Chapter I

The Last Vampyre

I’m worried about Jem. No, that’s not entirely true. I was worried about him: Now I’m really worried about him.

It’s just… I’ve started to wonder who he really is. Yeah, he’s my friend, but there's not that much I know about him. I mean, I thought I had problems and secrets, but Jem... he's something else entirely. He broods in his own darkness, doesn’t let anything slip. In fact, from the moment I met him he's been mysterious and guarded. Not that I don't like him. He's been a great friend to me, in fact I think he's the best friend I’ve ever had, but I feel I know him no better than the day we first met.

And that was three years ago: That's how long I've known him. Three years and he's not revealed a single, meagre detail of his past (at least not consciously). He has dreams, though and we can’t control our dreams or our reactions to them. I’ve heard him talking - ‘I can’t let him find out’ - or shouting - ‘No, please don’t do it!’ I’ve even woken him a few times, told him he’d been tossing and turning, but never, in the three years, let him know what I‘ve learned.

And in those three years he's kept it all locked up too; tighter than I thought was possible. I met him when he was fourteen in what I’d call, very unusual circumstances. At least he said he was fourteen... in all honesty as much as he looked fourteen, he acted much older and since we never, under any circumstances, talk about his past, he could be a hundred and one for all I know. None of this bothered me before. I’ve gone three years without the overwhelming need to discuss his past. I've only gained interest recently. He’s changed now. He was normal, friendly, happy… until a few weeks ago.

That’s when he changed and this change was very, very abrupt. He started leaving in the dead of night. Apparently 'going to the library'. There's only one library in a twenty-mile radius and I know for a fact it closes at eight. So unless he‘s breaking and entering, he doesn‘t go there. He does come back with books... but I have no idea where he gets them. They don’t look like library books, they’re huge, leather bound volumes.

I did feel guilty snooping through his stuff, but I’m only doing it because I’m worried. I think this is something to do with his past. The past he was running from three years ago and I thought I'd at least have some kind of explanation by now, something better than - ‘I’m going to the library, Oris’. I don‘t want his life-story; I just need to know he‘s okay. All I want is an explanation for his behaviour. I feel he owes me at least that.

But, what he really owes me is an explanation for everything; like a reason why I had to help kill a man to protect him. He never did explain anything, though. He’s never really mentioned our meeting. He just kept everything going as though we’d always lived like this. Once the dust had settled he just kind of adopted me as a brother-stroke-father figure and went with it. We've been living here in my remote home in relative harmony for a whole three years, yet it feels like I only met him a week ago.

That night is still so vivid. Every aspect seems so recent in memory; the sheer force of the rain, my desperate, despondent mindset and the shouts from the valleys where he was being horribly beaten to death. I don't even know why I intervened, I had no place there, but I did get involved. At that stage in my life, I was utterly depressed and felt completely useless. To hear someone shouting for help… gave me, if only for a moment, a purpose. Someone needed me and I went to help.

The man had a gun. I hadn't seen one for a good many years definitely not since my travels in the Darklands where guns are carried around like currency. So the guy has a gun and he's not even using it, instead he's pointing at a fourteen year old Jem while simultaneously kicking the boy in the stomach; a full grown man against a teenage boy - not very fair at all. I'm what you’d call fairly experienced in a fight, so it didn't take long for me to both get to the guy and to disarm him. I whacked his gun out of his hand and broke his arm. I learned a while back that broken limbs are usually a decent deterrent for would-be opponents.

What shocked me, though, was how strong the guy was. He was very well trained. But even a well-trained man is severely weakened if you break his arm. That said, he almost punched me with his working arm and might have even connected if Jem hadn't shot him. This had all taken place in complete silence. The rain was the whispered music to our violent ballet, and although shocked at the presence of a trained killer in this god-forsaken area, the noise of the gunshot gripped my heart and held me to attention. Even though his t-shirt was caked in mud I could still see the black spread across the guy's chest. He and Jem collapsed to the ground at the same time, Jem still gripping the gun in his white knuckles.

The guy I'd fought was some kind of mercenary, which meant that not only was Jem wanted very badly, but that he was wanted by someone with money. This didn’t occur to me at the time, though. I was more concerned about Jem. He’d taken a fair beating before I’d arrived and I had to drag him home by his legs so as not to do anymore damage to his obviously broken ribs.

