Dark Season: The Complete Box Set (96 page)

"And it will be your fault," he said. "Something you do will make him so angry, he will kill you."

At the time, it seemed impossible that I would ever do anything so awful, but now, with Abigail lost to Nimrod's schemes, and with no way to find her, I start to understand. If it wasn't for me, Nimrod wouldn't have been able to do this. If I hadn't believed that the child was Abigail, Patrick wouldn't have assumed it was true. It's my fault that Abigail has been lost.

I hear something moving behind me.

Turning slowly, I find that Patrick is walking closer and closer.

"You can't..." I start to say, but the words won't come out of my mouth. "You can't..." I move away from him, but he keeps coming. "I'm sorry!" I shout at him. "I thought it was her!" Tears are streaming from my eyes. "I really really really thought it was her!"

He just keeps walking toward me, with a look of pure hatred in his eyes.

"It's not just my fault," I say, backing away from him as I feel more spiders crunch under my feet. "It's as much your fault as it's mine. You're the one who killed Nimrod. If you'd been smarter, if you'd kept him alive, we could still have found her. We still can. We just have to work together!"

No response. He just keeps coming.

"This doesn't have to be the end!" I shout at him. "We can still find Abigail. She might be safe. We might be able to get her back, and she'll need us both. Don't give up!"

I suddenly find that I'm backed up against the wall. I see the door at the far end of the room, but I have no idea if I could get to it in time.

"You're angry," I say through the tears as Patrick gets closer and closer. "Don't make decisions when you're angry. Don't just use violence every time."

He keeps coming.

I have to make a decision.

I run.

I duck past him and run across the chamber. Everything seems to be going in slow motion, but finally I get to the other side of the room. I grab the door and to my surprise it comes open. I glance back and see Patrick running after me, and there's a look of pure anger in his eyes. I slip through the door and pull it shut, and then I keep on running.

I find myself in a long tunnel. Making my way up a set of stone steps, to my surprise I find myself finally back in the cave where Patrick and Vincent's house used to stand. I keep running, heading toward the exit. I know Patrick must be right behind me, and I'm certain he can outrun me, but I have to keep going. I have to find a way out. I have to -

Suddenly I spot something off to one side. It takes me a moment to realize that it's Vincent. He's staring at me with a look of great sadness in his eyes. I stop, shocked to see him. For a moment, I try to work out how he could be here, but then I realize he's a ghost.

There's a noise behind me.

A roar.

I turn and see that it's Patrick.

"You're angry!" I shout. "Don't do this!"

With anger in his eyes, he throws himself at me, lashing out. It's like being attacked by a wild animal. He crunches into me, side-swiping me, hurting me, and then falling to the ground, leaving me standing. He gets to his feet and turns back to me. The anger is still in his eyes but then, quite suddenly, something changes. All the anger seems to fade away and there's a look of horror.

I'm in pain.

Pain in my belly.

I look down and see that there's blood everywhere, pouring down my legs and onto the ground. It takes me a moment to realize that Patrick has ripped my body open.

All I can hear is my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

I reach down to try to stop the blood from pouring from the huge hole in my belly, but it's no use. There's blood everywhere, and my intestines are falling out, flopping onto the floor.

I start to collapse, but Patrick catches me. He lowers me to the ground. I look up into his eyes and see an expression of anguish. It's as if the anger has gone now and he's presented with the true horror of what he's done to me.

I reach up and try to push him away, but I've barely got the strength to keep my eyes open. All I can think about is Abigail. I don't know where she is, but I know she's in danger. If I'm gone, Patrick's the only person left who can save her, but she needs more. She needs someone who can actually look after her.

"Find her," I whisper, as my mouth fills with blood.

Everything's starting to go dark now. I feel weak. I try to look down, to see my body, but I can't move my head at all. My heartbeat is still pounding in my ears as I slowly close my eyes. I can feel Patrick's arms holding me. The heartbeat keeps going in the dark, pounding away, and I try to imagine what it would have been like if I'd found the real Abigail, if Patrick and I had somehow managed to make things work.

My heartbeat suddenly stops.

All that's left is darkness, and then even that slips away to nothing.

