Dark Season: The Complete Box Set (122 page)

Chapter One

Louisiana, Today.

"This doesn't make any sense," says Constance as we trudge through the undergrowth. It's late at night, and an overcast moon means we've got our night-sight goggles switched on. Ahead, there's nothing but the dark green haze of the swampy marshlands that surround us. We've been out here for hours and, unless we find Patrick or Abby soon, we're not going home tonight. Unfortunately, the tracker we placed on Patrick has gone dead, but the last time we located him he was in this area.

"He's a thousand-year-old vampire," I reply, checking the readout on my hand-held scanner. "How could anything he does possibly make sense to us?"

"I know," she says, "but I've studied him, Todd. I've read all the reports over and over again. He's never been to this part of the country before. He has no connections to Louisiana. I don't see why he'd come here, of all places."

Beneath my goggles and head-mask, I can't help but smile. Constance is a researcher first, and a librarian second. She's happy in a laboratory or a room full of books, and it's a sign of Benjamin's desperation that he's pressed her into service for this hunting trip. Even as we're knee-deep in thick, swampy weeds, Constance is trying to apply logic to the situation. We're hunting down a dying, ancient vampire - the last of his kind - and she thinks he'll be acting logically. It'd be funny, were it not for the fact that we're a team and I might have to rely on her to save my life if things go wrong.

"Something up ahead," she says, stopping in her tracks.

"Give me that," I say, grabbing her scanner. It takes me a couple of seconds to see what she's picked up. "It's a frog," I say.

"How can you tell that from the scanner?" she asks, staring down at the screen.

"I can't," I say, "but I can see the damn thing." Sure enough, my night-sight goggles are picking up a small, glowing spot that seems to be hopping past us. "Trust me," I continue, "if there's an actual person or a vampire up ahead, these scanners are going to light up like Christmas trees. Don't get too jumpy, okay?"

"Okay," she replies, but I can tell from the sound of her voice that she's on edge. As we keep walking slowly through the darkness, she seems nervous and twitchy. "It's just... I've studied him," she continues, "and I've seen him when we had him at the facility, but I've never encountered him in the wild, so to speak. I don't know what he's like, or how he acts. I mean, I've read about him, but I don't
know
."

"There's only one rule," I say, checking my scanner for the thousandth time. "Never, ever turn your back on him. If you do that, you're dead. You need to respect him and stay calm. To be honest, though, there's not a lot you can do to protect yourself. If he wants you dead, you'll be dead. The only reason it's safe for us to be hunting him like this is that he's dying. Now that he's sick and weak, we can restrain him fairly effectively, but it's still not going to be easy. He's -" I pause for a moment, seeing a strange set of readings on the screen.

"What is it?" Constance asks.

"Nothing," I reply, watching as the readings get stronger. "Something. Maybe. Up ahead, about fifty clicks. There's definitely something, but it's weak. Far too weak to be Patrick, even in his current state."

"What do we do?" she says.

"We go take a look," I tell her, "and we stay calm. Remember, I've helped capture him before. If we get confirmation that it's him, we hang back and call for back-up. It's going to be okay. There's no reason to be scared."

"And what if he's
her
?" she asks. "What if it's Abigail?"

"Then we talk to her," I reply. "We tell her we only want to help." The truth, though, isn't quite that simple. I can't admit it to Constance, because I don't know whether I can trust her, but I've decided I'm not going to deliver Abby back to Benjamin. Patrick, yes, but not Abby. She's my niece, and I no longer trust Benjamin. He'd confine Abby and study her, maybe even hurt her; he'd justify his actions and say it's all for her own good, but at heart he's a scientist and he wants to dig through Abby's body and find out how she works. I don't care what he does to Patrick, but he's not going to get his hands on Abby. I'm going to break rank. If that means incapacitating or even killing Constance, then I'm willing to do whatever it takes. Over the years, the Watchers have taught me to be ruthless.

"Anything?" she asks, looking over at my scanner.

"The same," I reply as we get closer to the source of the readings. "What about you?"

"I'm picking up increased infra-red activity," she says. "Something at the far end of the spectrum, but I'm not sure what. The numbers keep changing every second."

