by Amy Cross
Behind me, the ghosts take their cue and together they walk forward, passing around me and moving across the clearing. They pass straight through the statue, and straight through Sophie, and the only sign of this passing is that the fragments of Patrick's stone arm are blown away, as if on the wind. As they reach the other side of the clearing, the ghosts stop, and then they turn to watch what happens next. My wolves can be so poetic when the mood takes them.
The forest falls silent.
Not a bird sings.
Not a leaf rustles.
The only sound comes from Sophie's lips as she breathes.
She stands, staring at the broken statue. She seems shocked and lost, as if she genuinely doesn't know what to do. Slowly, she falls back down to her knees. She reaches out and runs a hand across the statue's shoulder, and up to its face. It's clear that she held Patrick in some affection. Just as he loved her, perhaps she also loved him. Perhaps. Then again, she has suffered at his hands, so why should she feel anything but contempt for him. Humans often fall in love with those who hurt them, though, and I fear Sophie has fallen into the same trap.
There's nothing she can do, of course. There's no way she can force Patrick to return from his body of stone. Yet still she sits there, her hand resting on his stone face. It's as if she can't bring herself to leave him. After everything he has done to her, she still has feelings for him. Emotions. I watch as her hand runs across the smooth, stone surface of his eyes. This is it. This is all he is now. She can't bear to say goodbye, but she knows she must. As she looks down at Patrick's broken body, her lips start to move. She's whispering something to herself. She wants him, or perhaps she just wants his help. Perhaps she just wants him to tell her where to find the child.
Behind her, the ghosts start to laugh. They are finally happy.
Sophie
Dedston - Today.
"I hate you," I whisper, looking down at his stone face. I run my hand along his cheek; his blank eyes stare back up at me. "I hate what you did to me... I hate what you took from me. I hate what you did to my body. I hate all your secrets. I hate all your lies. I hate everything you stand for, and everything you are. But I..." I pause. It feels stupid to keep talking. He can't hear me. No-one can hear me. "I still..." I pause again. The words are ready to come from my mouth, but I can't bring myself to say what I really want to say. "I..." I say, trying again before my voice trails off.
I take a deep breath.
"I still hate you," I say eventually, before stepping around the statue and using the heel of my shoe to smash his face. At first it has no effect, but eventually there's a crack and finally his entire stone head crumbles to dust.
I sigh.
It's over.
"It's not a big change, is it?" says a voice nearby.
I look up, shocked that there's anyone else here.
"It's okay," says a man, stepping out from the trees, dressed in an immaculate business suit. He has a young, kind face with an intelligent smile and bright eyes. "All I mean is, Patrick as a statue isn't that different to Patrick when he was alive. It's not like he was ever very talkative, is it?" The man stares at the statue for a moment. "One might almost argue that this is an improvement."
Glancing back at the cave entrance, I can't help but wonder whether this is all part of Dexter Logan's plan. I swear I saw Dexter die, but can I ever really be certain of anything these days? I turn back to the man. I can't quite work out why, but I have a strange feeling that I've seen him somewhere before. He seems familiar, and there's an air of confidence about him that's unnerving.
"We haven't met," the man says, reaching out a hand. "Not for a long time, anyway. My name is Charles Nimrod. Perhaps you've heard of me?"
I stare at his hand, but I don't shake it.
He smiles. "You're wise to be cautious. Very wise indeed. We live in a dangerous world and there are people who could suck your soul out through the palm of your hand. You'll come to realize that I'm not dangerous at all, but I'm sure it will take me some time to win your trust. You're smart." He pauses for a moment. "Do you want to know something strange? You have your grandfather's eyes. It's quite remarkable."
"Nimrod..." I say. The name seems familiar, but I can't place it.
"Please," he continues, "call me Charles. Nobody else does, and it would make a nice change."
"How do you know Patrick?" I ask, my mind racing. I've met a few people who know Patrick; they're generally bad news. There was Hamish, then there was Martin Keller, then there were the people at Gothos. Patrick seems to be a magnet for weird, fucked-up assholes.