I managed him into a bed eventually and he slept for a day and a half. The hardest part was prying the gun from his fingers, which were holding it as though it were the only thing keeping him alive. I’ve still got that gun. It’s locked away in my study, away from Jem. I wanted to keep him away from guns and I still do, though it‘s rightfully his and I suppose if he ever leaves I‘ll have to give it to him.

When Jem finally woke from his sleep he didn't speak for a fortnight. I let him be. I made his dinners and washed him clothes. Every once and a while he’d mumble to himself and he’d sit with his arms half-folded, stroking mid-air and humming in his frazzled state of mind. Committing murder obviously did something to his head and I thought he might have lost it completely, but eventually he came around.

The first thing he ever said to me was 'thanks'. I'd just laid out his dinner and when I looked down at him his eyes were focused and heartfelt. He was thanking me for more than just dinner. He held my gaze without blinking and just repeated the word. ‘Thanks’. So I think he was saying thanks for everything - the food, the clothes, the home, for saving him. All I said was 'No problem', which I actually meant.

Obviously, being as polite as he was, he offered to go away after a month, saying he didn't want to outstay his welcome, but by that point I was glad of the company. As much as I'd initially came out here to live alone, it was meeting him that made me realise just how much I missed social interaction. I’d been depressed and lonely before that night when I met him. I thought my life was an empty, pointless mess. It was him that made me realise that I was lonely. I’d initially thought I was sad for no real reason; that I was just supposed to be. When I met him I caught myself smiling more and I realised that I’d needed a friend. In a way Jem saved me as much as I saved him

Before that the only other person I talked to was the butcher in the town through the forest. I work as a game hunter, which is where most of my training comes from. I'll walk across the marsh and into the forest empty handed but emerge at the other side carrying grouse, boar anything I can sell in the town. The butcher buys cheap and sells high. It’s an unfair price, but I don't really care about the money. The amount I get for the animals might be unfair, but it's all I need.

To make Jem stay, I gave him a job as my apprentice, which means I basically taught him everything I know. He's quite astute, a fast learner. At first I just wanted to teach him how to defend himself, he thought it was in preparation for some more hunting-orientated pursuits, but it was really to put my mind at rest. He might leave at some point and I wanted him to be ready the next time some guy came at him with a gun. But he stayed. So I taught him more. I taught him how to stalk through any terrain, what weapons to use, what clothes to wear, how to recognise animal noises, tracks - pretty much everything I’d picked up myself.

I've taught him as much as I can, though. Now it's just a case of him getting as fast and as sharp as I am which will be no easy task. That said, he‘s always improving so I guess one day he might be better than me. It’s now got to the stage where I can let him go hunting on his own. Although the forest is a dangerous place, he knows to keep to the outskirts. He can take care of himself now and I suppose that means that my real work is done.

I think he’s over the whole murder-mercenary thing, now. He seems happy, even though he still talks to himself and occasionally I worry he’s regressed when I catch him stroking mid-air and humming, but he still talks and he’s still smart and I’d be able to tell if there was something really wrong. Maybe it’s all something else though. Travelling alone for as long as he probably did… I mean it’s not unheard of for people to conjure up imaginary friends… Hell, maybe he just wishes he had a cat.

Anyway, I digress. The point is, he can take care of himself and, I guess that would change the way a person acts, but now there is something wrong. I can feel it. He’s completely different. He's changed so abruptly, it‘s like he‘s been taken over by someone else. He's more confident and although I didn’t think it was possible, he’s become more secretive, too. I just don't trust it. I'm worried about him. I doubt he'd be too happy if he found that I’m following him tonight, but I need to find out what’s really going on.

In all honesty, this couldn’t have happened at a worse time for me. I have important stuff to deal with myself and as much as I‘d like to put off my little excursion a day or two, I can’t, so it’s now or never. I don't know where he's going, but I need to know. He could be in some kind of trouble, or he could be putting us both in some kind of trouble. For all I know some other mercenary could have tracked him down. And if that were the case he’d probably try and sort it out himself. It might have been three years ago, but I'm still pretty sure that there are people looking for him.

I don’t really think that’s the problem. That wouldn’t cause him to act weird for six weeks. No this is something else. Something new. I’m smart enough to know that if he won’t tell me then I can either forget about it or do something about it and that’s what brought me to this point. I’m at home, in my armchair. This is where I sit most nights - either here or in my study. Tonight I sit in my armchair. My eyes dart from the pure white of the sketchbook on my lap, to the hallway every so often. I drag the charcoal along the paper drawing arcs with no particular effort, but still manage to carve a semi-realistic image onto the beautifully, blank paper.

