The Hollow Church

by Amy Cross

  "Are you okay?" I ask, turning to her. "You look a little puffy."

  "Yeah," she says, smiling awkwardly, "I accidentally ate a peanut last night, and my allergies kicked in. But that church -"

  "Is there anything you're not allergic to?" I ask, hoping to change the subject. Moments later, there's a noise over at the other end of the lab, and I turn to see Mark entering the room. It's been a couple of days since the events at the church, and we still haven't really talked about it properly. From the cautious look on his face, it's clear that he's decided that now would be the right moment, which I guess means that we need to have the inevitable, awkward conversation about what he saw.

  "Hey," he says cautiously.

  "Katie," I say, "can you go down to the basement and see if you can dig up some fresh lenses for the camera?"

  "We've got some new lenses in the -"

  "Can you go down to the basement," I say firmly, "and see if you can find some more?"

  Finally realizing that I want her to get the hell out of here, she nods before hurrying to the door. Once she's gone, I wait for Mark to say something, but he seems to be hanging back. I guess he thinks I should be the one to start the conversation. Still, I figure he's the one who came up here, so he should go first.

  "So you're back at work," he says eventually.

  I nod.

  "And Katie's still here."

  "I decided to keep her around," I reply, starting to put the slides back in their case. "She's useful for fetching and carrying stuff, and I've just about managed to train her not to ask dumb questions."

  He pauses. "You mind if I ask some dumb questions?"

  "Depends what they're about," I reply.

  He pauses again. "Back in the church -"

  "It's over," I say firmly. "There'll be no more blood farms or deaths. If people want to believe that some cult in New Jersey was responsible, that's fine by me. If they want to believe that the church simply fell into a sinkhole, that's also fine by me. I wasn't particularly looking forward to answering a load of questions anyway." I pause for a moment, and I can see that he still has so many things to ask me. "There'll be more... incidents," I say eventually. "The number of vampires will increase, and while most will want to stay in the shadows, it's possible that some will have other ideas."

  "It's still kind of hard to believe that any of this really happened," he says.

  "Have you told anyone?" I ask, walking over to the fridge and removing a set of test-tubes. The truth is, I'm still not sure whether it's safe to let Mark live. If I'm smart, I should kill him anyway, just as a precaution. On the other hand, there's a part of me that doesn't want to be quite so clinical. I guess it's my vampire side that thinks I should do whatever's necessary, and my human side that wants him to live. Or is it the other way around? These days, I'm not so sure I can find a precise dividing line between the two parts of my psyche. Instead, they seem to be merging, which is... confusing, to say the least.

  Either way, I came very close to making a huge mistake when I helped Rasmussen and the Strix to bring Gothos back. I was able to put things right, but I might not be so lucky next time. I need to be more careful.

  "Have I told anyone that I met a bunch of invisible vampires and watched a man come out of a giant black sphere and then a load of blood came flooding into a church?" He pauses, and a faint smile appears on his lips. "No, actually I decided I didn't much fancy being committed to a mental institution, even if maybe it'd do me good to get some rest. I mean, I guess there's still a chance that this whole thing is just in my head, right?" He comes over to join me at the fridge, and I can see that he's desperate for some peace of mind. "Can't you just tell me I imagined it all?" he asks.

  "You imagined it all," I reply, meeting his gaze. "None of it happened."

  He stares at me for a moment. "You're a very bad liar," he says eventually. "You should really work on that. You know, considering... whatever you are."

  I pause, feeling as if I need to tell him the truth. I need to say the word. "I'm a -" I start to say, but he quickly puts a finger against my lips, to stop me.

  "Another time," he says, before turning and heading to the door. As he's about to leave the room, he stops and looks back at me. "You saved my life twice in the past week," he continues. "I feel like I owe you."