"We go back a long way," Nimrod replies, kicking the dust that used to be Patrick's face. "A very long way. Almost as far back as it's possible to go."
"Who are you?" I ask.
He grins. "Did Patrick never tell you about me? Well... I'm rather insulted. Then again, young Patrick was never much of a blabbermouth, was he?" Crouching down, Nimrod picks up a piece of Patrick's shattered arm. "What a mess," he says, examining the smashed stone. "Whatever are we going to do with all these pieces? Benjamin's going to be so annoyed. He wanted a whole body. Still, there's time. Such things aren't always permanent, you know."
"I -" I start to say, but I pause and look over at the trees. It's weird, but for a moment I thought I heard the sound of people laughing. Lots and lots of people. "Why did this happen?" I ask, turning back to face Nimrod. "Why did he turn to stone?"
"True love. It has a powerful effect on vampires."
"I don't love him," I reply.
"But he loved you. Even if it was just for a fraction of a second. And it was enough to turn him to stone. That's the thing about vampires. They're not built for love." He smiles. "Don't worry. It'll wear off. He'll return soon enough, if he can learn to control those feelings and banish them. Or just keep them under wraps."
I stare at the stone pieces. "So a vampire can't ever love someone?" I ask.
"They can in their own way," he replies, "but they have to be careful." He holds up a chunk of Patrick's stone body for me to see. "Really, you should take this as a compliment."
"It's my fault," I say forlornly.
"All of this began long before you were even born, Sophie."
"How do you know my name?" I ask.
"I know Patrick," he says. "Or..." He glances down at the statue's remains. "I knew him, at least." He smiles at me. "I know what he wanted. I heard the beat of his heart once. It was your name."
I pause, not sure what to say. "He didn't love me," I say finally. "The things he did to me... You don't do that to someone if you love them."
"You didn't know him very well at all, did you?" Nimrod says, standing again. "Not the way lovers are supposed to know one another, anyway. Did you ever feel as if you'd got under his skin? Did you ever feel as if you knew something he didn't? Or did you always feel he was in control? After all, he stole your body and used it to get the child he always wanted. Did you ever feel like he was just using you, or did you start to think that perhaps he was in love with you?"
I hear that strange sound behind me again. I turn, convinced there are people laughing but - again - there's nothing to see.
"Now that he's dead -" Nimrod starts to say.
"He's not dead," I say, interrupting. I look down at the statue.
"Isn't he?" Nimrod asks. "He's made of stone, and he's broken on the forest floor. Don't you think perhaps he's reached the point of no return?"
"He's not dead," I say again. "You said it yourself. When he learns to control his feelings, he'll return."
"I said if he learns to control his feelings," Nimrod says, "not when. That's a lot to ask of an immature fool like Patrick. Besides, how exactly do you think he's going to come back? Are you going to get some glue and try to stick him back together?"
"He's not dead," I say for a third time, but my voice sounds weak and, to be honest, I'm not sure I believe what I'm saying. I look at Nimrod. "How do you know any of this? How do you know who Patrick
is?"
He smiles. "He and I are old friends. That's all. Very, very old friends."
Again, I hear the sound of rustling laughter behind me. I turn to face the empty forest. "What the hell is that noise?" I ask.
"What noise?" Nimrod asks.
I turn back to him. "Fuck you," I say. "Whatever's going on here... Fuck you. If you can't help me, then keep away from me. I can do this on my own." I take a deep breath. There's something about this Nimrod guy that's scaring me, and I feel as if the best thing to do would be to get away from him as fast as possible. "I have to find Shelley," I add. "Sorry, but I have to go." I turn to leave.
"Abigail," Nimrod says.
I stop in my tracks. "What?" I ask, turning back to him.
"Her name," he continues. "Your daughter. That's her name. Abigail. Abigail Hart."
I pause, completely shocked and with no idea what I should say.
"It's very powerful, isn't it? Just a name, but it carries so much more weight on its shoulders." He fixes me with a dark, determined stare. "Patrick chose to name your daughter Abigail. I just thought you'd like to know."
