Blood-Kissed Sky (Darkness Before Dawn)

by J. A. London

  I slip out of bed. Tegan murmurs. Michael doesn’t move. I grab my hoodie and the holster with the stake. Not bothering to slip on shoes, I creep across the room, glance back once. No one has stirred. Quietly I unlock the door and step into the hallway. I lock up, draw on my hoodie, and strap on the holster. I’m actually a little sad Christopher isn’t outside waiting. I’m hoping he’s with the crashing waves now.

  I walk through the cars, noting the stillness around me. No one is in the passageway. I’m surprised Richard and Faith weren’t outside my door, but they knew Michael was taking a turn at watching me. They’ll be mad if they discover that I snuck out without an escort, but I’m feeling hemmed in again. I need something. I’m just not sure what it is. I reach the winding stairs that lead up to the observation deck. When I get there, a sense of relief washes over me at the sight of the night sky. Without any windows, time acts strangely. I had no idea whether it was really day or night until I came up top.

  For some reason I needed to see the moon and the stars; I needed to be lost in the vastness of the night sky.

  I’m happy up here; I needed my own quiet moment. The moon isn’t quite full yet, but it’s bright enough to illuminate the countryside. Taking a seat, I watch the scenery roll past. Mostly desert with tiny patches of dying vegetation, yellowed from the heat and drought. Mountains rise in the distance, so far away they seem like pieces of art, only there to be looked upon, and forever beyond reality. I figure this must be the safest area. Without any forests or caves to offer shelter, where could the Infected hide when the sun is out? I guess there could be small towns off in the distance, just beyond those hills, their citizens once human, now turned. The vampires may stay locked away, resting inside shacks made from old cardboard and whatever scraps of wood they can find, anything to keep the sun out. The idea of an ornate coffin, varnished and clean, with velvet lining in which Dracula sleeps, is fiction. Even the Old Families wouldn’t touch that: They sleep in comfortable beds in elaborate manors.

  The scenery is repetitive; the train rocks me back and forth, making me drowsy. I lie down on the bench. And before long, I nod off to sleep.

  I’m in Valentine Manor again, walking down a familiar hallway. I come to the room where Valentine and I discussed abductions and blood supply. The door is open.

  When I peer inside, I see the huge table that stretches from one end of the room to the other. Victor is reclining on the massive throne where his father once sat. Waiting. I can sense the tension in him. His breathing is long and shallow, but his hands are gripping the armrests and I think that if he were suddenly startled he would rip them free of their mooring.

  I hear footsteps echoing along the hallway. I glance over my shoulder and see the ancient vampire servant who always escorted me to this room. He was once elegant and regal, forever polite. Now he just seems harried. He’s walking fast as though he’s afraid the lumbering man behind him will step on his heels.

  Roland Hursch.

  So much has happened, I feel disoriented and realize that this is the night that he was boasting about when I saw him on TV. This was the night that he was first meeting with the new Lord Valentine.

  The servant enters the room and bows. “My lord—”

  “I don’t need an introduction,” Roland Hursch says as he storms through the doorway, brushing past me as though I don’t exist. Maybe for them I don’t.

  The servant is obviously upset and confused. Protocol wasn’t followed. He doesn’t know what to do and is afraid that he’ll pay for it. With the old Valentine he would have. With the new—

  Victor simply nods. “Thank you, Eustace. You may leave us.”

  Eustace. During all my visits to the manor, I never knew his name. Was I any better than Valentine, seeing only the shell instead of a man with burdens and a desire to please?

  He closes the door with a click, and I’m inside the room. A ghost in the shadows. Observing but not really here. If I yelled, would Hursch hear me? Would I want him to?

  He’s dressed in a black suit with a bloodred tie. It’s the only color on him. I wonder if he chose it as a symbolic representation of the thing Victor and his vampires need so desperately, a kind of underhanded jab.

  The entire scene is shaky, like a picture moving just a little in front of me. I have to concentrate to hold it still, to keep the voices clear.

