Dark Season: The Complete Box Set

by Amy Cross

  "So I'm going out to the forest again this afternoon," I say as we stand against the wall, looking out over the parking lot. There was a storm last night, and large puddles of rainwater have collected all across the increasingly cracked asphalt. This town is falling apart.

  "Waste of time," Shelley says.

  "Says you" I reply.

  Shelley shakes her head. "It was a waste of time yesterday, when there was still a chance of finding a trail. It's a complete and utter waste of total fucking time today now that the rain's washed everything away. It's like looking for a needle in a haystack, except the needle is a vampire and the haystack is five thousand acres of boring forest."

  "So you don't want to come and help?"

  "What if he's dead?" Shelley asks, taking a puff on her cigarette. "He didn't look good last time we saw him, Soph. Maybe you should go talk to that Nimrod guy again, find out what he knows."

  "I need to find Abigail," I remind her.

  "Exactly," Shelley says. "You need to find Abigail. Not Patrick. And if you're really focused on finding her, you need to go through Nimrod. Unless..."

  I wait for her to continue. "Unless what?" I ask eventually

  "Unless you're just using Abigail as an excuse to keep looking for Patrick."

  "Bullshit," I say, looking down at my feet. I hate the way Shelley keeps insinuating that I have feelings for Patrick. I mean, maybe there was a time when he and I were starting to get close, but everything ended when he used my body and stole our child. If I saw him now, I wouldn't kiss him; I'd punch him.

  "I'm not telling you not to do it," Shelley says, "I'm just saying you should be a little more honest about your motivation."

  "I'm heading out there as soon as I leave here," I say. "I'll have my phone with me."

  "You're crazy," she replies. "You're wasting your time going round and round in circles." She pauses, taking another drag on her cigarette. "I'll come and meet you as soon as I'm wrapped up here, okay?" Stubbing the cigarette out on the wall, she leads me back around to the staff entrance. "Shit!" she says, looking down.

  I follow her stare, and see a large patch of dried blood on the door. "Nice," I say.

  "How did I miss that?" she asks, sighing. "Those fucking animals."

  "Animals?" I ask.

  "Not actual animals. People animals." She grabs a cloth from inside and starts trying to scrub the blood away. "It's not just hobos from town," she says, clearly annoyed. "There's these people who live a few miles away, in the forest. They come into town at night and steal food, but they also fight and stuff. The cops won't do anything 'cause it's too much effort to go out into the wilds and track 'em down. We get stuck with the clean-up 'cause we're so close to the edge of town. There was even a dead guy found a few blocks away last week. These fucking vagrants are such a nightmare. I swear, if I ever see one of 'em, I'll..."

  "Pour bleach onto his food?" I ask helpfully.

  "You know what I mean," she replies, having got most of the blood away. "I swear, if I ever end up as a hobo - and let's face it, there's a distinct possibility that it could happen - I'll travel. I'll hit the road like Jack Kerouac or Tom Waits. I won't sit around in some soggy camp in the middle of the forest near a no-good little shithole of a town, diving for food in trash cans that most people fill up with bleach. I mean, that's kind of a pathetic lifestyle, don't you think?"

  "Some people haven't got a choice," I reply.

  "You've always got a choice," she says. "No matter how shitty your life is, you can always find some way to make it better. Even if it's in small increments. Over time, it adds up. People who live like animals are doing it for a reason. Maybe they don't wanna admit what that reason is, but there's a reason. They're hiding from someone, or something like that."

  I smile. "What do you want to be, Shelley? I mean, when you're all grown up."

  She grins. "A fucking astronaut," she says without hesitation. "Going to Mars and all that shit."

  "Good luck," I say, before pausing for a moment. "Maybe you're right about one thing, though. Maybe I should go talk to Nimrod. He seemed to know a lot about Patrick, and I guess I could use all the information I can get right now."

  "What if you don't like what he tells you?" she replies. "What if he tells you Abigail's gone forever, and Patrick's dead?"