  Once he's gone, I find it hard to focus on my work. In some weird way, I've got this sensation that feels like I've been kicked in the gut, mixed with a feeling of nervousness. It doesn't make sense, but I keep thinking about Mark, wondering what he really thinks about me, but finally I manage to put all these thoughts to the back of my mind once Katie gets back from the storage room. Later, as I'm heading back to my apartment, I realize that I want to tell Mark the truth, not only about who and what I am, but also about where I come from. Then again, if he knew what I did to Shelley, and Todd, and Donna, he'd probably think I'm a monster. It's tempting to think that I could make him understand why I did the things I did when I was younger, but I guess some leaps of faith are just too vast. If Mark knew the real Abby Hart, he'd be horrified. I guess I need to get better at keeping my mask in place.

  As soon as I step into my apartment, however, I realize that something's wrong. The air has been disturbed, as if someone has been here since I left. I move cautiously from room to room, worried that perhaps a stray Strix might have escaped from the collapsing church, but finally I reach my bedroom and see that the closet door has been left open. When I go and take a look, I see to my surprise that the Book of Gothos has been put back in its rightful place, and there's a note tucking out from the pages:

  You've earned this back. The Disgrace will be in touch.

  Taking a deep breath, I realize that I'm never going to be left alone. Because of my bloodline, vampires will always be drawn to seek me out, and humans will always cause trouble. More and more vampires are returning to this world, and eventually the two species are going to collide. Until then, I guess I just need to keep out of the way as much as possible, and make sure I'm ready.

  Epilogue

  Many years ago

  The light flares as Gothos tumbles to the ground. As he tries to get to his feet, his weakened body already starting to fail him, he turns and watches as the bridge fades away. In the last haze of light, there's a figure briefly silhouetted against the whiteness, but this quickly disappears.

  "No," he whispers, realizing that although he managed to briefly make an escape from the heart of the war, he's now right back where he started. He stumbles forward, desperately reaching out and hoping in vain that he might find some way to re-open the bridge, but finally he drops to his knees as he realizes that there's no way out. Abigail Hart, Patrick's daughter, has prevented his escape, and now...

  Slowly, he turns to see the figure standing nearby.

  Covered in blood, breathless after fighting for so many years, Patrick stands silently in the center of the room. After a moment, he starts walking toward Gothos, who is powerless to resist as he's lifted up and carried back toward the door. Patrick knows what he has to do: he has to kill Gothos, and then he has to leave this place forever and go to a small human town known as Dedston, where he must wait until a child is born. That child will one day give birth to a daughter, and the daughter will be faced with the task of helping to lead the vampire race out of the darkness of war and into the light of a new future.

  Abby Hart will return in

  Vampire Asylum

  (Abby Hart book 2)

  Bonus

  Dark Voyage

  An extract from The Vampire's Grave

  Chapter One

  "Dear Lord," Saffron whispered, with his eyes closed and his hands clasped together. "I beseech you to watch over your children and deliver us from this tempest. Guide us safely to shore, Lord, that we might humbly carry out our work and..."

  He paused for a moment.

  "That we might humbly carry out our work," he continued hesitantly, "and that we might, um... That we might..."r />
  He paused again.

  "Oh, fuck it," he muttered, opening his eyes. "Fuck everything."

  Seconds later, the boat hit plowed head-on into another huge wave, pitching first one way and then the other. High up at the very top of the vessel, perched in a bare metal lookout tower, Saffron was sent slamming into the railings. The chain around his waist was pulled tight for a moment, before Saffron grabbed hold of the handrail and steadied himself. When it came to a choice between God or a sturdy railing, Saffron chose the railing every time.

  He looked up at the dark and stormy sky. The thick black clouds were so close, Saffron was convinced he could almost touch them if he reached up.

