by Amy Cross
I'm quiet for a moment. "Nothing."
"Harder," says Vincent. "Listen to your mind and tell me if you hear anything that shouldn't be there. Any voices, any murmurs at the back, anything that could indicate that you're not alone in there. And don't lie. I promise you, we'll know if you lie."
I listen to my own mind. Somewhere in the depths, I can hear my mother's voice, talking to my father back when we all still lived together. I can hear myself talking to my little brother, and I can hear Shelley laughing at something. I can hear my Dad's girlfriend talking about her art gallery. I can hear the sound of Patrick breathing as he stands behind me in my bathroom back at home, his hands on my body. And I can hear Adam, telling me it's okay and he'll wait for me. But that's all I can hear. I swear.
"Nothing," I say. "There's really nothing."
Vincent stares at me for what seems like the longest time. "I believe her," he says eventually. "I can tell. She's telling the truth." He reaches out to set me free, but Patrick stops him. "She's telling the truth, Patrick!" Vincent insists. "Rose's body was weak, there wasn't time for them to cross into Sophie." He tries to free me again, but Patrick keeps staring at me.
"I swear," I say. "I promise there's nothing. I'd know! There are no voices! Just the usual crap." I have visions of myself in a hospital bed for the rest of my life, in a coma while Patrick waits for me to die. Or worse, perhaps he'll just rip my head off like he did with Rose. "Please," I say, and Patrick loosens his grip. I get straight off the sofa and turn to face the pair of them.
"I'm sorry," says Vincent. "We had to know."
"Who was she to you?" I ask Patrick. "Was she your lover? Your girlfriend?"
Patrick shakes his head. That's possibly the most direct communication between us since we met.
"Is that how all the women in your life end up? Old and abandoned by you, while you move on to the next young one?" I know I shouldn't be saying this, but I almost died today. Twice! I think I'm entitled to go a little off the deep end here. "Are you gonna do to me what you did to Rose? Are you gonna put me in a coma and leave me to rot? Why did you let her live? Why didn't you kill her all those years ago? Isn't that what monsters do? They kill people."
"You're being unfair," Vincent says, interrupting me. "Patrick made a mistake. You're right, he should have killed Rose a long time ago, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He killed the other girl, but he couldn't do the same to Rose. His feelings for her were different."
Turning to Patrick, I realize that maybe I've been a little harsh. "Sorry," I say. "I shouldn't have called you a monster."
Without saying anything, Patrick turns and walks away. Great, now it looks like I've offended him.
"He's lonely," I say quietly, watching him disappear through the doorway.
"He's a thousand years old," Vincent replies. "Of course he's lonely."
Sighing, I realize that one way or another, Patrick eventually loses everyone. All he can do is try to replace them. But even the replacements get lost in the end.
"He wanted you to have this," Vincent says, taking a small book from the desk and handing it to me. Looking at it, I realize I've seen it before. It's Rose Tisser's diary, the one that Patrick took from me so forcefully. I guess he changed his mind. I guess he decided he wanted me to read it after all.
"Wait!" I call out, hurrying out of the room and running after Patrick. By the time I get out of the house, though, there's no sign of him. Holding the diary in my hand, I realize I might have misjudged Patrick. He might get things wrong from time to time, and he might use violence when another approach could be better, but he's definitely not a monster. I need to find out more about him, and I need to make sure that, in the process, I don't anger him or do anything else that makes the prophecy come true.
Epilogue
Entry from Rose Tisser's diary, dated 20th May 1959
Sometimes I get so very frustrated by Patrick's silence. I wish I could meet a boy who can actually hold a conversation. Then again, there's something rather dashing about his manner. Over time, I've learned to notice ways in which he communicates without words. Small gestures here and there. Sometimes, I feel as if he really does talk to me, in his own way, and if I ever feel that he's being silent, it's only because I haven't yet worked out how to understand him properly.
