The Hollow Church Read online

  The Hollow Church

  (Abby Hart book 1)

  by Amy Cross

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright Amy Cross, All Rights Reserved

  Published by Dark Season Books

  This edition first published: September 2013

  http://amycrossbooks.wordpress.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. If you enjoy it and wish to share it with others, please consider buying them their own copy. Feedback is always welcome. The author reserves all rights in respect of this work.

  COMING SOON

  The Station I and II (The Shades 1.3 and 1.4)

  Knives (Broken White 1.7)

  Dramatis Personae (Broken White 1.8)

  Day Eleven (Mass Extinction Event 2.3)

  The Letting (The Devil's Photographer 1.3)

  ALSO BY AMY CROSS

  Horror

  Asylum

  American Coven

  The Night Girl

  Devil's Briar

  The Vampire's Grave

  Fantasy / Horror

  Dark Season series 1, 2 & 3

  Lupine Howl series 1, 2 & 3

  Grave Girl

  Ghosts

  The Library

  Romance / Thriller

  Other People's Bodies (The Heights book 1)

  Dystopia

  Mass Extinction Event series 1

  Erotica

  Broken Blue

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  Rebirth

  Part Two

  The Disgrace

  Part Three

  Hush

  Part Four

  Foreign Lands

  Part Five

  The Hollow Church

  Bonus

  Dark Voyage

  (from The Vampire's Grave)

  The Hollow Church

  (Abby Hart book 1)

  Part One

  Rebirth

  Prologue 1

  Many years ago

  The walls of the great palace shook yet again, as the carnage of war edged closer. The great house, once so proud and noble, had become the final refuge of a small group of vampires who still believed they could hold back a crushing defeat. They had nothing on their side but faith, yet over the years they had found themselves outnumbered until, finally, this house was all that they possessed. Although none of them would say such a thing out loud, they all knew that the end was coming. It seemed inevitable that the tide of war had finally and irrevocably turned against them.

  "Where is Patrick?" Gothos asked, as the walls of the house shook again. An old man now, he was on the verge of seeing his entire life's work brought to ruin, and pain was etched in his eyes. The war had taken a terrible toll on a man who had once stood tall and proud, and his hands trembled as he held the map that showed enemy positions advancing across the valley.

  "Patrick went to the east," replied Rasmussen, a younger man who had nevertheless seen great horrors since the war began. "Thousands of Golvs came to join the battle, and Patrick chose to go and face them alone. He fears that they might overrun the kingdom."

  "Will he have any difficulties?"

  "The only danger," Rasmussen said calmly, "is that he might drown in the blood of his enemies. He chose to make this stand because he knew it was important to give you time to get away from this place. I saw it in his eyes as he left. He was naked and breathless, still covered in blood from the slaughter of the Cirlion, but he will not rest, not until the house has been saved. For that to happen, however..." He paused, reluctant to speak his mind. "For that to happen, my Lord, it might be necessary for us to make a tactical retreat."

  "The house has my name," Gothos replied firmly. "I cannot abandon my brethren. I'm surprised that you would even suggest such a thing. Do you have no honor left in your soul?"

  "It is not I who came up with the idea," Rasmussen said hastily.

  "Then who?"

  Rasmussen paused, before stepping aside so that Gothos could see the figure standing in a distant doorway. "The Disgrace has chosen to leave his bed," Rasmussen continued, his voice filled with uncertainty. He knew that Gothos would never welcome the Disgrace's presence, but he also knew that there were no other options. "He brings many thoughts that he wishes to place on the table. He asked me to tell you that he believes the two of you should put aside your past differences in order to ensure that the vampire race might survive this conflict. He says he will not apologize, but that in return he will demand no apology from you. He merely wishes to help."

  "Why now?" Gothos asked, eying the Disgrace with suspicion. "Why has he allowed the war to continue for so many years, and yet suddenly he thinks he can end the suffering?"

  "He believes he had finally identified our enemy," Rasmussen replied. "He... Well, he wouldn't tell me. He said he would only tell you."

  A shiver passed through Gothos as he stared at the Disgrace. "Tell him to keep away," he said eventually, keeping his eyes fixed on the dark, hooded figure. "We didn't need him at the start of this war, and we shall not need him at the end." Filled with a kind of white-hot anger that he had never previously felt, Gothos peered at the darkness beneath the figure's hood, and he couldn't help but imagine the Disgrace's grinning face. "Tell him," he continued slowly, "that his presence here is unhelpful to the war effort."

  Rasmussen turned to see that the Disgrace was already walking away. "Are you sure?" he asked after a moment, turning back to Gothos. "Maybe it wouldn't hurt to at least listen to him? If he knows the nature of our enemy, perhaps -"

  "I have a plan," Gothos said darkly. "Until this moment, I never thought it would be necessary, but now I see..." He paused, and then he turned, as if he had felt the cold hand of Death on his shoulder. "We will all die," he said after a moment. "Only one shall live past this day, and he shall carry a terrible burden. He will have to live with the knowledge that he destroyed the rest of us. I cannot imagine how any man could survive such torment, but perhaps a strong mind might have a chance."