  It was getting late, well past midnight, and Saffron had definitely pulled the short straw again. Although the Demeter V was equipped with a couple of rudimentary radar systems, the boat was basically an old Soviet-era tug that had been dragged back into service and given little more than a quick spit and polish. Most of the crew felt that the damn thing was liable to break in two at any moment, and that was before they came upon the worst storm Saffron had ever encountered. The captain, a Swede by the name of Mathias Efferson, had decided that someone needed to keep watch from the lookout tower. It seemed like an archaic practice, but Saffron was just a lowly engineer and therefore couldn't really argue. Tonight, it was Saffron's turn to be up on lookout, so there he was, chained to the railings as he sat up high in the rain.

  Below him in the darkness, picked out by a few lights that still shone in the driving rain, the huge deck of the Demeter V was decorated with large shipping containers bound for port in Albania. In the distance, the stormy horizon betrayed the curve of the planet.

  "Shoulda stayed home," Saffron muttered, as the boat briefly tipped toward the starboard side before righting itself. Even the slightest of pitches down at deck-level resulted in the top of the boat swinging wildly through the rain, and Saffron couldn't help but grab the railing, just in case the chain should slip and send him plummeting down to the deck below. Railing before God, every time.

  After a moment, his radio crackled into life.

  "Bridge to Saffron," said a static-filled voice. "Checking in. All good up there? Copy."

  "All good," Saffron replied with a sigh, as rain ran down his face. "As good as it's gonna get, anyway. But did we slow down a while ago?"

  "We've got a problem with the breach pump," the voice said wearily. "I'm going down to check it in a minute, but we're probably gonna have to take a slower pace until we get to port. We might have to add a day and a half to the journey time."

  "Figures. Do we get paid more?"

  "You know the answer to that question."

  Saffron sighed.

  "Someone'll be up to relieve you at 6am," the voice added. "Try not to get washed overboard until then, okay?"

  "I'll try," Saffron said, giving the chain a quick yank just to make sure he was still firmly attached to the railing. "If I go down, though, you'll know soon enough. It'll mean the whole fucking boat's underwater."

  "Over," barked the voice, before the radio fell silent.

  "Over," Saffron muttered, setting the radio back in his pocket just as a huge wave rocked the boat. Instinctively, he reached out and grabbed the handrail, just as the force of the impact unseated him and sent him sprawling toward the edge of the steps. The chain rain taut for a moment, and Saffron was easily able to get himself back in position. "Nice try," he muttered darkly, looking up at the stormy sky.

  Glancing down at the port cargo deck, Saffron frowned as he noticed something moving between two of the shipping containers. Knowing that only a madman would venture up on deck in this kind of weather, he narrowed his eyes a little, hoping to see better. Sure enough, he realized there was definitely a dark silhouette moving across the deck, but the figure quickly disappeared behind one of the containers.

  "Hey!" Saffron called out, but he knew there was no way anyone would be able to hear him above the storm. He reached down for his radio, figuring he should probably check with the bridge, but finally he decided it was probably nothing. Considering how tired he was feeling, he couldn't discount the possibility that he was imagining things. Anyway, even if there was someone, he reckoned it wasn't any of his business. If Efferson or one of the others felt like going for a suicidal stroll across the deck in the middle of a force nine gale, that was their problem, not his.

  As the boat was rocked by yet another wave, Saffron looked up again at the stormy sky. There was no God up there, of that he was sure. There were just dark clouds, twisting and curling into one another as they sent down wave upon wave of torrential rain. At least the lightning seemed far away. Saffron wouldn't be surprised, though, if it came directly over the boat. The way this night was going, a lightning strike seemed just about par for the course. If he were a god-fearing man, he'd have asked the Lord for forgiveness for his many sins, but all he could do in the circumstances was hope for the best.

  "I'll be alright," he muttered, as the boat pitched again. "I don't need no stupid God to get me through a storm."

  Chapter Two

  "Jesus Christ, it's worse than I imagined"

  Ducking down as he entered the engine room, Efferson shone a torch through the darkness of the boat's innards. He'd never seen such a rundown vessel. There was rust everywhere, along with a disturbing stink of motor oil mixed with rat droppings. It was, by far, the most disgusting place Efferson had ever stood, and he would have been worried standing in this neglected old hulk in the safety of a harbor, let alone out at sea in force nine winds. Beneath his feet, the vessel's floor let out an ominous groan as the Demeter V was rocked by yet another wave. Efferson couldn't help but wonder if the whole damn vessel might break apart at any moment.