  I shake my head. "It's not as simple as that. Nothing's as simple as that with Patrick. He doesn't just disappear without a trace. He's -"

  "Different?" Shelley asks, laughing. "Every guy seems different. They all turn out to be the same." She pauses. "Except Patrick's an actual vampire, so there might be a few differences." She checks her watch. "I've got to get back to work," she says. "You want to wait and I'll come with you in a couple of hours?"

  "To see Nimrod? No, it's fine."

  "You sure?" she asks. "You don't know if he's safe."

  "He seems okay. I think he's just like me. He's desperate. I don't what his story is, but it seems like he's been through something like this with Patrick before. Don't worry, I'll be fine. But if you want to come out to the woods with me later, give me a call."

  She smiles as she heads back inside. "I really, really don't want to go out to the woods with you. Not ever again," she says. "What time are we setting off?"

  "Call me," I say.

  After taking a bite from the sandwich I rescued from the dumpster, I turn and walk away across the damp parking lot. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a few notes and some change. I count it up and find that I have a grand total of three dollars and fifteen cents. That's not gonna get me too far. Hell, by the end of the day, maybe I'll be taking a look in the dumpsters for food, just like the hobos. Right now, though, I have bigger things to worry about. Patrick's alive. I don't know how I know, but I'm absolutely certain that he's alive and he's somewhere nearby. I just have to find him, and for that I need some expert help. I need Charles Nimrod.

  Bowie

  The campfire is dying.

  I take a deep breath, inhaling the smell of burning wood. On a cold afternoon like this, there's no point trying to sleep. Besides, my dreams have been particularly vivid lately, almost as if some unknown entity is trying to warn me of something approaching. I'm troubled by visions of Patrick, and Gothos, and I feel that a long-buried world is trying to rise once again.

  "Another day lost in thought?" asks a voice from behind me.

  I turn to see Cassandra standing nearby. She's smiling, but there's an expression of concern - perhaps even fear - in her eyes. I've learned over the years that Cassandra is extremely perceptive. When she worries about something, only a fool would dismiss those worries, and she's worried at the moment.

  "I feel..." I pause, not sure how to explain what's happening to me. "There's something wrong," I say eventually. "Something deeply, deeply wrong with the world around us."

  "I know," she says, walking toward me and sitting on the log. "I feel it too, but I can't tell what it is."

  "The Watchers?"

  "Perhaps. They've been unusually quiet. It wouldn't surprise me if they've sent someone to scout ahead."

  I nod. I know exactly what she means: for almost a week, I've been battling this sensation, telling myself that it's not what I think it is. I know that at some point I'll have to face reality, but for now I find comfort in trying to calm my mind. I don't want to acknowledge what might be happening, but the reappearance of Patrick, albeit in a highly damaged and emaciated state, is a sure sign that our old lives are returning to haunt us.

  I watch as other members of our little camp mill about, getting on with various jobs. They seem not to be aware that anything is wrong. Perhaps, as they struggle to get used to their human bodies, they have no time to consider the old ways.

  "Soon it'll be too late," Cassandra says. "Soon he'll make his move and we'll have no option left but to lay down our lives. If we fight now -"

  "We can't fight," I reply, interrupting her. "Look at us. We're not what we were. We're weak. We're pathetic, we're..
. human. Ten thousand of us couldn't make a dent in him. He'd swat us aside, and he'd laugh at our deaths. You have to accept that things have changed."

  "Changed, yes," she says, "but not so much that we have no hope. We can still stand up for what we know is right."

  "If we stand up," I say, "we get cut down." I stare at the flames. "Isn't it better to stay where we are? If others want to carry on fighting a war that's over, that's none of our business, is it? I don't know about you, but I remember the days when I believed I was immortal. I'd rather cling to life in any way that I can, rather than sacrifice myself to the abyss. You saw what happened to John Tarmey. I'm willing to let things stay as they are."

  "Are you sure about that?" she asks. "A life lived in the shadows? A life of cowardice and fear? Is that a life worth living?" She stands up. "Come with me," she says, walking back toward her tent. Reluctantly, and with a heavy heart, I follow.