Book 3
Army of Wolves
Prologue
All around us, there are wolves. Thousands of them. But when the three of us are together, we're too powerful. They're too scared to come near us, even though they're snarling and straining with frustration at not being able to leap forward and rip us to pieces. To be honest, it's all a wee bit unwelcoming.
Patrick doesn't show an ounce of fear, of course. Never does. I sometimes wonder what the fuck's going through that mind of his. Then there's Cassandra. I know she's scared. I can see it in her eyes. But that's only 'cause I know her so well. To anyone else, she seems fearless and bold.
The Alpha Wolf is at the front. He doesn't really care about Patrick and Cassandra. It's me he wants. I did something he can never forget, something he can never forgive, and if he's to protect his alpha status in the pack, he has to be seen to deal with me. In ordinary circumstances, he'd have ripped me apart years ago and stuck my head on a pole at the gates of Sangreth.
But I've got these friends...
Patrick doesn't speak, and my voice is unwelcome here, so Cassandra does all the talking. She offers them the deal that will secure my freedom and give them what they want. It's a good deal. Hell, it's a fucking great deal. But the Alpha Wolf has to protect his honor He has to show his pack that he always gets what he wants. Good job, then, that Cassandra's so persuasive.
As the Alpha Wolf and Cassandra walk away together, Patrick and I exchange a glance, and then we leave, walking past the thousands of gathered wolves. Every step, I consider turning back to save Cassandra. But I know I can't. This is how it has to be. We're both lucky that our destinies happened to coincide so nicely. Besides, she'll be okay. Eventually.
And now I have exactly one hundred years before I need to worry about those fucking wolves again. One hundred years, eh? Sounds like forever.
Sophie
Today
The music's so loud, I can't hear a word Shelley's saying. So while she shouts in my ear, I keep my eyes fixed on the bar, where Adam and Rob are trying to get through the crowd to buy some drinks. This place is so crowded, it's unreal. No matter where you stand, you're surrounded by people pushing, shoving, dancing, shouting, kissing and, in a few cases, looking pretty ill. We're in this dark little club and it's so hot, there's sweat stains on my top, except I'm not even sure it's my own sweat.
I decide I have to get out of here, so I interrupt Shelley by nudging her in the arm and pointing at the fire escape door. She nods, understanding. I know she won't come out with me, because she loves this kind of club. She's in her element. Me? I can take it for a while, but no matter how much I drink, I always seem to hit this wall where I stop getting drunk and just start feeling icky. Shelley can drink all night, while her friend Alice is already passed out in the corner. Sighing, I battle my way through the crowd, up the steps and out onto the cool fire escape balcony where, surprisingly, there's only one other person.
"I knew you'd come out here eventually," he says with a soft, Scottish accent.
It's dark and I can't really see his face. The thumping music from the club is impossible to entirely ignore. I decide not to say anything, so I smile and go to the other side of the balcony. Just a couple of minutes is all I need, to cool off before I go back in for the second round.
"Terribly rude of me," says the Scottish guy. "Do you mind if I introduce myself?"
"It's okay, thanks," I say, trying to be polite but firm. I've already got enough guys in my life to deal with, without worrying about a third.
"No worries," says the guy, who's still kind of hidden in the shadows.
I glance at him. All I can see is a little red li
ght burning in the darkness. Nice, a smoker. I turn and look down at the alley far below, full of abandoned boxes and trash cans. This town is a real dump sometimes.
Suddenly, a thought hits me. A bizarre and weird thought, but... I glance over at the guy, whose face is still hidden in the shadows. It couldn't be... I mean, I've never heard Patrick's voice, so... I get a little tingle in my spine. I know it's not him, it can't be! Still, I guess there's a chance, so I look at him again and I try to make out his features.
Suddenly he steps forward, and I see it's not Patrick at all. This guy's pretty good-looking, although he's not my type: he's kind of short-to-medium height, well-built with a close-shaved head and plenty of stubble. He looks friendly, though, with one of those faces that looks like it's always smiling.
"Hamish," he says. "From Scotland, in case you can't tell."
He holds out a hand and I, somewhat reluctantly, shake it.