"It might be him," I say, feeling my chest start to tighten in anticipation. "Up ahead, slightly to the left in about fifteen clicks. If it's not him, it's definitely something strange." I turn to her. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I think it might be better if you keep behind me. I've got experience with things like this, and you've just read about them. There's a difference."

I stay slightly ahead of her as we approach a clearing in the swamp. It's still too dark to see without the night-sight vision, but I can see something nearby. It's definitely a human-shaped figure, so it could be Patrick, but I need to get a proper view. The scanners are giving confusing, conflicting results. These swampy areas aren't exactly hospitable, but it's not impossible that there could be random humans wandering around, not to mention the possibility of werewolves or other creatures. There's rumored to be a clan of werewolves living about twenty miles to the north, and they're the last people I want to run into out here.

"Do you see anything?" Constance whispers.

"Over there," I say, pointing toward the figure who's standing roughly ten meters from us. The night-sight goggles aren't very clear, so it's hard to get visual confirmation.

"What's that thing on the ground?" Constance asks.

I look down at the figure's feet, and see that he's standing over something. It takes me a moment to realize that it's a person, but I can't tell from here whether they're dead or alive.

"We need to call back-up," Constance says.

"Do it," I reply, inching closer to get a better look at the figure ahead of us. Finally I manage to get a proper view of his face, and with a heavy heart I see that it's definitely Patrick. "It's him," I whisper. "Get the others here now! Let the -" Suddenly Patrick turns and looks straight at me, his dark eyes almost piercing straight through my soul. It's a powerful moment of connection, unlike anything I've ever felt before; it's almost as if he's reaching inside my head. After a moment, I realize I want to look away but something's stopping me. I can feel the adrenalin coursing through my body.

"I can't get a signal," Constance says after a moment, with a hint of panic in her voice. "I'll go back and try again."

"No!" I say, turning to her and grabbing her arm. "We don't split up. If we do that, he can pick us off easily."

"You want to just stand here?" she asks.

I look back at Patrick; he's still staring back at me, as if he's waiting for something. Looking down at his feet again, I try to make out the figure on the ground. It's definitely a person, but with the night-sight goggles I can't make out anything more than the general shape; I can't even tell if it's male or female.

"Is it her?" Constance asks. "The body on the ground. Is it Abigail?"

"I don't think so," I reply. "It looks too bulky, more like an adult."

"I'm not picking up any life signs," she continues. "Not from the body, anyway. Just the readings from Patrick."

"Keep trying to call for back-up," I say. "If we don't check in within a couple of hours, they'll send someone to find us anyway. Just hang on and this'll all be okay. Don't make any sudden movements, and we'll wait this out until help arrives." I continue to stare at Patrick, trying to work out what he wants. He could easily run and get away from us, even in his damaged state, but he seems to be willingly facing us like this. It's almost as if he's challenging us to approach him. The truth is: if back-up doesn't arrive soon, I'm going to try to bring him down myself. It's a long-shot, but given how close to death he must be by now, I reckon I've got a chance. I'm going to recapture him and make him show me where Abby has gone, or I'll die trying.

Chapter Two

Dedston - Six years ago.

"Unacceptable," my college tutor says, striking out a line from my essay. He reads a little more. "Totally unacceptable," he adds, striking out another section. He reads on for a moment, before putting the essay down and looking at me. "Mr. Hart, this is the worst essay I've ever read. It's un-sourced, it's vague and the few worthy points are completely unattributed and come across as being almost random." He sighs. "I don't mean to sound harsh, but based on this essay, I can't help but conclude that you lack the focus to complete your studies."

Staring back at him, I try to work out what to say. I want to tell him that I'll do better, and that I'll improve next semester, and that I'll ignore all the distractions and improve my work ethic; unfortunately, I already told him all those things last semester and it didn't work out too well. My studies have been in a permanent nosedive for the past year, and it's getting to the point where I should just pack it in and go find a proper job. I feel like everything I'm studying is just a rehash of things other people have done anyway.

