Dark Season: The Complete Box Set (93 page)

The Book of Gothos

1886.

Evangeline LaCroix leads a disliked family member over to a bookshelf in the LaCroix family home in Oxfordshire.

"This book has been in my husband's family for many years," Evangeline says, heavily pregnant as she slides the ancient book off a shelf. She is due to give birth any day now, but her husband Edward has brought visitors to the house and Evangeline - as a good wife - must play the host until she goes into labor She has undergone a difficult pregnancy so far, and she feels weak, but she has a duty to entertain her husband's guests, and she is determined not to let him down. "It's strange," she says, opening the book and looking through its pages, "but I have never been able to decipher the words."

Her cousin leans in to take a look. "How old is it?"

"Ancient," Evangeline says. "Even Edward is not entirely sure how it came to be in his family's possession. It just seems to have arrived somehow, passed down through the generations even though nobody in the family has the slightest clue what it says." She opens the book and shows her cousin the text on the pages. "We've had some of the finest literary scholars take a look, and none of them have any idea what the book is about."

"What a wonderful mystery," the cousin says, her voice filled with wonder.

"Quite," says Evangeline. "I have to say, I'm of two minds regarding the book. On the one hand, it is a marvelous heirloom. On the other hand, I sometimes feel as if..." She pauses. "I'm sorry, ignore me. I have a tendency to become quite emotional at times."

"Go on," the cousin says. "What troubles you?"

Evangeline takes a deep breath. "Sometimes I feel that the book is almost alive. As if it watches me from the shelf." She smiles. "What silly notions we have sometimes."

"We are women," says her sister-in-law. "It's in our nature to be a little foolish. But it is all in good humor."

"Perhaps," Evangeline says, unable to take her eyes from the book, "but I have a very firm belief that in some way, this book shall outlast us all and play some role in the world. Look here." She shows her cousin the outline of some kind of dark stain on the book's cover. "I have been trying to determine the nature of this stain," she says. "There are several similar marks on the internal pages. I have come to the conclusion that the book has at some point been soaked in blood. And yet the stains seem different at different places, as if the book has been soaked several times, in the blood of many people."

"Stop it," her cousin says, laughing, "you'll have me up all night through fear."

"I'm sorry," Evangeline says. "I can't talk to Edward about it. He's been very closed to any talk of the supernatural since... Well, since I became pregnant."

"Curious," her cousin says, enthralled by the book. "It looks very old and important. You must have it appraised. It might be worth something."

Evangeline smiles. Her cousin always thinks of money first, never giving thought to other types of value. "The book's power has nothing to do with earthly qualities, I fear. The book seems safe on this shelf. Perhaps it is content to sit and observe us. And besides, we have no need of the money," Evangeline says, smiling.

"Not even to rebuild Gabriel Hall?" her cousin asks.

Evangeline closes the book and puts it back on the shelf. "We shall not be rebuilding Gabriel Hall," she says, all humor gone from her face. "That place shall remain burned for all of eternity."

Her cousin smiles, amused at having apparently caused some distress. "I must say," she continues, "both you and Edward seem to become rather unsettled whenever Gabriel Hall is mentioned in conversation." She pauses. "You know, some of us were talking, and we don't entirely accept the story about what happened. Did the whole place really burn down thanks to the misuse of a single candle?"

"That is what we said, is it not?" Evangeline replies, feeling extremely uneasy at the mere mention of that dark night at Gabriel Hall. The night when Patrick came and burnt the place down; the night when strange creatures came out to play...

"If I were you," says her cousin, "I would rebuild the place. With a few minor modifications, of course."

Evangeline shakes her head. "We shall not be doing that."

"Then sell the land," her cousin continues, insisting for some reason on pressing the subject. "At least gain some value from the place."

"We cannot," Evangeline says. She and Edward decided long ago that they would not allow some other poor soul to purchase that land and perhaps fall victim to the dark forces that seem to exist there. The land will simply sit barren, unused by anyone. "We shall keep the land," she says, "and that is that."

"A curious decision," her cousin says.

"Will you please leave the subject alone?" Evangeline says, trying not to raise her voice.

"You seem upset," her cousin remarks.

"I'm sure that's not so," Evangeline says, sighing. "It's simply a -" She clutches her belly. "I think..." She pauses. "I think the child is coming." She turns to walk away, but her strength fades and she collapses to the floor. Her cousin forgets all about the old book as she calls for help. Already there is blood coming from Evangeline's body, and although the child will be born healthy, Evangeline herself will not survive. Even now, as a doctor is called, Evangeline screams as the child begins to force its way out. A thin trail of blood seeps from her body and trickles across the floor, almost as if it is drawn to the book.

