by Amy Cross
"You're lying," I say. "I'm the one he bit. I'm the one he watches over. When the time is right -"
"It's all about David," Vincent says firmly. "Patrick wants David. He wanted you originally, but now he's shifted his attention. He wants David."
I stop walking and turn to him. "He has never touched David," I say. "He has never bitten him."
"He will," Vincent says.
I look down at David. He returns my stare, and it's clear that he doesn't really understand what we're talking about. To him, Patrick is just a shadowy figure who appears occasionally.
"Patrick wants a son," Vincent continues. "It was supposed to be me, but it went wrong. I turned out to be more like a father figure to him, and that's something he needs, but it's not what he really wants. So then he turned to your family, and at first he chose you, but now he's more interested in your little brother."
"He bit me," I say firmly.
"A good start," Vincent says, "but utterly irrelevant in the long run."
"I'm going to be like him," I say.
Vincent laughs. "Is that how you think it works?" He pauses. "You're never going to be like him, Charles. He knows that. You haven't got the temperament. He started the process of trying to transform you, but he abandoned it. That's why he only ever bit you once. You'll never be a vampire. Neither will I." He looks at David. "And I imagine he won't ever be one, either." He smiles. "Do you know what I think Patrick's doing wrong? He doesn't need a son at all. He needs a daughter. But he's so pig-headed sometimes..."
"You're wrong on a number of counts," I say, trying not to be overcome by a feeling of panic. "But that's fine. It is not my problem if you wish to be wrong. I hope you enjoy the experience." I take David's hand and lead him away.
"Come and find me!" Vincent calls after us. "When you realize I'm right, come and find me and I'll see if I can help you! I'll be around."
I don't look back. The man is clearly insane, and possibly a little jealous that I am the one chosen by Patrick to be his successor. Nevertheless, I am concerned that someone else knows about the arrangement. I had naively assumed that Patrick was my secret, but now it's clear that he has a far greater history. He is part of my story, but I am also part of his.
Sophie
Dedston - Today.
"Are you sure you can trust him?" Shelley asks as we walk along the street.
"No," I reply. "But for the next few hours, I don't really have a choice."
It's getting close to sunset and I still have so many things I need to get ready for the journey. Fortunately, I have the most important thing: a bus ticket out of Dedston, on a bus that leaves first thing in the morning. Shelley helped me out with some money, and hopefully Nimrod will come through with his offer of a little more help. I still don't really see Nimrod as someone with wholly good intentions, but I figure he's not the bad guy I once thought he was. Maybe he's just really, really messed up, which just begs the question again: what happened between Nimrod and Patrick?
"I wish I could come with you," Shelley says.
"You can come and visit," I reply. "When I know where I'll be."
Shelley's silent for a moment. "I can't," she says eventually. "Think about it. If you run off with Abigail, Patrick's gonna hunt you down. And if I come to find you, I'll just lead him straight to you."
I open my mouth to argue with her, but I realize she's right. There's no way I can allow Patrick to track me down once I'm gone, even if that means losing touch with everyone from my old life forever.
"We'll catch up one day," I say, aware that it's an empty sentiment. "When we're old and gray."
We walk in silence for a few blocks. I've known Shelley since we were children. We're very different, but somehow - perhaps by default, at first - we became best friends. Shelley was bullied at school because she hated the other students and because she hated the teachers, and I was bullied at school because I was quiet, so we kind of gravitated to one another for support. Over the years, we've been there for each other when it counted, and now it seems I'm supposed to just cut her out of my life.
"You sure you don't want to come with me?" I ask as we cross the road.
"It's not about not wanting to come," she says, "it's more about what's best for you and Abigail. Three people move slower than two."
"But I could use the help," I say. "If Nimrod comes through on his promises, we can find somewhere safe, away from Patrick."
"Do you think that's possible?" Shelley asks. "I mean, do you really think you can ever be safe?"