  Victor waves his hand toward a chair. “Please sit, Delegate Hursch.”

  “Look here, young pup, I have no interest in games. The power is going to shift. You need our blood. There’s nothing we need from you. Nothing. You’ll get your damn minions out of the city, every last one—”

  In the blink of an eye, Victor is out of the chair and slamming Hursch against the wall. His hand is wrapped around Hursch’s throat. His fangs are extended, glistening and close to his captive’s throat. Hursch’s dark eyes are so wide that I can see the whites of them. At any moment I expect them to roll back in his head.

  “What I did, Mr. Hursch,” Victor says, “was dispense with the need for etiquette. I did not dispense with the need for manners.”

  Releasing his hold, he steps back. Breathing harshly, Hursch slumps against the wall, deep white marks on his throat from where Victor’s hand had been wrapped around it in a death grip. I almost feel sorry for Hursch. He just got an unpleasant reality check. He’s lucky it came from Victor. Murdoch Valentine would have simply snapped his neck.

  Victor tugs on the cuffs of his suit jacket. “Shall we start again?” He walks to his massive chair, sits, and indicates the one opposite him for Hursch.

  Hesitantly, Hursch wanders over and drops onto the leather seat.

  “Now,” Victor says, “before we discuss blood donations, I want to know what happened when Eris returned for Dawn today.”

  Hursch’s eyes widen. “You know about that?”

  “I know everything, Hursch. What happened when Clive didn’t turn Dawn over to Eris?”

  “She had a fit, because no one seems to know where Dawn is. The little coward apparently went into hiding.”

  Victor’s voice cuts through the air like a knife, aiming for Roland’s heart. “You’re the last one to speak of bravery, Hursch. Where were you during the war? Where were you while your brethren fought and died in trenches in lands they never heard of? Hmmm …”

  “I was … I was fighting a different war. Behind the curtains, in the shadows.”

  “You were hiding in the darkness. You took refuge with all your money and all your influence and you ran far, far away until the war was finally over. Dawn’s brother fought. Dawn’s father negotiated VampHu when no one else would. And Dawn herself faced my father, something you always claimed you wanted. But you would not have survived. Trust me.”

  Hursch’s fists tighten, but he can’t think of anything to say and lets the silence linger for as long as Victor likes.

  “What of Clive? What did he say to Eris?”

  “Clive assured her that he has people out searching for her. She gave him three more days to find Dawn before she unleashes hell.”

  “Our meeting is over.” Victor rises and turns his back on him.

  “But the blood—”

  “You’ve already said you won’t deliver it. I’d strongly reconsider that if I were you; otherwise I cannot guarantee the safety of your city or its citizens.”

  His father once said the same thing to me …

  The door opens, and Eustace steps into the room. He always had the uncanny ability to know when the meeting was over.

  “Eustace will see you out,” Victor says.

  I can tell that Hursch is conflicted. He wants a confrontation, but one that he’ll win. He hasn’t yet learned that with vampires that seldom happens.

  When the room is empty, Victor sits in the large padded chair, leans his head back, and closes his eyes. I move forward. I just want to touch him, to brush his hair off his brow, to comfort—

  “You came back.”

  I spin around and star
e in shock at Victor standing there. I

  jerk my attention back to the chair. He’s still sitting there, eyes closed.

  “That’s me sleeping,” he says as he comes up behind me.

  I turn to face him, touch him. He seems so real. “And you?”

  “Me dreaming.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He skims his knuckles along my cheek. “I’m not sure I do, either. You’re warm. You’re … solid.”

  A snore startles me into a little jump. “The sleeping you is kind of creeping me out.”

  He flashes a grin and takes my hand. “Come on.”

  I follow him down a hallway that I’ve never traveled before. Statues of mythical creatures stand on pedestals—or at least as far as I know, they’re mythical. We used to think the same about vampires.