Sophie

Today.

Patrick leads us along the tunnel. I have no idea where we're going, but he seems determined for us to follow him and, right now, I don't see any better options. I could turn and run, of course, but then I'd just be back where I started, lost in a maze of tunnels while Patrick tracks me down, so I figure my best chance right now is to follow Patrick and to look for another chance to get away.

In my arms, Abigail has stopped crying. It's hard not to wonder whether she's somehow comforted by Patrick's presence. After all, it was Patrick who took her away from me after she was born, so perhaps she bonded with him. While she doesn't seem to recognize me as her mother, perhaps she recognizes him as her father; perhaps it's too late to save her, and she's already drawn to him. If that's the case, maybe I should just let him take her. If she's strong and smart, she can learn to think for herself. Eventually, one day, she'll want to know about her mother, and she'll track me down, but by then she'll have been warped and twisted by Patrick. I can't let that happen to her.

We reach a hole in the tunnel wall, and Patrick leads us into a rougher tunnel that seems to have been hewn from the rocks. It's much darker in here, but I figure I still have to follow Patrick. At some point, an opportunity for escape
has
to present itself, but for now I just have to remain alert and wait for a chance.

After what seems like an eternity, we emerge in a small stone chamber. Patrick leads us through into a huge room, and I stop, shocked by what I see. This room is like a ballroom in some stately home. The walls are covered in huge paintings, and there's antique furniture all around. Above, there's a huge chandelier. It's like being back in nineteenth century France, yet this whole place seems to be underground. Glancing to the side, I see piles of skulls and other bones piled up. They look old, as if they've been here for centuries. I had no idea this place even existed.

"Where are we?" I ask. I don't really expect Patrick to answer. After all, he's never said a word to me, so I don't see why he'd start now. For a moment, stepping out into the middle of this large room, I forget that I'm supposed to be trying to escape. The whole place just seems so unbelievably opulent and strange. Is this where Patrick lives? I always assumed that when the little house he lived in with Vincent was destroyed, he was left with nowhere.

"Don't look," I say as I see that Abigail is glancing over at the skulls. I turn her away. How much death and destruction can one child see before it starts to affect her?

Looking across the room, I see a large set of double doors in the distance. My first instinct is to run, but I'm pretty sure Patrick's got all the exits covered. The doors are probably locked and, even if they aren't, I doubt there's anywhere to go. Also, Patrick doesn't seem to be worried about me getting away, so I guess he doesn't think there's any danger that I'll be able to make a run for it. Still, it's a sign of a possible escape route. I just have to be smart here, and I have to plan ahead. There's a chance to get away, so I need to work out what to do. The urge to just rush out is strong, but I need to wait and bide my time. I might only get one more chance at this...

"Where are we?" I ask, my voice sounding small and echoey in such a big space.

Patrick ignores me. He seems more interested in the contents of a desk on the far side of the room. As I walk carefully toward him, something falls from the ceiling and lands on Abigail. It takes me a moment to realize that it's a small spider. I brush it away, but moments later two more fall down. After I also brush those away, I look up at the chandelier above me and see that there are dozens of spiders crawling all over it. I quickly step out of the way, preferring not to have spiders come raining down on my head.

"What happened to Nimrod?" I ask as I approach Patrick.

He pauses, turning to me. I've got his attention again. That's good; I need to see if I can get some information from him, although with Patrick any conversation can be a little tricky.

"Did you have to kill him?" I say. "He wasn't that bad. He was just messed up. He was just trying to help me."

Patrick looks back down at the book on the desk. I approach him and see that the book looks ancient, with old-fashioned text that I can't read. Whatever this book is, it seems to be completely consuming Patrick, and I can't help but notice that he seems to be obsessing over the last page.

"Is this the prophecy?" I ask. He doesn't reply, but I look at the book and it kind of makes sense. If the book contains the prophecy, then Patrick's studying the final page because he wants to change something. I look into his face and, for the first time in a while, I'm suddenly not scared of him. Patrick's always been difficult to be around, but it occurs to me now that perhaps I allowed myself to get too scared. Maybe I demonized him and started to see him as a monster when, in reality, he's far more complicated. He wants something, and he thinks he knows how to get it, but his plans aren't working properly and he doesn't know how to change them.

"Here," I say, holding Abigail out to him. It's a huge leap of faith, but I've got a feeling that maybe I can show Patrick that I trust him. This doesn't have to be about him against me; we can work together. "Take her," I say, seeing that he's a little hesitant. "She's your daughter. She won't bite."

Slowly, he reaches out and takes her in his arms. He seems suspicious, and he doesn't exactly come across as a comfortable parent. Nevertheless, Abigail seems content to be in his arms; she looks up at him with an expression that looks almost like awe.