I shrug. "I've got to try. Patrick wants Abigail and I'm not going to let him have her. I don't care what I have to do, but I'm going to keep her away from him, even if..." My voice trails off as I realize the enormity of the situation.
"Even if what?" she asks.
"Even if he won't take no for an answer," I reply, avoiding the question.
Shelley stops walking.
"Okay," she says.
"Okay what?" I ask.
She smiles. "I'll I'll come with you."
I stare at her. "Are you serious?"
She nods.
"Are you sure?" I ask, feeling the stirrings of hope in my soul for the first time in days.
She nods again. "I mean, on the one hand, there's a crazy vampire who'll be after us, and who'll probably rip us to pieces so he can get hold of Abigail. And it'll be a tough life, moving all the time, always looking over our shoulders. Always wondering if he's going to get us. But on the other hand..." She pauses. "What the hell, right? I mean, this place is a shit-hole, so it's not like there's any reason to stay. There's an old saying my grandmother taught me. Why sit around at home when you could be out there being chased by a vampire?" She pauses for a moment. "I might have changed part of that."
I step toward her and we hug. "Thank you," I say. I feel worried about the fact that I'm probably pulling Shelley into something dangerous, but at the same time I figure Patrick will go after her anyway if he thinks she can lead him to me. Besides, in a selfish kind of way, I feel it'll be easier to keep one step ahead of Patrick if I have a little help. Shelley's a good person to have around. "Are you really really really sure?" I ask.
"I'm really really really sure," she says, pulling away from me, "but I need to get my shit together before we go."
I follow Shelley to a couple of places, and she gets together some money and a few other items. Finally, we find ourselves standing outside the run-down DVD rental store where Rob works.
"I guess I should say goodbye," she says, staring at the door.
"I'll wait outside," I say.
She smiles. "I didn't love him," she with a hint of sadness in her voice, "and he was rubbish in bed. I pretended he was good, but really... Nope. Callum was better. And Tom. And Marcus. And Bobby, and the other Bobby. And Steven. And... well, you get the idea. Still, I liked Rob a lot."
"Say bye from me, okay?" I say, realizing how much Shelley's going to sacrifice in order to come with me.
She goes into the shop, leaving me standing on the sidewalk. I look around at Dedston, taking one final opportunity to marvel at the place I've called home for so long. The truth is, I hate this town. Maybe one day I'll be nostalgic about the place, but right now it just seems to be a short, concrete-covered hell-hole. I would've left years ago if I'd had any money. I knew people from school who left Dedston with no cash, no prospects, no nothing, and sometimes I wonder if I should have done the same thing. Not only would I have had a chance of some kind of decent future, but I might have avoided all this stuff with Patrick. Now there's a thought: a life in which I don't know who Patrick is, in which vampires are just characters from books and films. I'd like a life like that. It'd mean there'd be no Abigail, though, and I feel a connection to that baby even though I don't remember ever meeting her. Damn it, my emotions are all over the place right now.
Shelley leans out of the store. "Come inside," she says, before ducking back inside.
I follow her in and find that there'
s no-one else there.
"Where is he?" I ask.
"No sign of him," Shelley says.
"Maybe he's busy," I reply.
"It's Rob," she says, "he has no life. And..." She points at what appears to be a smeared bloodstain on the floor.
"I'm sure it's nothing," I say.
Shelley goes behind the desk and opens the cash register. "Damn!" she says. She sorts through the coins. "A grand total of fifteen dollars." She pockets the money. Looking over at me, she shrugs. "Come on, we need every cent we can get, right?"
"Not by stealing," I reply. I wish I could say I was shocked by Shelley's behavior, but I've known her long enough to understand that she has a hell of a self-preservation streak.
"Don't worry," she says. "I'll rationalize it later."
"Sure," I say, noticing more blood over by another door. I wander over. The blood looks fresh, still wet. A rising feeling of fear starts to build inside me. I reach out and open the door, but the room inside looks like a bare stockroom. On the floor, though, there's yet another patch of blood. I step into the room, and I soon as I look across the room I see a human body.