I step toward Nimrod. "Where is she?" I ask. It's as if, now that I know her name, I feel an even stronger connection to her, despite the fact that I don't even remember giving birth.
"She's far away," he replies. "She's being looked after. But if you want to see her... arrangements could be made. Patrick would never have let you see her, of course, but Patrick isn't around to interfere anymore, is he?" Nimrod smiles. "Not for a while, at least. I can send for her. I can have her brought here. But there's one thing I want in return."
"Name it," I say.
He pauses. "I want to know what Patrick said to your friend before he died. I want to know the information that she knows. Even if I have to rip her head open to get to it, I want to know his final words." He reaches out his hand again. "Get me that information, and I'll get you Abigail."
I pause, and finally I reach out and shake his hand.
He smiles. "Excellent."
There's a rustling sound behind me. I turn, but there's nothing there.
"Don't be alarmed," Nimrod says. "That was just the sound of my friends leaving. They're going to fetch Abigail. When they return with her, you'll give me what I want and I'll give you what you want. Do we have a deal?"
I nod slowly. "Deal," I say.
He smiles, and then I become aware of someone nearby. Turning, I see an old woman, her face partially hidden by a hood. She's carrying a tiny baby, which gurgles as it rests in a shawl. As soon as I see the child's face, I can tell deep in my heart that this is my child, the child I've never seen before. Conceived at Gothos, and then stolen from me, she's still mine. I don't even remember giving birth to her, but I know she's mine.
"Take her," Nimrod says. "After all, you're her mother. What could be more natural than a child being held by its mother?"
I rush over to the woman, who hands me the baby. I look down at her little face, and she looks up at me. "Abigail," I whisper, stunned to see her after all this time. I'd begun to think that perhaps Patrick would keep her away from me forever. "Abigail," I say again, enjoying the sensation of saying her name. It's not a name that I chose, but it seems to suit her perfectly, and it's a name that runs in my family. I turn to Nimrod. "Thank you," I say, with tears in my ears.
"Patrick did something similar to my family once," he says darkly. "He took a child that was not his to take. He should never have done it, but I couldn't stop him. I couldn't save the child, but I swore I'd never let him do the same thing to anyone else. That's why, this time, I was so determined to ensure that I stepped in and prevented him from hurting your child in the same way."
"Why does he want a child?" I ask as Abigail reaches a tiny hand up to me.
Nimrod stares at me. "He's the last vampire," he says darkly. "Why do you think he wants a child?"
"He can't have her," I say. I look down at the broken statue. "She's safe now, isn't she?"
Nimrod smiles, but there's a sense of sadness behind the smile. "Right now, at this moment... Yes, she's safe."
"I'll repay you," I say, holding Abigail in my arms. Looking down into her eyes, I'm overcome by a feeling of love. I'll never, ever let this little girl go. I'm not ready to be a mother, but I'll learn. Somehow, I'll find a way to take care of her. It's crazy, but I already know in my heart that I'd give my life to keep Abigail safe. I turn to the old woman, who smiles at me with a kind face. "I'll look after her," I say. "I'll raise her well, I promise. I swear to God, I'll make sure her life is perfect."
The old woman smiles at me.
"There's only one problem," Nimrod says, walking toward me and then reaching his hand out and stroking the side of Abigail's face. "The baby is not yours until you deliver what I want. I have to know what Patrick said to your friend."
"I'll find out," I say. "I'll do it today. I'll make her tell me."
"Excellent," Nimrod says. "Once you've done that, I'll bring Abigail to you."
"I'll take her with me," I say, turning to walk away, but I find the old woman blocking my way. I turn back to Nimrod. "No way," I say. "After everything that's happened, there's no way I'm going to let her out of my sight. You understand that, right? I can't ever let her go, not again."
"You get to keep Abigail," Nimrod says firmly, "when I get the information I need. Until then, you only get to experience an illusion. The real Abigail is still far away."
"She's my daughter," I say, backing away. "You can't take her away from me."
Nimrod pauses. "I already did," he says.