"We don't have to fight over her," I say. "Do you remember when we were on the same side?" I stare into his eyes, but he's just looking down at Abigail. "Do you remember when you saved me from Dexter, and when you saved me from the old woman, and Martin Keller, and all that stuff? Before everything went wrong?" I reach out and touch his arm. "We can get it all back on track," I continue. "We can find a way around our problems, and we can make it work." It feels insane that I'm saying this to him, but I kind of feel like it's the only way. Running is no solution, so maybe I have to accept him and try to find some common ground. "You need me," I say. "Think about raising Abigail yourself. You need me to help you. And I will. We can do this together."

I try to work out what he's thinking. Is this working? Damn it, I'm starting to believe what I'm saying, so maybe he is too. I know Patrick's done some terrible things, but I feel like he's done them for genuine reasons. He's not evil. He just gets things wrong. He uses violence to get things when he should be calmer.

Slowly, I lean up and kiss him on the cheek. It's been so long since I kissed him, so long since I was this close to him, and there's a part of me that truly wants to stay. "I've got a plan," I say softly. "I think I know a way we can beat this stupid prophecy." I pause. "You're going to have to let me become a vampire, like you."

The Book of Gothos

1925.

"Joe!" shouts a man's voice in the distance. "Joe!"

"Down here!" Joe calls out, his voice rising to be heard above the din of the New York streets. Standing down in an alley behind one of the city's most luxurious hotels, Joe Hart is rifling through the bins, hoping to find some food. It's been a hard winter and money's tight. A little light scavenging from the bins of the city's more respectable establishments has become a good way to get something to eat. As Joe sees it: the cast-offs from a big fancy hotel are probably better than the top-dollar items in some of the downtown diners.

"What are you doing?" his friend Buck says, hurrying over to join him. "If they catch you here, they'll shoot you."

"Then they'd better not catch me, had they?" Joe says, suddenly finding something unusual in one of the bins. He pulls it out and finds that it's a large, old book. "What the hell's this doing in here?" he asks as he inspects its tattered cover.

"Leave it," Buck says. "We're not so desperate that we have to eat books." He pauses. "Yet."

"I'll sell it," Joe says. "It's an antique."

"An antique?" Buck asks, not really believing that Joe could be so stupid. "Is that why someone decided to toss it out in the dumpster? Because it's a fucking priceless antique?" He tries to grab the book, but Joe keeps hold of it.

"Why do you care?" Joe asks. "If I want to hang onto it, what's the problem?"

Buck grabs the book and opens it.

"Careful," Joe says. "It's old."

"What the point of a book if you can't fucking open it?" Buck says, roughly flicking through the pages. "What's this, Russian?"

"It's old," Joe says again. "It's probably some language that no-one speaks any more."

"Great," Buck says, closing the book. "I guess that makes it even more useful." He stares at the cover. "I think this is blood."

Joe takes the book back and looks at the large stains all over the cover and spine. "Maybe," he says.

"Leave it," Buck says. "It's creepy as hell. Nobody wants it. There's a reason someone shoved it in the trash, and I don't want to find out what that reason is."

"I'll sell it," Joe says. "Just don't come to me asking for a cut of the profit when I get a handful of cash, okay?"

They walk away together, heading back to the main street. A few days later, Joe manages to sell the book to a bookseller in the Bronx, who pays enough money for Joe to be able to afford a ticket back to his family's farm in Kentucky. Feeling sorry for his friend, he gives Buck some cash as well.

The book, meanwhile, undergoes careful examination by the dealer. Unlike previous owners, the bookseller refuses to simply ignore the book's mysteries. He wants to get to the bottom of it, to understand it, to decipher its contents. He calls in some of the finest literary scholars in America, but they all find the book impossible to explain. This only deepens its mystery, of course, and eventually the dealer forgets about trying to understand the text and focuses, instead, on trying to extract clues from the book's pages and cover. He has the stains analyzed, and discovers that the book has been soaked in the blood of half a dozen different people over many centuries. Attempts to date the book are haphazard, but it's said to be from before the sixteenth century. There's no way to put a price on such an item, of course, but the dealer decides to keep it locked up anyway.

Many years later, on a rainy afternoon in 1987, the bell on the door rings and a man enters the shop. He looks fairly respectable, wearing a suit and tie, and with a briefcase in one hand. He approaches the bookseller's desk. By this point in time, the bookseller is an old man, spending his days in the shop in the belief that by 'keeping busy' he will somehow be able to avoid death.

"Can I help you?" the bookseller asks, looking up from his work.

"I'm here about a book," says the customer. "My name is Charles Nimrod."