"Do you have anything to say?" my tutor continues. "I'm going to be honest with you, Mr. Hart. I've felt this way about you for quite some time. I was quite prepared to let you just drift along, in the hope that you might improve at some point, but two things have occurred in the past week that make me see that it's in neither of our best interests to continue this charade. The first thing, obviously, is this essay." He slides the pieces of paper across his desk, as if it's a piece of garbage that offends him. "Fortunately," he continues, "something rather miraculous has happened, something that makes me more certain than ever that it's time for us to part ways."

I wait for him to tell me to get out of his office. This is humiliating. I just want to leave.

"Are you aware of the Seargram Program?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"The Seargram Program is a professional sponsorship offered by one of our biggest donors," he explains. "Every year, one student is selected to take part, based on academic performance and an assessment of the student's personal qualities. The chosen student is invited to go and visit the Seargram Institute and take part in a one month research apprenticeship." He sighs. "This year, as usual, I put forward the names of three of our best students. You can imagine my surprise when I was informed that they wanted you instead."

"Me?" I say, shocked.

"You," he says, barely able to hide the disdain in his voice. He's never liked me, and I can tell it's killing him to have to give me this 'good' news. "Mr. Hart, you are without doubt the worst student I've ever had the misfortune to teach. Nevertheless, the fellows at the Seargram Program are quite adamant that
you
are to receive this year's scholarship. They haven't been able to satisfactorily explain their decision, but one of the unfortunate realities of modern academia is the need to please one's benefactors, and therefore -" He grabs a large envelope and passes it to me. "The details are in here. I hope you understand how lucky you are."

Holding the envelope, I weigh up my options for a moment. "What if I don't want to go?" I ask. "I mean, it seems kind of pointless..."

"If you refuse the scholarship, I shall perhaps be able to persuade them to award it to a more worthy candidate."

I shrug, putting the envelope back on his desk and sliding it across to him. "Maybe you should do that..." I say.

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," he replies, before sliding the envelope back to me. "However, I was told to tell you that there's something in that envelope that will change your mind and persuade you to accept the scholarship. I was also forbidden from looking in there myself, so I'm afraid you'll have to make the determination yourself."

Picking the envelope up, I turn it over and unseal it, pulling out a photo. My heart almost skips a beat when I see the face in the image: it's a grainy photo, taken at night with some kind of filter in place to enhance the image, and the poor resolution suggests it's a detail from a picture that was taken from a long way away, but there's no mistaking the person I'm looking at. His face has been burned into my memory since I was a kid, since the days I used to see him outside my sister's bedroom window. Patrick.

"What
is
that?" my tutor asks, leaning across the table and peering at the photo.

"Nothing," I say, turning it so he can't see the picture. I don't understand who sent me this image, or why, but I sure don't want to start flashing it around for everyone to see.

"Will you be taking the scholarship?" he asks.

I take a deep breath. My mind's racing, and I can barely make sense of everything. "Yes," I say after a moment. "I will." I slide the photo back into the envelope. Whoever sent this to me, it's clearly intended as some kind of message. I guess I have to at least find out what they want with me.

"Make sure you don't make a hash of it," my tutor says wearily. "You've been given an opportunity that others would kill for."

Standing up, I head to the door, before pausing and turning back to him. "This Seargram Institute," I say, "what exactly do they do?"

"They produce semi-conductor materials for the military," he replies, "although they also have a side-line in more fanciful research. Crypto-something, they call it. I really think you should know things like this by now, Mr. Hart. After all, you do claim to have an interest in engineering."

On the way home, I find myself constantly looking over my shoulder to see if I'm being followed. Something feels decidedly 'off' about everything that's happening today. After all this time, why would someone send me a photo of Patrick? Come to think of it,
how
would someone send such a thing to me? Patrick's not exactly the kind of person who'd stop and pose, so I'm kind of keen to find out who would be able to get close enough to capture his image. It's almost like seeing a photo of the Yeti, or a UFO. It seems impossible that the image itself could exist.