I’ve drawn an image of Jem, cloaked in shadows. To anyone else it would look like the silhouette of a tall man, but underneath the pure black I can see Jem in his entirety. His pale skin lies out of the light. His muddy brown eyes glint malevolently as two white pinpricks in the void and his short, straggly hair sticks mostly to his round face, with only a few strands blowing in the imaginary wind. His frame is both small and lanky and this can even be seen under the ripples of dark baggy clothes he wears. To me he looks like a lost little boy, unsure of his surroundings, standing scared and shivering in the dark. To anyone else he would look distinctly menacing.

I flip the page over and begin a new drawing, but the moment I draw my first line, I hear his footsteps on the hardwood flooring. I continue to draw smudging the line into what I discover will become the face of a girl. Each step is haphazard and loud and echoes through the tiny wooden house in horrible booms. I ignore each and every one, continuing to skim the girl’s impression onto the page. I find her hair so light and her cheeks so pale, that the charcoal barely touches the page as it dances across the white expanse, creating a face more beautiful than I’d ever intended to draw. Then again I draw best when I don’t think about what I’m drawing. My sketch is barely started, when I see Jem emerge in the hallway.

“I’m going to-” he begins.

“The library.” I finish his sentence for him, but don’t allow my head to rise from the page as I allow the charcoal to jab at the girl’s eye, leaving only a quivering circle of white. It could be a tear if I wanted it to be.

“Yeah.” he replies and then after an awkward silence, stalks off towards the kitchen.

He leaves through the kitchen window (he always leaves through a window) and heads in the direction of the town. I keep my head straight, pretending to be drawing, but I watch out the side of my eyes as he gradually fades to a silhouette in the fog. I’m reminded fleetingly of my drawing of him. This shouldn't be too difficult - It’s my job to track things through the forest and I taught Jem everything he knows. On top of all that, I doubt he’s expecting anyone to be following him.

I leave the house about five minutes later and find him in within two. I’ve decided not to put any shoes on; instead my trainers hang over my shoulder. One thing I learned when I fought Jem’s mercenary was to always expect the unexpected. It's easier to track him barefoot, so I go barefoot. Anything could happen once I‘m out there: I might find myself having to avoid someone myself. I can hear him plodding along ahead of me and decide to get ahead of him. Trees line the valley (the same valley I met him in) and I find decent cover in amongst them as I watch him trudge along the crumbling path. The air is crisp and fresh despite the hazy fog that’s settled over the region. It makes it easier to remain hidden but harder to see him.

He heads as expected, towards the town and much to my disappointment through the forest directly rather than along the safer route I mapped for him last year. At least I'm here to protect him if he runs into trouble. He stalks very sloppily as well, making a lot of noise and apparently not caring if anything leaps out to attack him. I'm surprised nothing has. I continue to slip through the trees to his right, watching him through branches and beams of moonlight. The fog dances around us as we glide through it‘s winding paths; him with purpose and myself with precision.

After a half hour walk, we leave the forest (miraculously) unchallenged and he abruptly breaks into a sprint towards the town. For a moment I worry he knows I’m following him, I have to wait in the forest until he's a good enough distance away. Once I'm satisfied I too break into a sprint, my feet barely touch the ground as I leap over his footprints. I can feel the damp ground against my naked toes and wish I had time to slip on my trainers. I stop short of the settlement, my breath shallow as I watch Jem slink through the streets almost as skilfully as I would. His chest heaves the sharp fog into his lungs ravenously as he catches his breath. He hides among barrels and troughs as passers-by stumble home, oblivious to his presence.

I know where he's going already. His head flicks up to the Hillhouse only too often and his movements all focus towards the ancient and abandoned mansion. But what's there? Is there an answer to this mystery? Is there a reason he would go there of all places? The townsfolk are too scared to go. There's about a million stories flying around the place. Rumours that it’s haunted or that witches live there are almost as old as the town itself. Some even say it's a doorway to hell itself and swear that they've seen demons in the windows plotting and planning. All this is ridiculous of course. It's just a house with a bad history, but it still begs the question… why is Jem headed there?

I follow him quietly as he strolls up to the gate and passes through the widely spaced bars, with ease. Two minutes later, I have to climb the fence, which although easy enough, gives Jem enough time to disappear up the hill - towards the famously haunted house.