  It's dark inside, but she has a small battery-powered light that she switches on, casting a low glow across the bed in the corner. Laid out on that bed, there's the figure of a man. He's not moving, barely even breathing, but Cassandra has cleaned him up as best she can. The mud is gone from his features, and his skin has been carefully wiped. He's completely naked, and despite his injuries and wounds he's still an impressive physical specimen in every regard. I can sense his power from here.

  "Aren't you going to ask how he is?" she asks.

  "I can see that he's alive," I say. "That's more than I want to know."

  "Barely alive," she replies. "I don't know what happened to him, but he's lost a lot of blood and he was so cold, parts of his body were actually frozen. If he was human, he'd have died hours ago, but I think he's slowly starting to pull through. Give him a few days, he should be back to his old self."

  "You say that like it's a good thing," I reply. "All things have to die at some point. Don't you think it would have been better to have just left him out there? Let the natural order do its work. If he dies, he dies."

  "There you go again," Cassandra says, "with that word. Natural. There's nothing natural about any of this. Not him. Not us. None of it." She holds her hand up. "Do you really think that's a human hand? Do you really think it's that simple? We're a lot of things, Bowie, but we're not natural. We're all monsters."

  "We're not like him," I remind her.."

  "We were," she says, taking a sponge from a bucket and using it to wipe Patrick's body. "His fever is high," she says. "I need to keep him cool, or he'll burn up."

  "Does he have to be naked?" I ask, finding it awkward to look at him.

  "I need to clean him," she replies. "Why? Does his body bother you?"

  "Nothing bothers me," I say, "except perhaps the fact that he's alive." I watch as she moves the wet sponge over the muscles of his chest. "If this was a fair world, he would have died long ago, in agony."

  "You're blinkered," Cassandra replies as she runs the sponge down his naked body and onto his leg. "You can't see him for what he really is."

  "I could accuse you of the same thing," I say.

  "Not today," she says softly. "Please."

  I sigh as I watch her continue to bathe him. She's very thorough, and when she's finished she seems to stand back and admire him for a moment.

  "Will he live?" I ask.

  "I don't know. His injuries are severe, but his physiology is unique, even among vampires. He has a chance." She puts a hand against his forehead. "He's still burning up. I'll fetch some more cold water."

  As she hurries out of the tent, I pause, staring at Patrick. Quietly, I walk over to him. The last time I saw him, he was so strong and powerful. He'd just single-handedly torn apart the throne of Gothos, ripping it into pieces with his bare hands. He'd slain an entire vampire army and killed so many of our brothers. There was nothing he couldn't do, there were no limits to his powers, yet instead of using that strength to lift himself up to become a god, he used it to tear us all down. By nightfall on that fateful day, he was the only vampire left. And the rest of us... I look down at my frail, human hand. "Ghosts and monsters," I whisper to myself.

  Suddenly Patrick opens his eyes.

  "So you're awake," I say, feeling my heart beat faster. "Do you remember me?"

  He stares at me. These days, Patrick never speaks. Not because he can't, but because he fears what might happen if he says even a single word. I know he recognizes me, though; he remembers everything.

  "Come on," I say, smiling as I realize that I'm in a position of power here, "say something. Open your mouth and speak." I watch the torment in his eyes. "Do you really think the whole world will fall apart if you say a couple of words? Are you really that superstitious, Patrick?"

  He blinks, but he keeps his eyes fixed on me.

  "What happened to you?" I ask, looking at his torn and ragged body. Deep cuts have split his flesh, revealing the glistening red meat beneath, while his left arm appears to have been burned. It's as if he's been through hell and back. "Did it hurt?" I ask finally. "Did you go through agony, the same way you made us go through agony? Did you feel your flesh peeling from your body as your bones cracked?" I smile, still looking into his ravaged eyes. "I hope so. I hope you went through the most excruciating pain imaginable, because even then you would still have only experienced a fraction of the torment that you visited upon us."

  I glance over my shoulder, to make sure that we're still alone. "If it was up to me," I say, turning back to him, "you'd still be out there in that cold river. The only reason you're here, being helped, is that Cassandra took pity on you. She's always had a soft heart like that; it's one of the aspects of her personality that somehow survived the transition, but I promise you, most of us would have preferred to leave you out there to rot. I hope you remember the loyalty she's shown to you. I hope you recognize that you don't deserve our help."