The truth is, I've spent the past few years forcing myself to forget all about Patrick. When Sophie died, I knew - even though I was so young - that the official police story had to be wrong. There's no way she just happened to be killed by a random murderer. As I reached my early teens, I began to get angrier and angrier; I spent all my waking hours trying to uncover the truth. I even ventured back down to the tunnels where I'd met Patrick before, but there was no sign of him. What I did find, however, was blood. Dried on the floor, there was a red patch that I couldn't help thinking must have marked the spot where Sophie died. I've never had any proof, but I've long suspected that it was Patrick who killed her. I wanted to find him, to try to punish him even though I know he'd probably have killed me too. Eventually I decided the anger was consuming me, so I forced myself to accept the situation. I moved on, started college and focused on my Engineering course. And now, just when I thought the past was buried, someone is clearly seeking to bring it all back into the light.

"You're back early," my mother mutters as I walk back into the house. She's carrying a tub of ice cream from the kitchen to the sofa.

"Yeah," I say, watching her as she sits down. "Actually, I got some news. I've been given a scholarship."

"Huh," she replies, barely even looking up from the TV, where some quiz show is running. "How much?"

I stare at her. "What do you mean?"

"A scholarship's money, right?" she says. "So how much are they giving you?"

"It's not that kind of scholarship," I reply.

"Huh."

"I'm going to work for Seargram for a while," I continue, knowing full well that she doesn't really care and that the name means nothing to her. She just stares at the TV screen all day; she was like this when I was younger, but she got worse after Sophie died. I've agonized over ways to get her up and about, but she seems content to waste her days like this. "It means I have to go away for a while," I continue. "Maybe a month or so. Will you be okay?"

She stares at the screen. "Who's gonna look after me?" she asks after a moment.

"You'll look after yourself," I tell her, figuring that maybe this will be a good thing. Maybe it'll spur her into action and force her to take control of her life.

"Whatever," she replies.

I watch her for a moment. If I go away, she'll be left here alone, and I'm not sure she's capable of living like that. She spends all day watching quiz shows, sometimes napping for a while, and barely ever leaving the house. In fact, I don't think she's been outside the front door since Sophie's funeral. If I could think of some way to help her, I'd do it without hesitation, but I figure she's just going to have to learn to cope on her own for a while. I guess this is tough love.

"Have you ever seen this guy?" I ask, opening the envelope and taking out the photo of Patrick. I hold it up, and she glances over. I don't know why I'm even asking, but I feel like maybe it's worth a shot.

"No," she says, looking back at the TV.

I slip the photo back into the envelope. It's crazy to think of all these things happening without my mother having ever noticed. She's just floating along in her own little bubble, oblivious to the real world. "I'm going to go and pack," I tell her. "I have to be in Colorado on Monday for my..." I pause, realizing she's not listening. "I'll go to the store later," I continue. "I'll stock up on food for you. You'll be okay."

She sniffs.

"Sophie was killed by a vampire," I say suddenly. "She fell in love with him, she had a child with him, and then he took the child before killing her. Now I'm going to go and meet some people who seem to know where the vampire has gone." I take a deep breath, wondering whether she listened to any of that.

Silence.

"Can you get that?" my mother says suddenly, pointing to the TV screen. An advert for chocolate ice cream is playing.

"Sure," I say, sighing. She clearly isn't listening to me. "No problem."

Turning and going to my room, I pull a suitcase out of the closet and set it on my bed. As I turn to grab some shirts from the drawer, however, I realize that what I'm doing is crazy. All this stuff about Patrick is in the past. Am I really going to go all the way to Colorado just to re-open old wounds? In the process, I'd be abandoning my mother, and I have genuine concerns about whether she'll be able to manage. I should be focusing on the future, not chasing the past. Still, that photo must mean something. If there's even a chance that I can learn more about Sophie's death, I have to go and at least see what's going on. Plus, there's this feeling I've had ever since the funeral. Somehow, I feel as if I know deep in my heart that one day I'm going to see Sophie again. I have no idea where, or when, or how, but I know it's going to happen. I grab some shirts and put them in the suitcase. I can't let this opportunity go. I owe it to Sophie to go and learn the truth.

As I finish packing, I find the old notebook that Sophie gave me years ago. She wrote 'Be Brave' on the cover. I never really understood what she meant at the time, but now I can't help wondering if somehow she knew I'd face a difficult choice one day. Smiling, I set the notebook aside before zipping my back closed.