I continue to follow, silently but frantically donning my shoes as I continue up the hill through the nettles and various weeds that seem to be the only occupants in the grounds. I see a thin beam of light up ahead and as my eyes adjust, see that Jem is now talking to someone in the doorway. After exchanging a few words he enters and I hurry on up to the door, trying to listen in on any other conversation.

There is nothing. Behind the door I can hear nothing but the gentle static of the air. I don‘t like all this snooping, but I need to know. I know my way around any house and I decide to, first of all, try the windows. There's no light in any of them, so I grab the drainpipe and pull myself up onto the roof. I’m slightly out of practice, but I manage.

It’s occurred to me that the rumours of ghost and demons in this house have flared up again in recent weeks, which is, I feel, by no coincidence round about the time Jem started acting different. The butcher I sell to, who‘s normally an unfeeling and strict man, swears that he himself saw the demons conversing in the upper-east window. I know it's stupid to buy into the ghost stories, but maybe there is some element of truth in his claims. That upper-east room is dark. I check all the other rooms from the roof and see to my dismay that each one is still as pitch as the other. What now?

I start to wonder why I'm even here. I'm spying on my friend. Am I here because I'm worried about him or because I want to know about his past? I really don't know the answer to that. I’d like to think it’s because I’m worried about him, but I think, I might get some clue towards where he came from if I keep following this little trail. So maybe it’s a bit of both. I’ve done worse things than this, anyway. Hell, I helped Jem kill a guy. I guess I am doing this for selfish reasons… but I know I won’t let that stop me now. It seems my curiosity has got the better of me.

I've made up countless back-stories for him and none of them seem to fit. Where did he come from? Why did he leave there? Why was that mercenary after him? I wish I could ask him, but I know he doesn’t want me to. The sad fact is it’s easier for me to stalk the rooftops in the shadows than to ask my friend if he’s okay. The even sadder thing is that Jem doesn’t trust me enough to give me an answer. I’m not even angry, so much as disappointed. I’ve looked after him and I thought he respected me, but now he’s keeping secrets. That sounds stupid, because he’s been keeping secrets since we met… but this is a new secret. He should have told me what’s going on. But I suppose I’m being hypocritical because I’ve got my own secret past and I’ve my own little secret excursions in the past few weeks and I’ve been reluctant to share either with my supposed friend.

But this is different. He’s effectively drained everything from our friendship. I hardly speak to him anymore: When I do, it’s strained, forced conversation. I asked him once, why he was going to the library so often and all he said was - ‘Why else? To read.’ Three years and he’s never been like that. The way he said it was so demeaning; like I was an idiot; like I was trying his patience. How does a person change like that? It’s been so quick. He’s been so different, I wouldn’t be surprised if he told me I’d spent the last few weeks with his evil twin.

I pull a couple of slates off of the roof and find, by sheer luck that it’s very badly made underneath. It doesn’t take much effort or time to pry some wood off of the support beams and lower myself into the darkened attic. I can hear voices now, which means I have to tread carefully. If I can hear voices, then they can hear footsteps. I decide not to step anywhere, but lower my ear against the floor of the attic.

“So, what now?” It’s unmistakably Jem’s voice.

“Nothing.” an older but gentler voice says.

“What do you mean ‘nothing’!?” Jem shouts. I’m pretty sure I would have heard that from the rooftop.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve done all I can. I’m a researcher and I study actual events. The things you’ve been asking me to look into… it’s fi-”

“Don’t even think about saying I’m a liar.” Jem replies, he’s much more confident with this man, than he would be talking to me.

“Bryce… it’s fiction. This device you described… it never existed. It’s all magick and witches - stuff. It’s people like you who give the research industry a bad name.”

“You say that like magick and witches don’t exist.” Jem replies - I have no idea why the man is calling him ‘Bryce’.

“I don’t doubt that they do, Bryce, but they’re rare and definitely have never been around these parts. I might even entertain the idea that your little device exists, but if it did, there would be no explanation as to how it arrived here… the Darklands are worlds away. They might not even exist, I’ve only read about them in books.” the man sounds quite learned even though I know he’s wrong. The Darklands are real, but my worry is what Jem is doing investigating them and what the Darklands or a device have to do with anything.

“So in other words, you’ve failed.” Jem replies.

“If you told me what the device does, I might be able to turn up something, but all I’ve got to go on is that there’s two needles on it.”