"Sophie," I say.
"Aye, I know," he says.
I smile. That's a joke, right?
"I didn't mean to freak you out," he says. "I just came out here to get some air. It's fucking packed in there, man." Wow. I think that's the first time anyone's ever called me 'man' before. "Good club, though," he continues. "Good tunes."
I nod, agreeing, even though I don't actually agree at all. As far as I'm concerned, this club is a packed little furnace of sweaty people all hoping to go home with a stranger, and the constant backdrop of rubbish music doesn't help much.
"I'm new in town," Hamish says. "Not gonna be here that long, but I'm really hoping to get to know the place while I'm here. Is this the best club?"
I shrug. "I don't really know," I say. "I guess they're all kind of the same." This is small talk. I hate small talk. The truth is, it's gone midnight and I'm tired, and I only came to this club in the first place because Adam, Shelley and Rob were begging me. Sometimes I wish Adam hadn't hit it off with my friends so well. It's inconvenient to have my boyfriend and my only other friends working in a pack like this. Well, not that he's my boyfriend, exactly. It's complicated, but I'm definitely spending a lot of evenings with him lately, even if most of the time I can't get Patrick out of my thoughts.
"I'll leave you alone," Hamish says, dropping his cigarette and crushing it with his shoe. "Sorry to intrude upon your private moment." As he walks past me, he raises a hand and brushes my arm.
"It's fine," I say. "Thanks. Have a good night."
"Aye," he says. He goes to the door, then turns back to me. "Oh, and if you get a chance, say hi to Patrick for me, yeah?"
Before I've even realized what he said, he's opened the door and disappeared into the loud, busy throng of people inside the club.
"What?" I say, and then I rush in to try to find him. I've never met anyone else who knows Patrick. Not Adam, not Shelley, not Rob. No-one, apart from Vincent, and he doesn't really count since he and Patrick seem to come as a package. No, Patrick has been my secret so far, at least when I'm out and about in Dedston, and now suddenly some short Scottish guy's going on about him! I push through the crowd, desperately trying to spot Hamish, but it's impossible. With all these people, it'd be impossible even if the lights weren't so low. I squeeze, a little rudely, through the army of drunk dancers and suddenly I'm face to face with Adam.
"Hey," he shouts, trying to hug me, but I slip away and push on through the crowd. Soon I'm at the stairs, where there aren't so many people, and I race up, still looking for Hamish. I reach the foyer, but there's no sign of him, so I run to the door and out into the street. I look around but there's no sign of him. Damn. He must still be inside, so I turn to go back in, but a doorman stops me.
"Stamp," he says.
I show him my hand, but the ink has completely run off.
"Back of the line," he says, pointing at the small queue of people waiting patiently to get in.
"I was just in there," I say. "You saw me come out."
"No stamp, no re-entry," he says firmly.
"It -" I look at where the stamp was. "It's the sweat!" I say, somewhat forlornly, but I can tell from the doorman's expression that there's no way I can argue with him. I walk to the back of the line and take my place. If I had a mobile phone, I could call Adam and get him to help. I definitely need to get a job so I can afford stuff like that. But in the meantime, what I really need to do is find this Hamish guy again. As I queue, I keep an eye on the door, just in case he comes out.
Hamish
Ireland - 1512 AD
The first place I go to is Ireland, mainly 'cause I've heard the women are so welcoming. Well, okay, I'm actually here for two reasons: one is the women, and the other is that I've heard these crazy stories about some of the druids in the north. One in particular, named Azael, is said to be able to cure curses. Now, I'm not normally one for believing in fairytales like that. After all, whoever heard of a Druid who truly can cure curses? Then again, it's worth a shot, and it might be the only chance I've got when it comes to slipping away when my hundred years are up.