  He leads me into a smaller room. A fire is already burning in a hearth. In here paintings of sunrises adorn the walls.

  Victor releases my hand and walks to a table. “A little brandy?”

  “Sure.” I don’t know if I can get drunk in a dream.

  He returns to my side and hands me a snifter. Then he taps his against it. “To knowing that you’re safe.”

  He takes a long swallow, while I take a small sip. The fumes burn the inside of my nose; the liquid pricks at my throat.

  “Are you?” I ask. “Safe?”

  He turns away from me and walks to the fireplace. He stares into the flames. “I think things would be easier if we could just find Sin.”

  “Have there been any more attacks by Day Walkers?”

  “No.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. I almost tell him about the attack on the train, but he has enough to worry over. This is all just a dream. Do I really want to spend it talking about Sin and Day Walkers and the Thirst? I stroke my hand over his back, can feel the contours of his shoulders. “I can’t believe how real you feel.”

  He takes my snifter, places it on the mantel beside his. He cradles my face. “I can scent your blood, but it’s not calling to me as strongly as it was. I’m not sure if it’s the passage of time or because we’re dreaming together. I’ve never craved human blood like that before, but then I’ve never had to take so much. At first I thought I might go insane with the need.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, I’m back to just wanting you.”

  “But you walked away.”

  “And I should again. I would never turn you, Dawn, and that condemns me to someday losing you.”

  “Did it never occur to you that without immortality, it means I’ll lose you, too?”

  “But that’s the way it is with humans. You accept it.”

  “Doesn’t make it easy. And do we really want to spend this dream talking philosophy?”

  He grins. “No.”

  He’s still smiling when his lips touch mine. I don’t know if it’s because of the weird state of this dream but everything seems more intense. I press myself against him. I never want to wake up. I just want—

  “Dawn, please, please wake up.”

  It’s a rude awakening, the sunlight harsh in my eyes. I raise a hand to shield myself from the glare. Michael, crouched in front of me, hands me his sunglasses.

  “Thanks,” I murmur, even though I want to slip back into the dream. “The sun seems so much brighter out here.”

  “Yeah, I was noticing that. No smoke from the Works blocking out the sky.”

  My body aching, I shove myself into a sitting position. “Tegan—”

  “Is fine. Still sleeping.”

  “She shouldn’t be alone.”

  “Neither should you.” He can’t see me rolling my eyes behind the sunglasses.

  I stretch, trying to work out the kinks.

  “Here, turn around,” Michael orders.

  I shift around slightly. He sits down on the bench and begins kneading the muscles in my shoulders. He has such large, strong hands.

  “Oh, that feels good,” I murmur. Really good.

  “You have a nice, comfortable bed and you sleep on a bench,” he chastises.

  “I needed a little time alone.”

  “Not wise, Dawn.”

  He presses his thumb on either side of my spine and I arch my back like a cat getting up from a long nap in the sun.

  “Are you okay after last night?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “If you need to talk, you can tell me. What you went through was brutal.”

  “That’s the thing,” he says, stopping the wonderful massage. “I am fine. It was violent, but that’s what I signed up for. I take no joy in it, nor do I feel any remorse. It simply … is.”

  Michael’s shedding his youth just like I have. It’s as if the farther we move from Denver, the older we become.

  “A month ago, you and Tegan were complaining because you’d never been beyond the wall. Is it all you thought it would be?”

  “Not exactly.” He starts the massage again.

  “I’m sure you impressed Ian. I don’t mean to sound cold, but he’ll need a new protégé. You could work alongside your hero.”

  My shoulders have relaxed. His kneading has softened until it’s more caressing than working out knots in my muscles.

  “I’m doing what I want to be doing. The only thing that matters, the only thing that has ever mattered to me is you, Dawn. Even if we aren’t … together. I’ve always considered myself your guardian. When I was training, I wasn’t fantasizing about protecting the city; I was fantasizing about protecting you. Before you were ever a delegate. Before we even started dating. Throughout training, when they asked me to visualize the person I was meant to protect, I always thought of you.”