  "I know, I know," said Claremont, pushing past him. "You think it was my idea to come to sea in this shit-heap? You think I didn't tell 'em it was dangerous?"

  "Let me guess," Efferson said, holding onto the bulkhead as the boat was tossed yet again. "The guy who declared this thing to be seaworthy was some inexperienced little idiot who's never been to sea in his life?"

  "The guy's probably sitting in some office in Southampton as we speak," Claremont replied with a resigned sigh, "checking his watch and wondering why we're taking so long to get the cargo to Durres. He probably thinks we're slacking off on some beach somewhere, having a great time."

  "So what's the problem?" Efferson asked, shining the torch up at a series of compression tubes that ran across the low ceiling. Nearby, a set of pistons were making a painful-sounding grinding noise. Whatever was wrong with the boat, it sounded serious and it sounded chronic. "Sounds like the engine's giving up on us. Please tell me the engine isn't giving up on us."

  "The engine's giving up on us," Claremont said, grabbing a hammer from around his waist. "There's water in the uptake valve, probably 'cause there was no plate over the inlet. It's illegal to set sail without a plate in place, but of course the company doesn't give a damn about that, does it? All they care about is that we keep costs down. It's not gonna sink us, but it's gonna slow us down. That's why I wanted to get your ass in here. You've gotta see this fucking place. It's like something from the nineteenth fucking century. I know I've got a habit of performing miracles with the guts of these tubs, but there's nothing I can do down here except see if I can keep the damn thing going. If I can't find a way to flush the valve, we're gonna have to go down to doddering speed and hope we make it to port."

  As he finished speaking, there was a loud bang somewhere beneath their feet, as if the boat had hit something large and heavy. The sound of the impact reverberated through the metal bulkheads.

  "Probably the wreck of the last poor bastards who tried to get through this storm," Claremont said tensely, as he and Efferson exchanged worried glances.

  "You'll just have to do the best you can," Efferson replied, shining the torch across the room and shuddering as he saw the banks of archaic machinery. "Jesus, some of this equipment's old R
ussian stuff, isn't it?"

  "If only," Claremont said, having to raise his voice to be heard over a nearby steam piston that was starting to spin loudly. "It's Soviet, at best. Don't ask me where they found this shit-heap. Fucking pile of junk should be in a knacker's yard, not out here trying to carry a load of cargo across the Med, especially not with the forecasts we've been having lately. Only a crew of desperate idiots would ever have accepted such a job."

  "Jesus," Efferson replied with a wry smile, shining the torch over at the far corner of the engine room and pausing as he tried to work out what, exactly, he was looking at this time. "What the hell's that?" he asked.

  "Oh, that's the best part of the whole fucking thing," Claremont said, walking over to what appeared to be some kind of large black mold in the far corner. "Do you happen to know what this is?" he asked, turning back to Efferson. "Any ideas?"

  "Not a clue."

  "Me neither." Reaching out, he tapped his knuckles against the solid surface of the mold. "It's like some kind of dry oil. Damn stuff's just frozen to the bulkhead. I tried chipping some of it away, but whatever it is, it's stuck pretty damn fast." Leaning a little closer, he gave the mold a brief lick. "Tastes like cinnamon. What do you reckon that means?"

  "It means you're a disgusting old man," Efferson replied, stepping across the room and shining the torch directly at the mold. "Didn't customs have something to say about this when we left Southampton?" he asked as he ran his hand over the hard, smooth surface. "They're always panicking about foreign objects. I'd have thought they'd have a field day about something like this."

  "It wasn't there when we left Southampton," Claremont said dourly. "Whatever it is, it's grown during the voyage."

  "Seriously?"