  I lean down and examine a deep, nasty wound on his shoulder. There's a deep hole, with raw muscle visible beneath the bloody mess. "Looks painful," I say before slowly sticking a finger directly into the hole. This causes him to widen his eyes; he's clearly in agony, but he can't move, he can't even gasp. I wriggle the finger inside, hoping to cause him the maximum amount of pain. Locked inside his wrecked body, he must be experiencing unimaginable torment. I smile as I pull the finger out.

  "Don't worry about being lonely," I spit. "I'll come and visit you plenty." I turn and walk away. Finally, after all this time, the tables are turned and I'm the one with the power. However, there's still one thing standing in my way if I'm to gain my revenge against Patrick. As I reach the tent's exit, Cassandra walks past me, heading back over to Patrick. I watch as she works to calm him. I might yet have to make a terrible sacrifice.

  Sophie

  "You can't trust me," Nimrod says, a slight grin creeping across his face. There's a kind of irrepressible confidence about Nimrod that he never seems to shake, as if he knows things that no-one else knows. "You think I'm dangerous. You have questions about me, some of which I've refused to answer, and some of which you're afraid to ask. You believe I might hurt you, and you fear there's more to me than might appear to be the case. And yet..." He pauses. "And yet you've come out here with me. Aren't you worried?"

  We're in the forest, walking between the trees. I contacted Nimrod a few hours ago and agreed to meet him here. Of course I was worried, and I knew I should at least wait for Shelley to finish work so she could come with me, but the truth is, I feel I don't have much time. I need to get on Patrick's trail fast, or I might lose him forever, and if I lose Patrick, I'll probably lose Abigail as well.

  "Worried about what?" I ask.

  "About placing yourself in danger. I could be a serial killer for all you know, and you're so defenseless. Tell me something... who or what do you think I am?"

  I shrug. "I think you know Patrick very well," I say. "In my experience, people who know Patrick tend to be difficult. And different."

  "Different?"

  "Yeah. Different." I pause.
"Some of them turn out to be monsters. Some of them are pretty twisted. I've never met anyone who just knows Patrick casually, so I kind of feel like there must be something about you that I'm not seeing, 'cause so far you seem pretty normal."

  We walk on a little.

  "I hope you're not offended," I add.

  "Not at all," he says. "If you weren't cautious around me, I'd think you were stupid, and the truth is, we have very different aims. You want to find Patrick and save him, I want to find him and kill him. At some point, we're going to have to decide what to do about that. But for now, we need each other, wouldn't you say?"

  I nod. "Maybe there's nothing left to find. Maybe he's gone forever."

  "On the contrary," Nimrod says, looking down at the forest floor, "I think someone's found him. Someone's protecting him, perhaps even helping him to heal. Otherwise he'd be dead, and if he were dead, I'd know."

  "How?" I ask.

  "In here!" he says firmly, pointing at his heart. "I'd feel it. Even now, I can sense his life force. He's weak, but he's alive."

  "Who'd help him?" I ask. "Vincent's dead, the Lock's dead, everyone who might have helped Patrick is gone."

  Nimrod smiles. "There are more reasons to help someone than simply wanting to do good by them," he replies. "For example, what if someone wanted to keep him alive so they could torture him."

  "Who would do that?"

  "Patrick has a lot of enemies," he replies. "There are plenty of people who would like to take the opportunity to punish him, to cause him pain. I have to confess: I'm one of those people. If I get my hands on him, I'll put him through agony."

  "Who do you think found him?" I ask. "We've looked everywhere."

  Nimrod pauses. "There are rumors of a group who live on the edge of town. I haven't been here long, so I haven't had time to check it out, but if the rumors are correct, these are some... interesting people. Very shy people. They eschew contact with the world, and they prefer to keep to themselves. But if they happened to stumble across Patrick, they'd surely recognize him." He smiles. "What they'd do next is anybody's guess."