Epilogue

One Day Ago. New York.

It's midnight. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails. A plane passes overhead. The lights of Manhattan shine in the distance.

The old woman is down by the banks of the Hudson, scavenging for anything she might be able to sell. She's looking for metal, mainly; old bits of scrap that merchants will buy. She'll only make a few dollars for anything she finds, but a few dollars are all she needs for a cup of coffee and a slice of pizza.

Tonight, though, she's having no luck. The banks of the river are muddy and sludgy, and she's been out here for hours without finding anything. If her luck doesn't turn, she'll have nothing to sell and that means she'll have nothing to eat the next day. She's getting desperate, but there are still a few hours until dawn. There's still a chance.

After a while, she spots something down by the water's edge. A basket has washed up. It's not particularly promising, but she figures it might be worth a look so she heads over. Only when she gets closer does she realize that there's a sound coming from the basket. The old woman slows down, worried that there might be a wild animal in there, a raccoon or something else that could bite her.

And then a baby starts to cry.

The old woman stands absolutely still, frozen in the moonlight. She has no idea what to do. She can't sell a baby, so her first instinct is to just leave it alone. Why cause herself trouble? There'll be questions. She's already been harassed by the cops more times than she cares to remember, so why endure more of the same? They'll accuse her of kidnapping the child, or they'll claim she was going to try to sell it. She turns to walk away. This isn't her problem.

Once the old woman has left, Abigail continues to cry for a few minutes before stopping. Stranded on the muddy, dirty banks of the river, the baby looks up at the night sky and sees the moon. She's calmed for a moment, feeling some kind of connection. She's spent so long being cared for by strange creatures, she finds the sudden peace and quiet strangely relaxing. All alone, and with no idea of the fate awaiting her, she happily stares up at the sky.

This is how the Book of Gothos ends. But this page was ripped from the book long ago, before Patrick ever got hold of it. Beyond this point, there is no more prophecy. As Gothos himself noted, this is how the Age of Chaos begins.

Dark Season III

Book 1

Abigail

Prologue

She's gone.

I start to collapse, but Patrick catches me. He lowers me to the ground. I look up into his eyes and see an expression of anguish. It's as if the anger has gone now and he's presented with the true horror of what he's done to me.

The snow is several feet deep, but I have to keep moving. I have to get as far away from Dedston as possible, to get away from everything I've done. Even up here in the mountains, I won't be safe from my own thoughts, but at least I can try to get away from the world. The image of Sophie's dead body haunts me, although her soul itself is long gone.

I reach up, putting my hand on the side of his face. I try to speak, to say "Find her" and to let him know that she must be out there somewhere, to make sure he won't give up on Abigail, but no words come my mouth, only blood.

I knew this day would come. I fought against it; I did everything I could to keep from fulfilling the prophecy, and for a time I thought I had a chance. I should have known better. When a prophecy is recorded in blood and handed down by generation after generation, it becomes too strong for anyone to break. I've done what I was always going to do, and the only thing left for me now is to wait sixteen years until Abigail is ready to take my place.

Everything's starting to go black now. I feel weak. I try to look down, to see my body, but I can't move my head at all. My heartbeat is still pounding in my ears as I slowly close my eyes. I can feel Patrick's arms holding me. The heartbeat keeps going in the dark, pounding away with a frantic rhythm, and I try to imagine what it would have been like if I'd found the real Abigail, if Patrick and I had somehow managed to make things work.

I lost track long ago of how many people I have killed in my lifetime. Thousands and thousands, certainly. Death is inevitable for all creatures, even those of us who claim to be immortal. Nothing can truly live forever. I know this now, as the Age of Chaos draws close around me.

My heartbeat suddenly stops.

What if I had not killed her? What if I had stood firm and denied fate its prize? Would everything be okay now? Or would the forces of darkness have broken through? The spiders were already coming, and I have no doubt that they were just harbingers for a greater threat. Even now, I feel something approaching; something waking in the shadows. It feels almost as if... But that's not possible. They're dead, all of them. There is nothing in the world that could ever bring them back. They have been sealed into a death so deep, they can never return to the land of the living.