“You can’t mention anything to anyone,” Jem says, “I’m paying you to keep quiet about this as well as find information.”

My mind is racing… what is he plotting? Jem my friend… intimidating people… delving into ancient research… this is not the boy I know. What could drive him to do these things? Even his voice has changed slightly - he talks… with confidence, yes, but also with the faintest hint of a threat.

“You can trust me, Bryce. Is there anything else that you know? You need to help me to help you.”

“Blood.” Jem says.

“Blood?” The man replies, his voice aquiver… he obviously thinks it’s some kind of threat.

“Blood. The needle thing does something to the blood. I need to know what.”

“Bryce… do you have this device?”

It hits me then. I know what he’s talking about. Needles?

“Sort of. I need to know what it is, though... what it does.”

“If you have this device, Bryce… it could be worth a fortune.”

“Mr Buxton, I hope your not thinking about cashing in on an item which moments ago you said didn’t exist. I don’t have this device and I expect you to do what you’ve promised.”

“Of course I'm not talking about selling the artefact... I'm talking about the historical value!". This 'Buxton' seems sincere. "The things we could learn about those who came before us. The things we could learn about the Darklands! Please, I want to help you! Is their anything else you can tell me?” the man asks eagerly.

“Yes one more thing, if anyone finds out about this research, I will kill you.”

This is not the Jem I know. He’s intimidating and… twisted. I taught him to be like that, I guess and he's doing it far more convincingly than I ever thought he could. I agree that scaring people gets results, but Jem… for a moment I thought he was serious… even now I’m not too sure.

"Of course, Mr Bryce,” Buxton blusters. “I treat all clients with strict confidentiality. I would never-"

"Good," Jem interrupts. "Then we're finished, here. I'll see you here in one week. I expect more information next time."

I hear them leave the room, the Buxton guy shuffling nervously and Jem in what sounds like a confident stride. I manage to get back on the roof. I follow him home letting it all fall into place in my mind. I feel as though I'm wandering through a dream? What happened to the Jem I saved that night? This new one... this scary one... he reminds me far too much of me.

Once again, neither of us is attacked as we return through the forest and it's a good thing too, because in my current mental state, I doubt I could protect him. Somehow I manage to get ahead of him at the valley, remembering to drag my feet on the grass, so as to wash the dirt away. I settle back into my chair still dazed and pick up a fresh sheet of paper and a bit of charcoal. I quickly sketch a picture to make it look as though I’ve been there a while.

Only a moment later, Jem enters.

“No books?” I ask.

“Not, tonight.” he replies.

I've lost all fear now, I know what’s really going on and I feel completely off guard, but I manage to speak in what I hope is a casual tone of voice. “Why do you go there anyway? Are you reading anything in particular?” I ask

“Nothing specific. I like the quiet, though”, he replies in such a sincere voice, I almost believe him.

For a brief second I consider that perhaps I followed a different person to the Hillhouse, that's how horrible this is. It’s devastating how easy it is for him to lie to me. He turns and heads across the lounge area to his bedroom, I watch as his eyes drift across the empty wooden room, stopping for a fraction too long on the door to my study. He looks back at me with a sorrowful look in his eye and that is the only gap I can see in his otherwise perfect facade. He closes his door gently behind him.

I understand now that he knows what lies in my locked study. But he can't have seen much - just a device. He's caught a glimpse of the Darklandish writings, a glimpse of its main components - a long spike and a short spike… I suppose they could be called 'needles'. If he could read Darklandish he’d know the main inscription says ‘prey on thyself’. All of that is a little part of my own secret.

Tonight has been a horrific success, because although I wanted to know what he’d been up to, now that I know I wish it could be anything else. It was me. I made him change.

I should have realised that his change came alongside my own good news. I was too blinded by desire and hope to see that I've alienated him these past weeks. I provoked him into his investigation and I was so blind - I was such a fool - that I thought to blame it on his past - on Jem himself when it was always me. And now he's so close.

Another meeting with that guy and I think he'll figure it all out, he'll know that I'm not who I appear to be and that I conceal a much more exotic secret than he does. He'll learn about the device and he'll know me. What would happen after that?

I can only thank the stars that I won't be keeping my secret much longer. He won't have a chance for another meeting with that Buxton guy. After tomorrow I stop keeping the secret, tomorrow I might even tell him what I really am. Then again I'd rather I didn't have to look into those eyes and tell him... straight faced... that I'm a vampyre.