"Fuck!" I say, stepping back.
"What?" Shelley asks, hurrying into the room. She pulls up short when she sees the body.
We stand in silence for a moment.
"It's him," she says eventually.
"Are you sure?"
She nods.
I step closer to the corpse. Walking around it, I'm shocked to see that Rob isn't just dead; his body is like a husk, as if something has sucked out all the moisture, leaving him looking like a withered prune. His skin is wrinkly and gray; his eyeballs have shrunk in their sockets and his mouth is open, as if he died screaming. He's still wearing his uniform, with the 'My Name is Rob' badge in place.
Shelley turns and rushes out of the room. I hear her vomiting and I follow her.
"It's okay," I say, grabbing her hair and holding it back while she continues to throw up on the floor. Eventually she turns to me. "It's okay," I say again, even though I know there's nothing I can do or say to help her.
"That fucking asshole," she says, wiping her chin.
"Who?" I ask.
"Him!" she shouts, pointing at the door. "Fucking dying like that!" She pauses. "Who did that to him?"
I shake my head.
"Patrick?" she asks.
"I don't know," I say. "I don't know if Patrick's alive right now."
"But he might have done this, right?" she continues. "I mean, he's a fucking psycho, isn't he? He's a monster. This is the kind of thing he'd do!"
"No, this -" I pause, staring at the door. Somehow, this doesn't feel like Patrick's work. "I don't think this is Patrick's fault"
"What about that Nimrod guy?" she says, almost spitting the name. "Maybe it was him?"
"I..." I pause. "I don't think he would, or could. It looks like whatever attacked him was something else. Something..."
There's a moment of silence between us.
"Let's get out of here," Shelley says, turning and hurrying to the door.
We emerge onto the dusty, deserted Dedston street. Shelley reaches back into the shop and flips the sign around to 'Closed', and then pulls the door shut. "Fuck," she says, clearly in shock. "Holy fuck. What a fucking idiot! How could he let himself get..." Her voices trails off, and I realize she's in shock.
"It's okay," I say, putting an arm around her. "Let it out."
She pauses. "I did," she says, wiping a single tear from her eye. "I let it out. I'm done. Let's go."
"Wait," I say, but I'm not sure what I really think we can do. Rob's dead, and it's not like we can bring him back.
"Wait for what?" Shelley asks, clearly trying hard to convince me that she's not really upset. "Are we supposed to have some big circle-jerk, claiming he was a great guy? He wasn't." She sniffs back some more tears. "He was just an ordinary guy who was gonna spend his life in this crap-heap. He had no prospects. No future. No hope." She stares at the door to the store. "The world's not a worse place without him." She pauses. "He's just gone. We have to get out of here, or we'll be next."
"We should tell someone -" I start to say.
"We don't have time," she says, almost shouting. "We have to get out of here." She jingles the change in her pocket. "We got the only useful thing from this place, now let's get going." Without waiting for me to say anything else, she turns and starts walking away. I glance at the door to the store one final time, and then I follow Shelley along the sidewalk.
"Hey," I say, catching up to her.
"Hey," she says, walking fast and looking straight ahead.
"So if you want to talk about it -"
"I don't."
"Okay," I say. "But I mean... Ever..."
"Sure," she says.
We keep walking. I feel like there's so much to say, but also like there's no way to say it. I don't know who killed Rob, or why, but I can't help wondering if it has something to do with the fact that I went to see him earlier today. It seems too much of a coincidence otherwise. Is there something in town, following me and hoping I'll lead it to Abigail? I can't deny the possibility that everyone around me might be in danger right now. The only thing left for me to do is to get the hell out of this town and go far away from everyone I care about. Even Shelley, maybe. I guess this is going to be my life from now on. I'm never going to stop running until the day I die.
Nimrod
London - 1960.