All that's left is darkness, and then even that slips away to nothing.

Stopping in the snow, I look down at my fists. I've kept them tightly closed ever since I left Dedston, but the time has come to open them. Slowly, I extend my fingers and see that it's even worse than I'd feared. There's dried blood all over my hands, covering the skin completely.

Her blood, spilled when I ripped her to pieces. No matter how hard I try, this blood will always be with me.

Sixteen years later.

Abigail

Callerton, New Mexico.

"That's her!" calls out a distant voice.

Damn it, I was starting to think they wouldn't find me today. I know what's coming next. I can already hear the thunderous footsteps of three, maybe four girls running across the park toward me. I don't know how they manage to find me every single day after school, but I never seem to be able to escape them. It's like they can sniff me out. I guess I've become their new hobby, and I don't really blame them; this town is so dull and boring, you have to work hard to get your kicks. Until they're old enough to drink, bugging me is probably the most exciting thing for these idiots to do.

"Hey Abby!" shouts the lead girl, Donna, as she shoulder-barges me to one side. "Whatcha doing down here by the river?"

I stare at her, wishing I could just make her vanish into thin air. I hate having to deal with her stupidity every day. I just want to be left alone to get on with my own boring existence.

"What's wrong, Abby?" she continues, carefully stepping in my way no matter how I try to walk around her. "Cat got your tongue?"

"It's almost like she can't talk," says one of the other girls, Emma.

"That's
right
!" Donna says, pretending to be surprised. "I almost forgot! How are the braces going, Abby? Can I see them?"

I turn and try walking the other way, but Donna and her three friends quickly get in front of me, blocking my path. There's no point trying to get away from them. They won't leave me alone until they get bored, and fighting back will just keep them entertained for longer. I just have to wait this crap out. They're not dangerous. They're just annoying.

"Come on," Donna continues, "show us your teeth!"

I take a deep breath, wondering how much more of this I have to take. Finally, I open my mouth so Donna and the other girls can see the thick metal braces I've been wearing on my teeth for the past few months. It's not like they haven't seen them before; in fact, this same ritual happens almost every day. I guess they're not smart enough to come up with new ways to taunt me, so they stick to the classics.

"Do they hurt?" Donna asks. For a moment, it's almost as if she cares, but I know better. She's a good actress, and this is all part of the game.

I nod.

"I'm sorry," she says, "I didn't hear that. I asked you a normal question. Do they hurt?"

I nod again.

She stares at me for a moment. "Why are you so fucking rude?" she says finally. "Everyone else talks. It's just common courtesy, Abigail. If someone asks you a question, you should answer them. Were you raised by monkeys or something?" She narrows her eyes for a moment, as if she really, truly hates me. "Do you just think we're a bunch of morons or something?" she asks, her voice filled with spite. "Do you think you're better than us?"

I shake my head.

"Then why don't you talk to us?" she asks, stepping closer. This happens every time. She starts off taunting me, and then she gets a little physical. "Just one word," she continues. "Just say 'yes' or 'no' to a simple question. Okay? Can you do that? Show us some fucking respect."

I just stare at her. There's no point responding to anything she says or does. She already had this whole encounter planned out long before she called out my name. I've found out before, the hard way, that it's generally better to let her do and say what she wants. Eventually she gets tired and bored, and leads her little gang of pals away. It's not easy holding back from retaliating, but I know that I'll just get in more trouble if I lash out. I've always been strong, stronger than other girls, even though I look pretty weak and scrawny. By the time I turned sixteen, I'd discovered that I could hurt people if I really wanted to get back at them. I know that with very little effort I could make Donna scream and cry, but it's not worth the hassle. I've got to be smart, rather than giving in to my emotions.

"Why are you so ugly?" Donna asks suddenly.

I raise my eyebrows. That's new. She's never tried this line of attack before.

"I mean, you're not
ugly
exactly," she continues, "but you're just so boring and frumpy. No offense, but you dress like one of the librarians at school." She stares at me. "If you bothered to sort yourself out a bit, and if you got your head out of your ass and started talking, you might even be able to hang out with us sometimes." She reaches a hand out to touch my hair, but I pull away. "Stand still, bitch!" she says. This time, when she reaches out, I don't resist.