  "You can make such a sacrifice," Rasmussen said. "Only you, my Lord."

  "Yes," Gothos replied, turning back to face him. "I suppose it will have to be me, won't it?" He paused as he faced up to the terrible fate that now awaited him. "Can I do it, though? Can I condemn every other vampire to final, permanent death? Can I live my life in the knowledge that my brethren are no more? This house would fall silent, and all the spirits would be lost."

  "But you could rebuild," Rasmussen continued. "One day, many years from now, it might be possible to move past the war and allow the vampire race to live again."

  "Perhaps," Gothos said, looking over at the window and seeing the lights of a thousand fires burning on the horizon. The war was coming closer, and time was running out. "I still do not know," he continued, "if I have the strength to kill my own kind. I have taken so many lives over the years, but to extinguish an entire species... our species... our culture..." His voice trailed off as he contemplated the only option left at his disposal. "Have we become so rotten and corrupt as a species, that only death can halt our lust for pain and death?" He paused. "Our enemy is too powerful to be defeated through conventional means. We must give whatever is necessary in order to ensure our ultimate survival."

  "All things must pass," Rasmussen replied solemnly.

  "Gather the others," Gothos said, still staring at the distant fires. "Tell them to meet me in the main hall. Tell them the final moment has come, and tell them that there will be sacrifices, but make sure that they understand what needs to be done. Let no man run or cower. Let none speak out against this. There will be fear, yes, but there will also be light. If anyone should demur, send Cassandra to ease their concerns. She knows what to do in such situations."
>
  "I shall act immediately," Rasmussen said, turning and hurrying from the room.

  Left alone by the window, Gothos could not help but keep his eyes fixed on the horizon. He had fought so hard, and for so long, to save the species, but the strength of the war had been too great for him to contain. Now he knew that there was only one option, only one thing that could salvage this once-proud species that had allowed itself to become violent and cruel. A tear fell from his eye as he realized that he had failed, and that even the great house of Gothos had not been strong enough to withstand the torment of its own children. It was time to implement the only solution that could possibly succeed.

  Genocide.

  Today

  Prologue 2

  "Okay," the foreman grunts. "Let's get to work."

  Slowly and with tired legs, half a dozen men climb out of the van. It's early on a Sunday morning, and no-one wants to be at work. Weighed down by haz-mat suits and bulky equipment slung over their shoulders, the men would rather be anywhere else, but mortgages, families and bar bills mean they can't afford to turn down the overtime. This is a crumby job in a crumby part of the city, with crumby pay and a decent chance of being attacked. Not one of these men would be here if they had any other choice.

  "So here's the layout," the foreman continues as he leads them across the vacant parking lot, making for the rundown old building that has sat neglected for so many years. "There's up to a dozen people living in here, most of them junkies with serious habits. I'm sure I don't need to explain how this thing's gonna go down. These people are fucking out of their minds. Most of them are gonna run, but you never know if you'll get one who stands his ground and tries to make a stand. Remember, they could be armed. You never know what these fuckheads might have on 'em. Needles, broken glass, knives... Anything." Stopping by the broken door that leads into the building, he turns to his men. "If in doubt, take 'em down. No-one's gonna give a crap if another junkie ends up in the morgue. Even their fucking families'll be relieved."

  Stepping through the doorway, the foreman grabs a torch from his belt and shines the beam straight across the large, high-ceilinged entrance hallway. As the light dances across the run-down, abandoned surfaces, it quickly becomes clear that there's no-one in the vicinity. The place looks mostly undisturbed, but there are tell-tale footprints in the dust.

  "Attention, please!" the foreman bellows. "My men and I are here as representatives of the Foundry McArthur Bank, who are asserting their legal ownership of this and other local properties pursuant to a court order from the Lower Manhattan Circuit!" He waits for a moment, but there's no reply; the only sound comes from his own men as they make their way into the building. "Let me be clear!" the foreman continues. "You have no legal right to be occupying this building! The fact that you've been allowed in here for the past few years does not constitute the granting of any kind of rights, nor does it indicate passive acceptance of the..." He frowns for a moment. "Passive acceptance of the..." he mutters, before laughing. "Fuck it, I can never remember all the legal bullshit." He turns to his men. "Come on, let's clear the fuckers out. I want my ass on a bar-stool by midday."

  Making their way slowly across the derelict, darkened hallway, the men start to spread out. Despite the lack of a response to their arrival, they all know that they could be jumped at any moment, and they've all heard horror stories of colleagues who've been unlucky enough to encounter trouble, even on a job that initially seems pretty straightforward. A dozen junkies are highly unlikely to depart silently, and even though most of them are probably docile and barely able to function, there's still a very real danger that there could be an ambush.

  "Jesus Christ," one of the men mutters eventually. "What's that stench?"

  "That's people," the foreman replies as he reaches the bottom of the iron stairs that lead up to the next level. "Shit and piss and blood and all the other crap that comes out of these fuckers." He smiles. "What did you expect? These people aren't exactly hygiene freaks."

