of slowly growing older, of seeing her body start to decay. The process might take a little longer for her than it would for a natural-born human, but it will happen and she can't face the prospect of death.
"Is it true that you're looking for a child?" she asks. "Vincent told me that you plan to sire a new race of vampires, with a human, and that then you'll allow yourself to die. If that's the case... I can be the mother. Let me do that, at least. We can make a deal". She steps closer, pressing her body against mine. "Let me carry your child, Patrick, Imagine our offspring, imagine how beautiful it would be. We could even have more than one. I'm sure you want a son, but I would dearly like to have a daughter. I've always loved the name Gwendoline". She pauses. "Ignore Vincent's talk of a prophecy. Take me instead".
I want to leave, to cut myself off from Cassandra. If she has spoken to Vincent, she must know of the prophecy. It took him many months to decipher the text in the Book of Gothos, but Vincent finally declared the identity of the woman who will ultimately bear my successor. There is a man, living on a farm in the American state of Kentucky, who will one day have a grand-daughter named Sophie, and she is the one who will carry my child. I don't know why the prophecy has chosen that particular girl, but there is no point fighting the prophecy's words.
"At least consider the possibility," Cassandra says, trying desperately to seduce me. "Stay tonight. Let your mind ponder the idea that we could be together. And..." She smiles. "Think about it, Patrick. Even if no child came of the union, I'm quite certain we could at least have a pleasant night in one another's arms. Why wait for some dull human girl who won't be born for many years?"
I should walk away. Even as Cassandra presses herself against me, I know that no good can come of this moment. I must wait for Sophie Hart, and one day it will be she who gives me the child I so desperately require. When that moment comes, I will ensure that the child is ready to assume these responsibilities; the moment will be prepared for, and I will ensure that nothing can possibly go wrong with the transition.
Abigail
The pain is intense, bursting up through my spine and cracking through every atom in my body. It's so strong, it pushes all thoughts from my mind, leaving me suspended in the air in agony. With my wrists tied to a set of manacles, I'm ten meters above the ground in a large, cavernous room with a low light. Although I'm trying to control the pain, I know that this is a battle I'm doomed to lose; Benjamin will keep turning the dial, increasing the pain until I can no longer resist. The most important thing is that I don't allow the pain to become visible; I must stay quiet and show no weakness. Finally, though, after what feels like an eternity, I can't hold back any longer; I open my mouth and let out a scream that shakes the entire room, and slowly the pain starts to recede.
"Very good, Abigail," says a muffled voice, speaking to me over the tinny speakers that hang next to me. "You scored a 4.7, which is a point-thirteen per cent improvement over yesterday. Vital signs are encouraging. You're really toughening up. How do you feel?"
I don't feel anything. I can't speak. I can barely even think. I feel as if I'm not myself any more: I'm just a bag of blood and bones and meat, reacting primordially to the most basic sensation. Not human, not vampire, not anything, just... a living creature whose body is being ripped apart. All I can manage to do is hang, suspended high up from these chains, and wait to be released. I feel a thick, slimy blob of saliva start to dribble from my mouth and down my chin, but I don't have the energy to stop it. Opening my eyes, I stare down at the metal floor far below, and I watch as the saliva drips from my chin and falls through the air. With my improved eyesight, I can see the individual tear-drop-shaped blob of liquid as it hits the ground, and I hear the faintest tap as the blob bursts. A normal person couldn't see or hear any of that, but I'm not a normal person.
I'm not a normal anything.
"Do you want to come down now?" Benjamin asks over the speaker, "or do you want to try again? It's your choice".
I take a deep breath. "Again," I mutter, my voice harsh and ragged. Anything is better than resting. At least when I'm up here, there's no danger that I'll fall asleep. For five days now, I've battled sleep and managed to stay awake. It's hard, and as time goes by I find that I'm becoming more and more aware of strange shapes all around me. I guess my mind is struggling with the lack of rest, but the alternative would be to give in and accept the nightmares. Since I killed Shelley, I've only slept once, and it was terrifying. She was there in my dreams, taunting me and reminding me of what I did to her. She came toward me, blood dripping from the wound on her neck. I cowered beneath her, and finally I woke up screaming. I won't make the same mistake again. I'll stay awake for as long as it takes. I can't face these ghosts.
"Are you sure you're up to another session?" Benjamin as
ks, sounding a little concerned. "You're allowed to rest, Abigail. It's good that you want to push yourself, but we can afford to slow down a little".
"I'm sure," I say. "Just get on with it. No slowing down".
"Good girl," he replies. "It might sound daunting, but I'm quite certain you've got a 4.8 in you today, and we should hit 5 by the end of the week. I have to admit, you've exceeded my expectations. I knew you'd be tough, Abigail, but I never thought you'd be able to withstand so much punishment. We're already a couple of weeks ahead of schedule, and you seem to be improving all the time".
"Start," I say. My voice sounds so dry. How long has it been since I drank? How long since I ate? I've been hanging up here for almost twenty-four hours without a break, going through a constant cycle of pain and recovery. Each time, I think the pain is stronger than I can bear, and yet the next time I always manage to take a little more. I must be getting stronger every second, and I know the process is worth completing. The price, for now, is incessant agony, but anything is better than sleeping or thinking. If I sleep, I'll have the nightmares, and if I rest, I'll start thinking about what happened. I can't bear to see any more ghosts, and yet sometimes I have moments of blinding clarity. Sometimes I feel that I'm doomed to be haunted forever by the memory of Shelley's death.
There are other ghosts, though. I don't know whether it's the lack of sleep that's caused it, but over the past few days I've become increasingly aware of blurry, vague figures all around me. They don't seem menacing, but it's as if they're waiting for something. I look down and see them even now, and it's as if they're looking up at me and expecting me to do something. If I knew what they wanted, I'd give it to them, but for now I must bide my time. I don't dare tell Benjamin about any of this, because I'm worried he'll think I've got a weak, impressionable mind. The most important thing is that I earn his trust, and therefore I must be careful what I say.