"Pull her hair up," says Emma.

Donna pulls my hair from over my face. "There," she says, feigning satisfaction. "If you did your hair like this, you'd look a lot better, Abby. Are you, like, trying to look bad on purpose? Do you think it's cool?"

Frowning, I try to work out where she's going with this. She's never, ever commented on my appearance before, nor has she suggested that I could 'hang out' with them. Obviously I'd rather eat garbage than spend time with people like Donna and her gang, but I'm still curious as to why she's offering what seems to be an olive branch. This is a new side to Donna.

"All you have to do right now," she continues, stepping back from me, "is say one fucking word. It can be anything. Door. Poodle. Table. Aardvark. Just one word, and we'll think you're cool." She smiles as she turns to the others. "Won't we?"

They nod eagerly. They're just a bunch of pathetic assholes who follow Donna around and agree with whatever she says.

"Just one word," she continues, walking around me and then leaning in to whisper in my ear. "Just one fucking word. Can you manage that, bitch?" She waits for a moment, and then suddenly she spits straight into my ear. I pull away, feeling that her hot, sticky saliva has gone deep into my ear canal. I stick my finger inside, but I can't wipe it all out, no matter how hard I try.

"Never mind," she says, walking back over to her friends. "Better luck next time, bitch. Hope you don't mind that I gobbed in your ear. Later." With that, she turns and walks away, her little gaggle of girlfriends hurrying after her.

Sitting down by the river, I tilt my head in an attempt to get the spit to dribble out. It doesn't seem to be working, though, so I reach into my pocket and pull out a paper tissue; I twist the end into a point and then gently slide it into the ear canal, hoping to soak up as much of Donna's saliva as possible. I'm pretty sure that this isn't going to work, and that it's going to take days before I feel like I've got my ear clean. Finally, as a last resort, I get up and walk right to the edge of the water, before kneeling down and dipping my whole head under the surface. After holding my breath for almost a minute, I sit back up, water pouring from my soaking wet hair. The shoulders of my t-shirt are soaked, but at least I feel like my ear's slightly cleaner. When I get home, I'll have to stand in the shower for a while and maybe wash my hair in an attempt to really fix this. I'll also use cotton buds to clean the ear canal. It's not ideal, but at least it means that by bedtime I should feel as if I've got my ear free of Donna's disgusting, slimy spit.

I sit for a while by the river. One of the problems with not being able to speak is that it's easy to drift into a kind of daze and forget that you're supposed to be communicating with the rest of the world. When the dentist proposed putting these braces on, to 'fix' my teeth and perhaps make it so I'd be able to talk, my first reaction was blind terror. I didn't feel as if I needed 'fixing'. Eventually, though, I realized I didn't have much choice. There's really not much wrong with my teeth, other than that a couple near the front are kind of sharp and fang-like. I feel like the specialists have latched onto my odd dentistry and decided that it's definitely the reason for my refusal to speak. Before, the psychiatrists were convinced I had some kind of hidden trauma, possibly something I experienced as a baby before I was found abandoned in New York. My whole life, people have been coming up with theories and ideas to try to explain me. I kind of wish they'd just leave me alone.

Eventually, as my hair starts to dry, I get up and figure it's time to start walking home. My foster parents are going to be wondering where I am, and they tend to be a little trigger-happy when it comes to panicking. It's as if they're convinced I'm gonna get kidnapped or murdered or something one day. I guess they've probably worked out that I'm being bullied, even if they've got no idea how to handle it. None of this is their fault; they're good people, and they've raised me well. It's just that... I have to admit, I'm a little odd. A little different. Everyone knows it, as soon as they meet me. I guess I give off some kind of weird vibes. It's like in a cartoon, when someone has stink lines because they smell; I have emotional stink lines, because deep down there's something that's not quite right. I just wish I knew what...