I travel to the town where Azael is said to live. The first thing I learn is that 'he' is in fact a 'she'. Great, two birds with one stone. I ask around and I'm told where I can find her. Turns out, she hangs around in this little pub by the river, so I sit in there for a few nights waiting for her to come in. All the while, I'm thinking about what would happen if it turns out that she really can lift the curse. I'd be mortal. I'd live a normal, mortal life. With a normal mortal lifespan, I'd probably live another thirty, maybe forty years. But it'd be a normal life. A real life. Perhaps with a woman. I could handle that, right?
I spend almost a week sitting in the pub night after night, convincing myself that I want mortality, when eventually I spot a woman who I instantly must be Azael. She's exactly as I'd imagined: long reddish hair, and the most beautiful brown eyes. I get up from my seat and walk over to where she's standing at the bar. We make eye contact, but I'm not quite sure how to start the conversation.
"What do you want?" she asks wearily.
"I was kind of hoping you could help me," I say, annoyed with myself for not thinking up a better way to start the conversation.
"Depends what you want," she says. She's not looking at me now. Instead, she's focusing on a mug of beer she's just bought.
"I have this problem," I say. "With... moonlight, if you get what I'm saying."
A smile crosses her lips. "I get what you're saying," she says, "but I don't see why it has to be a problem."
"It's a problem if you've got all the fucking werewolves in the world hunting you down," I say.
"Follow me," she says, taking her mug of beer and leading me out around the bar and through a door into a back room.
"I hope this isn't an inconvenience," I say.
"It kind of is," she says. "I don't want werewolves knocking on my door, thank you very much."
"No danger of that," I say. "I've got a hundred year head start."
"Interesting," she says. "You struck a bargain?"
I nod. "Something like that."
"There's only one reason the Alpha Wolf would strike a bargain like that," she says, "and that's if he knows that giving you a head start would be the only way to make the chase interesting. He can't have much of an opinion of you."
I shrug. "I've got time to learn. Unless you help me, in which case I wouldn't need to learn." I step toward her, but she steps back.
"Don't touch me," she says. "I don't want your scent on me. Listen, understand this... I can't help you. You're not cursed. If you're a werewolf, it's because you were born that way. There's no such thing as curses. What kind of simple, childish mind have you got?"
I was kind of afraid she'd say that. In my desperation, I hoped that my condition was the result of a curse, perhaps one given to me when I was born. Deep down, however, I think I've always known that there's no 'curse'. This is who I am. It's what I am, and I can only stop being a werewolf if - when - I die.
"Okay," I say. "Thanks anyway. I gues
s there's nothing you can do for me." I turn to leave.
"There's one thing I can do," she says.
I turn back to look at her.
"I can give you some advice," she says, coming closer. "Run. Get good at running. Because that's the only way you'll ever survive, do you understand? Even then, it's just a matter of time, because they'll always, always be on your trail." She leans in and kisses me on the cheek. "Good luck. And never come to me again. I don't want them following your scent to my door, you understand?"
I nod, and then I turn and leave, walking out through the pub and into the cold Irish night. I look at the stars, make some calculations and start making my way south. Azael was a nice enough woman, and her advice rang true. I need to run. I need to run for the rest of my life, because if I stop for even a moment, the other werewolves are going to catch up to me and rip my body to pieces.
Sophie
Adam walks me home. It's almost 2am and I know he wants to stay the night, but I have other plans. I need to go and find Patrick, but I can't really explain that to Adam so I have to come up with some kind of excuse. After all, Adam knows nothing about Patrick. To him, I'm just a bored, slightly boring Dedston girl who spends her days doing nothing in particular; he has no idea that I spend time thinking about vampires. If he knew, he'd probably think I'm crazy.
"I think I just want to go to sleep," I say as we get to my door.
"That's fine," he says. "That's all I want to do too."
"Yeah," I say. "But I have to be up early to go looking for jobs, so is it okay if you go home tonight instead?"
He stares at me for a moment. "Sure," he says. "See you around." He turns to walk away, then he stops and turns back. "You know, we have to try some time."
He's right. We've been together for three months now, and we've only tried to have sex once. I warned him from the start that I find it painful, and he said he understood, but it's hard for him. He thinks he can 'fix' me if he just gets it right.