I stare at my face in the mirror. The light in this hotel bathroom is bright and electric, giving me a strange, angular look. It's almost like looking at someone else. The years have taken their strain and my age is starting to show. I shall have to be careful in order to ensure that I don't become some kind of ghoul. To be honest, I look like death.
I look down at the razor blade on the sink.
Tonight's the night.
Picking up the blade, I carefully run my finger along its edge. I spent almost an hour sharpening it earlier, and I'm absolutely sure now that it's in perfect condition for this little operation. I smile, shuddering slightly at the thought of the pain I will undoubtedly endure. It will be worth it, though, because this operation will allow me to become who - and what - I have always dreamed of being. This is the night I have longed for, waited for, planned for. To back out now would be foolish and pathetic.
If I am to live, I must live like this.
I open my mouth and look at my teeth. They are dull and human. Lifting the razor blade, I place it against the enamel of my left canine. Such a paltry tooth, flat and ordinary. I move the blade's edge to the top of the tooth. Taking a deep breath, I try to steel myself for the pain. I push the blade against the enamel and then I slowly, slowly force it downwards. The blade makes a scratching sound, and a thin layer of enamel falls away. It's working. I scratch away some more, and so far there's no pain.
It takes half an hour, but soon I have carved the tooth into a thin, sharp fang. I make a few more slices, determined to make the tooth look perfect in every respect. There's a little soreness, but nothing much. However, as I make one final slice, I take away a little too much enamel, exposing and tagging a nerve. The pain is intense, causing me to drop the blade in the sink and fall backward onto the floor, clutching my face. For several minutes, I flail on the bathroom floor; it seems nothing will stop the agony.
Finally, the pain either subsides, or I learn to master it. I cannot be sure which. I stand up and turn to look at myself in the mirror once again. Opening my mouth, I see the perfect fang that I have carved, although there is a small mark where the nerve has been exposed. The pain is still agonizing, but I am learning to control it. Over time, it will heal. For now, I must not let myself be deflected from my purpose. I must be strong.
I take the blade from the sink and turn my attention to the other canine. I am more careful this time, and forty minutes later I have carved this tooth into a second fang. Finally I put the razor down and stare at my creation: a perfect
pair of fangs, carved from my own teeth. I look down into the sink and see the slices of enamel. Turning on the tap, I wash the pieces away.
It's done.
The transformation that I have dreamed of performing... It's complete. I can't stop staring at myself, admiring myself in the mirror. I look so different. Although the pain from the damaged nerve is still overwhelming, I feel I can bear it for now. I am strong enough and, besides, no pain can entirely overwhelm my euphoria at having reached this moment. I reach a finger in and touch one of the fangs, finding it to be surprisingly sharp. Although I was always confident of my abilities, even I must admit that I have done an excellent job.
I turn and head through to the bedroom. David is still sleeping. Still waiting for Patrick. Tonight is the night when Patrick is due to come and take my little brother. Take him where? I don't know, and I'm not going to wait and find out. I walk around the bed and look at David's face. He looks so calm in the moonlight, but on his neck there are two familiar fang marks from where Patrick bit him. Like mine, his wounds will not heal, but there is a quality of weakness about David that I cannot stand. Far from being a reliable ally, he is too... human, to be of much use. Patrick was wrong to choose David; he should have chosen me.
"Forgive me," I say, kneeling down. I have studied carefully and I know exactly where to find David's jugular. If I can puncture it in just the right way, he will bleed to death in a minute or so. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that there is no point delaying things.
So I strike.
Clamping a hand over his mouth, I sink my new fangs into his neck. Blood erupts from the wounds as he struggles desperately, but I hold him down. He has always been weak, and it is not hard to keep him from getting away. Although my exposed nerve is agonizingly painful, I keep my fangs in his neck and finally I start to rip through the flesh. My brother's body tastes sweet and good. I had expected to experience feelings of regret, even guilt, during this process; in fact, I feel nothing but euphoria as his flailing body finally falls still and he dies.