After walking along the river for a while, I turn toward the park and cut through a short wooded area. I've always liked being out here, as if it's somehow more of a home than my foster parents' house. Today, however, something feels a little strange. It's almost as if I can sense something nearby, as if someone's watching me. I stand stock still, listening out for any sign of movement. I can't explain it, but I can feel eyes burning into me. Can everyone feel things like this? Sometimes I wonder if I'm a little bit more in tune with the world around me. Still, it's an imperfect skill. I know someone's nearby, but I can't see them, or work out exactly where they are. In fact, maybe it's all in my head.

"Hey," says a voice behind me.

I turn to find Donna standing there. How the hell did she manage to sneak up behind me?

"You clean your ear out yet?" she asks. She's staring at me intently. Glancing around, I see that her friends aren't here. She's alone, which is unusual. She always has her little army of bitches with her; I never thought she'd be brave enough to pick on me alone.

I start to walk away, but she grabs my shoulder and pulls me back. Something feels different this time. I feel my chest start to tighten. The last thing I want to do is strike back and hurt her, but she might not leave me much choice.

"What's wrong?" she says. "Your hair's all wet. Don't you like having my spit in your ear?" She smiles. "I tell you what. I'm gonna cut you a deal. Let's try a little intelligence test. If you
don't
want me to punch you in the gut, tell me and I won't do it. Just say the words."

I stare at her. I know exactly what's coming.

"No?" she continues. "You're not gonna say the words? Well, then that must mean you want me to do it." There's a pause, and then she slams her fist into my stomach so hard that I fall down. I immediately try to get up, but she's totally winded me and it's all I can manage to take a series of sharp, deep breaths. That was way, way harder than I expected. I didn't know Donna had it in her. Something's definitely changed.

"I bet you wish you'd asked me not to do it
now
," she says, standing over me. "I bet you've learned your lesson. I tell you what, let's test it out. I'm gonna kick you in a few seconds. If you
don't
want me to kick you, tell me and I won't do it. Just tell me. Just a few words. No trick. No lies. It's a simple deal."

I take a deep breath, readying myself for what's coming next. I could stop her, of course. I could lash out and hurt her, but I have to keep my strength under control.

"No?" she says after a moment. "Weird." She lifts her foot up and brushes it against the side of my face. "Yeah," she mutters, "right there." She takes a step back, and suddenly she kicks me hard in the side of the face, sending me sprawling across the forest floor. I land on my back, staring up at the sky with a ringing sensation in my head and a sharp pain where her shoe connected with my cheek.

"How you doing down there, you fucking moron?" Donna asks, coming closer and looking down at me. "Are you starting to realize that it might be a good idea to speak? That brace in your mouth is really fucking stupid. It's holding you back." She smiles. "I know it's probably, like, screwed into your teeth and all, but maybe it's time to take it out for your own good." She kneels next to me. "I know it'd hurt if I just ripped it out, but it might be better for you in the long run." She reaches a hand out to my face, but I turn away.

"Don't you want my help?" she sneers, leaning closer. "Open your god-damn mouth, Abigail, or I'll force it open and I'll rip that fucking metal out." I can feel her hot breath on the side of my face. "Do you understand me?"

I force myself to take deep, measured breaths. I feel as if I could easily pick her up and throw her into a tree, but I have to keep a lid on my emotions. Reacting would be a terrible mistake.

"I don't know what's wrong," Donna says suddenly. "I've always hated you, but lately it's like I can't help myself any more. It's like, whenever I see you, my blood just fucking starts boiling and I wanna smash your stupid face in. What's
wrong
with you?" She grabs my shoulders and tries to force me to look at her. "Why do you give out this vibe of being so fucking creepy?" she continues. "I'm genuinely curious. There's something about you that just..." She sighs. "I tell you what," she says eventually. "I'm gonna be nice to you. I'm gonna let you keep your braces in for now, although I reserve the right to rip them out whenever I feel like it. Instead, I'm gonna spit in your ear again, and this time you're gonna leave it in there. Frankly, I was insulted that you were so keen to get it out before. So this time, you're gonna keep it in there all the way home. I'm gonna walk with you, right to your door, to make sure you don't try to clean it out." She puts her hands on my head, to hold me in place, and then she puts her lips to my ear; a moment later, she spits a large gob of saliva straight into my ear canal, and then she holds my head firmly while I feel the slime dribble deeper and deeper down.