  This entire train seems to be empty, and it’s just us and that vast space. Somehow, though, the distance from here to those mountains seems shorter than the one between both of us on this bench.

  He eases up and I can feel his breath whispering along the back of my neck. “I miss you, Dawn.”

  I slam my eyes closed. I miss him, too, but it’s his friendship I long for.

  His hands cup my shoulders and he turns me to face him. His eyes are the color of rich chocolate, and they hold so much emotion. My life would be easier if I could simply fall into his arms and be content there. I can see how badly he wants to kiss me. And I know how great his kisses can be, but they aren’t enough. What we had before isn’t enough.

  “You deserve someone who thinks about only you,” I say in a low voice, as though that will lessen the sting.

  “How can you want a vampire?” he grounds out.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “You know a time will come when he’ll dig his fangs into you again, but this time he won’t stop. He’ll either kill you or turn you into a monster.”

  “No, last night he said the craving has lessened.”

  Michael stiffens, going into full hunter-alert mode. “He’s on the train?”

  “No.” I press my hands on either side of my face, rub my temples. Suddenly I have the mother of all headaches. “No. I don’t know why I said that. It was in my dream, but it was so real.”

  “You’re not fully recovered from your coma. You should never have left Denver. Maybe three days in Los Angeles isn’t such a good idea. We should probably turn around as soon as we arrive.”

  “No. I’m fine, Michael. Things just get mixed up sometimes. That’s all.” I stand up. “I’m hungry. Let’s go eat. Then I want to read my dad’s journal.” Until nightfall. At which point, I want to talk with Faith and Richard.

  Chapter 20

  Lord Percy’s demise has rallied the troops. Lieutenant Ian Hightower is being heralded a hero for taking down an Old Family vampire single-handedly. I celebrate his success but I also mourn the loss of an opportunity to speak with an ancient soul, with someone who might have been able to provide answers to the questions that haunt me.

  The vampires are hoarding secrets, dark secrets. Deep in the catacombs beneath Lord Percy’s m
anor, I found a vault with more writings in Ancient Vampiric. It’s not just the complex writing that creates a barrier to the knowledge that I seek. It’s the cryptic messages—half-formed thoughts, random musings, words that seem out of place. I find a reference to a plague and a mention that blood must be kept pure. Can vampires contract disease from us? Are they not immune to the Black Death? Or is this something else?

  Of note, within the vault was a painting. Fifteen male vampires standing behind a table. I recognize several as the heads of the Old Families. But who is the fifteenth man? I feel as though I am playing a game similar to one I’ve played with my daughter—what is wrong with this picture? Who does not belong? Why is he there?

  Is he the man of whom my father spoke? My father threw away his entire academic career looking for proof, always searching for the legendary lost family.

  Have I found it?

  Absorbed in my father’s writings, I barely hear the knock on the door. I can’t help but think that he is as cryptic as the vampires. What was my grandfather searching for? I never knew him—he died before I was born.

  I want to puzzle out what my father was referring to, to delve deeper into his writings, but as Michael gets off the bed where he’s been playing cards with Tegan, I have a feeling that I’ll be closing the book for the night. When Faith and Richard stride into the room I know I have more important things to address—like making sure Michael doesn’t try to stake them.

  He’s been moody and unnaturally quiet since we returned from the observation deck. Even with her blatant cheating at the game in order to win, Tegan hasn’t been able to get much reaction out of him.

  Despite Faith and Richard being on our side and the fact that I trust them, Tegan scoots back against the headboard, grabs a book she left on the bedside table, and pretends to read. Warily she watches them over the edge of the spine.

  Michael isn’t happy, either. He’s standing nearby, his arms crossed in such a way that he could grab two stakes and jerk them free as he’s unfolding his arms.

  Faith saunters over to the liquor cabinet and opens a bottle of wine.