  "Yeah," the other man continues, "sure, but this smells worse than usual."

  "The fuckers have had the run of the building for almost five years," the foreman points out. "That's five years of filth. Believe me, there's no limit to the disgusting garbage that people can get up to when they're down and out. I've been in this job since before you were born, and I still get surprised from time to time. Every so often, I have to take my respect for humanity down another notch. Now let's get moving. There's no room on my crew for assholes with weak stomachs."

  "Smells like death," says one of the other men.

  "Could be," the foreman says, starting to walk up the stairs. "Could very well be. Why? One of you ladies got a problem with a little dose of gritty reality?"

  When they reach the next level, the team find themselves in a huge, vaulted room that used to be the main concourse area of a large international bank. There are still a few counters and terminals dotted around, although parts of the ceiling have long since fallen down and there's dirt and grime everywhere. Rats scurry past as the men make their way through the debris, and birds occasionally fly from one rafter to another. In general, the whole place is about as run-down as a building can become without literally collapsing, and occasional gusts of wind cause the entire structure to creak and groan.

  "Boss!" one of the workers calls out suddenly. "I think we found one!"

  Hurrying over, the foreman sees that there's a body face-down on the floor. He immediately recognizes that it's a corpse: there's something about the way the arms and legs are sprawled out that instantly indicates lifelessness, while a swarm of fat-looking bugs are crawling in and out of the space between the body's head and chest.

  "I guess we found the source of the smell," the foreman says uneasily. "We got any corpse virgins among us today? Have any of you fuckers never seen a dead body before?"

  Silence.

  "Good," he continues. "I'd hate to have to initiate one of you pussies."

  "You want to turn him over?" one of the men asks.

  "No. There's no point. He's dead, isn't he?" Spotting some empty syringes on the floor nearby, the foreman sighs. "It doesn't take fucking Einstein to see what happened," he continues, kicking the syringes. "There's nothing here but a complete waste of human life. It's fucking disgusting the way these people throw everything away like this."

  "I think there's another one over there," says one of the other men, stepping past the first body and hurrying over to one of the old desks. "There are three," he says eventually, sounding shocked. "Three more bodies."

  "Two more over here," says one of the other men. "They're..." He pauses as he crouches next to one of the corpses. "What's wrong with their skin? Hey, boss, come over and take a look at this."

  Walking over to join him, the foreman shines his flashlight at the corpse's face. "Just a bit pale, that's all," he mutters after a moment. "Being dead'll do that to you. Believe me, I've seen 'em all colors, all shapes, all shades. Corpses are like snowflakes. No two are ever exactly alike."

  "There are holes in their necks," calls out one of the other men. "And they're all tied down!"

  "What are you talking about?" the foreman barks at him, but seconds later he realizes that it's true. Each of the bodies has a kind of iron manacle around one of its legs, anchoring it to the floor as if the victims were being held in place as prisoners. "Fuck," the foreman matters as he realizes that this is going to be more complicated than the average job. He kicks one of the bodies over and sees a pair of thick, crusty holes in the side of the neck. "You know what we've got here?" he asks, trying to force a smile. "Looks like a bunch of fucking vampires got hold of these kids."

  No-one laughs.

  "You hear what I said?" the foreman continues, turning to the rest of his men. "I said it looks like a bunch of fucking vampires got to these assholes. It's a fucking joke."

  "Boss," says one of the other men, standing a little further away and looking across the room. "I think you should see
this."

  "You'd better call the cops," the foreman says with a sigh. "Looks like the Foundry McArthur Bank might have to wait a couple more days before it gets its hands on the place. Fucking cops always slow everything down. Crawling all over things, making everyone else wait..."

  "Boss!"

  "What?"

  The other guy stands completely still, staring at the far end of the room. "You really need to see this," he says after a moment, his voice filled with fear.

  Wandering over to the man at the far side of the space, the foreman sighs. "What've you found, Marty? Another -" He stops dead in his tracks as he stares into the gloom and sees the truth. Spread out across the vast room, there are more bodies, maybe a hundred or more, all tied to the floor and all seemingly drained of blood through a pair of holes in the sides of their necks. The only sound is a kind of faint rustling, coming from the thousands of insects that have already begun to crawl over and inside the corpses.

  "Jesus Christ," the foreman says as he shines his torch into the distance, watching as the beam picks out more and more bodies. "Someone call the cops!" he shouts eventually, before turning and leaning against the side of one of the old abandoned counters. "Someone call the fucking cops!" he shouts again, before starting to vomit.

  Mark Gregory

  "So what have we got here?" I ask as I reach the top of the stairs and find myself in a large, open-plan room that used to be part of the Foundry McArthur bank. "Vampires?"

  "Not quite," replies the cop who comes to meet me, "although if someone wanted it to look that way, they didn't do a bad job. Whoever did this, they must be seriously wrong in the head." He leads me past some other men, and finally we reach the first of the dead bodies. "One hundred and ten poor bastards," the cop continues, "arranged in a grid formation, each shackled to an iron ring. There was roughly four meters between each of them, as if someone wanted to pack 'em in without letting 'em touch each other."