For a moment, I can't work out what he means. But then I look down at Abigail and a shock of realization hits me. Just a moment ago, this shawl contained my daughter, and she smiled as she looked up at me. Suddenly, the same shawl contains not a baby but a huge bundle of writhing, wriggling worms. I stare at them for a moment, horrified, before dropping the shawl onto the forest floor. I watch as the worms spill out, making their way across the soil.
"What did you do to her?" I ask, my heart pounding.
"Nothing," Nimrod says. "The real Abigail is still on her way here. These things take time. Once she arrives, and once you have done what I commanded, Abigail will be yours to keep. Forever. I just wanted to give you a taste of what it will feel like, once you get what you want. A little extra motivation."
I turn to the old woman, but I see with shock that where she once had a face, now she too is just a mass of writhing worms. I look down at her hands, and they're the same. She steps toward me.
"I know your pain," Nimrod says, coming up close behind me. "I know what it's like to lose a child to a monster like Patrick. I also know what it's like to fight for that child, and to lose... to have hope in your heart, and then to have that hope destroyed. But if we work together, we can each get what we want. Just find out what Patrick told your friend, and I'll get your baby back to you. For real, this time."
I turn to him. "If you try to trick me..." I say, forcing myself to hold back the tears.
"I won't," he replies. "Believe me, I've been where you are. I've watched as an innocent child is drawn into Patrick's world. I couldn't stop it last time, but I'll stop it this time." He fixes me with a determined stare. "I couldn't stop him on my own. You can't stop him without help. Together, though, we have a chance." He looks back at the broken statue. "We don't have long," he says finally. "You need to find your friend and work out what Patrick told her. Do that, and I'll be able to defeat Patrick, and your daughter will be returned to you."
I nod. "All I care about is Abigail," I say.
"Not Patrick?"
"Not Patrick," I reply. "Not even myself. Just her."
"Prove it," Nimrod says.
I start to walk away, but then I pause and turn back to face Nimrod. "Is he dead?" I look down at the broken statue. "Is Patrick gone forever?"
Nimrod stares at me. "We don't have much time," he says. "Get me what I want, and I'll deliver what you want.
That's the only deal on offer right now."
I hurry away, heading back to town. Even though this feels wrong, and even though I don't really trust Nimrod, I can't help but be overwhelmed by a desire to finally get Abigail and make sure she's safe. Safe from Patrick. Safe from Nimrod. Safe from everyone. And if that means I have to hurt Patrick, and even Shelley, then I guess it's a price I'm willing to pay. From now on, the only person I care about is my daughter.
Nimrod
London - 1942.
He was here again tonight. As soon as my father left the house via the front door, I heard the back door open. I listened as his footsteps moved through the house toward the room in which my mother sat sewing. Finally I heard my mother acknowledge his arrival.
He never speaks.
I'm supposed to be asleep, but instead I'm standing at my bedroom door, listening. Since the bombs started to fall a few months ago, I haven't been able to sleep very well. It was my ninth birthday yesterday, but we couldn't even afford a cake. My father told me that money is too tight, and my mother reminded me that our wartime rations don't stretch far enough for her to be able to 'waste' money on food that isn't absolutely necessary. It's okay. I know how things work. After all, we're at war.
Once my mother has been talking for a few minutes, I decide it's safe to venture downstairs. As far as my mother is aware, I don't even know about his visits.
But I do.
And I hate him.
I hate my mother too.
And my father.
And the war.
I hate everyone and everything.
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I hear a distant humming sound. German bombers passing over the city. They'll unload their payload somewhere, but probably not too close to us. It's mainly the center of the city that burns, although last week a girl from my school was killed when a bomb landed squarely on her family's house. I don't know exactly how she died, but I imagine it was quick and painless. She probably slept through it. At least she won't have to suffer any longer. The rest of us must keep pushing ahead, even though I don't see how we can possibly win the war. The Germans seem so powerful, so advanced. Maybe we should surrender and spare the lives of all the soldiers? The Nazis can't be all that bad, can they?