After Daybreak: A Darkness Before Dawn Novel

  Dedication

  For all our wonderful readers

  who embraced the characters and the world we created.

  You made all the difference.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  The Darkness Before Dawn Novels

  Back Ads

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Sin watched them flee.

  From atop the mountain, with his keen vampire sight, he spotted them clearly: Dawn Montgomery, who he knew would join him eventually, and his old friend, Michael Colt. Michael used a slender broken-off tree limb to stake the vampire coachman that had driven them here on Sin’s command. He watched as Michael then unharnessed the lead horse and mounted it. Dawn, now aware of the vampire blood coursing through her own veins, pulled herself up behind him. Then they were galloping away from the mountain as though the devil were coming after them.

  But the devil wasn’t going to follow. Not yet.

  Dropping his head back, Sin spread his arms wide, stared at the vast star-filled night sky, and relished the sensation of his power increasing. The blood of the ancient vampire upon whom he’d just feasted coursed through his veins. How long before he became imbued by the Thirst? Was it even possible? He had seen only the Lessers—humans-turned-vampires—succumb to its influence. Perhaps it was merely fantasy to believe it could have any effect on a born vampire, an Old Family descendant such as himself.

  Yet even as he thought this, Sin smiled. No. It would happen. He could already sense the change taking hold deep within his heart. For years he had fed off other vampires with few knowing his dark desire to become one of the Infected. To many others, the Thirst was a myth. The thought of a vampire becoming a monster—developing an insatiable taste for his fellow kind, with human blood no longer serving to stave off his hunger—was the stuff of nightmares. Easier to deny its existence than to face its horrors.

  But Sin basked in the reality, because in the Thirst he recognized limitless power. He would be untouchable, stronger than any other vampire. Then Dawn would realize how futile resistance was. She would take her place at his side and they could rule together.

  Calmly, he watched Dawn and Michael flee farther and farther away. Sin looked across at the horizon. The sun would rise in a few hours and he would not fear it.

  But the world . . . the world would fear him. For soon, all he saw, and everything beyond, would be his.

  Chapter 1

  With my arms wrapped tightly around Michael’s waist, we ride out fast, eager to escape the mountains, desperate to escape Sin.

  Warm liquid pools against my hands. Michael’s blood. His chest is still bleeding, a four-strike wound from Sin’s claws as Michael tried to protect me. I press my palms against him, trying to stop the flow. Before Sin clawed Michael’s chest, he sliced open his cheek. The blood there has caked over, but the gashes must ache. We debated taking two horses from the coach, but Michael’s injuries are weakening him. I wasn’t certain how long he’d be able to ride if I wasn’t holding him. If he falls, I doubt I’ll have the strength to get him back on the horse. No way am I leaving him to the mercy of any vampires who are roaming the countryside.

  Exhaustion threatens to claim me. I can’t give in to its allure. I can only imagine how difficult it is for Michael to remain upright. We don’t speak as the mountains behind us become mere ripples in the sky.

  The clouds begin to change, lightening in shade, and then the moon fades. The sun rises, but it brings little comfort. It’ll send most of the vampires into hiding, but it won’t affect the Day Walkers.

  Michael brings the horse to a slow canter, giving it a chance to catch its breath. “We should stop, check your wounds,” I say.

  Michael shakes his head. “Let’s find some sort of shelter first. If I get off the horse, I don’t know if I’ll be able to get back on. Although . . . maybe you should go on alone, search for help. You’ll be faster without me.”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Dawn, you might not have a choice.”

  “I’m not leaving you, Michael.” I make my voice as forceful as possible. I don’t want to admit that he’s right. We’re the only ones who know the full scope and horror of Sin’s plans. One of us has to return to Denver, to let the others know so they can prepare to meet the new threat.

  Time passes. I don’t know if it’s minutes or hours. The sun beats down on us. It’s so incredibly desolate out here. My mouth is dry; my lips feel as though they might crack if I talk again.

  We have to find food and water, but where?

  The horse slows to a plodding walk. Michael is drooping in the saddle. How much blood has he lost? How much longer can he ride?

  Michael directs the horse to a steep hill and, kicking his heels against its sides, urges it up. We arrive at the top of the rise and look out over the vast expanse spreading before us. Thirty years of war decimated it. Ten years later, nature is still struggling to reclaim what it once owned—much as we humans are.

  Michael raises a hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. “In the distance there.” He points. “Is that what I think it is?”

  It doesn’t seem possible, but through the wall of shimmering heat—

  “It looks like a town,” I say.

  The Vampire Human Treaty, or VampHu, outlaws the establishment of any town other than the twenty walled cities agreed to in the settlement that ended the war.

  “Maybe it’s a mirage,” he says, and I can hear in his voice his reluctance to hope.

  “I don’t think so. I mean, would we both be seeing it if it were?”

  “Guess not. I’ve heard rumors that illegal towns exist beyond the walls, but I never thought I’d see one.”

  I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but we need to be realistic. Without the walls that surround the major cities to protect them, the humans in that town would be easy prey. “It might be prewar, and the odds are that it’s abandoned, but that doesn’t mean we won’t find water or food there.”

  “I could use a drink.”

  He could use a lot more than that. He needs medical attention. Maybe we’ll find something that I can use to tend to his wounds.

  The horse isn’t as sure-footed going down the hill, and I hold my breath, hoping it doesn’t stumble. But we make it safely to level ground and the horse trudges forward.

  The town, so small it seems threatened by the enormity of the surrounding desert, grows steadily larger. I spot a windmill, hear the clacking of the blades echoing over the plain as the slight breeze turns them. The tiny buildings begin to take shape, their odd placement showing no evidence of planning, their even stranger form indicating a lack of craftsmanship. Walls curve and bend at unusual angles, stone is missing from key foundations, and the road through the town�
�s center is little more than well-packed dirt. The only impressive things are the thick, clay roofs, which seem to be attached to the unstable walls by some miracle of architecture.

  As we near, we get a genuine surprise: men, women, and children. They walk along boarded paths, talk to others in front of their homes. People are working: patching walls, gathering water from a well beneath the windmill, sorting a myriad of boxes. I see smiles. I hear the din of laughter and conversation.

  We must look pretty sorry when we arrive at the edge of the town. Michael’s bleeding has worsened, our clothes are torn and dirty, and our poor horse is panting like it’s spent a year in the desert alone in desperate search of a cool lake.

  A burly man with salt and pepper hair that matches his beard approaches. He must be a guard. A rifle is slung over his shoulder, and a sturdy stake-filled bandolier wraps around his barrel-shaped chest. With steel in his light blue eyes and his mouth set in a firm line, he gives us a measuring look before shouting, “Get Doc Jameson!”

  A young barefoot girl with braids races off.

  The man helps me slide off the horse, softening my landing. I nearly collapse when my feet hit the ground, my legs unsteady after the long ride. Michael tries to dismount, but his weakness is apparent as he begins to fall, and the man quickly catches him.

  “Easy now,” he says. “No shame in asking for help.”

  Michael leans on the man and we all walk into the center of town. People stop what they’re doing to watch us. They’re probably wondering what sort of trouble we’ve brought. I’m just as wary. How have they managed to exist in this isolated place?

  A woman with red hair pulled back into a ponytail runs up to us.

  “He’s in rough shape, Doc,” the man says.

  “I’d say so.” Her face sports a constellation of freckles. She’s wearing a beaten and frayed lab coat. Maybe it was once white, but it’s now the color of the dust. She doesn’t look very old, and her movements are quick and efficient, her green eyes sharp as she surveys the damage.

  “Get him inside,” she says before turning her attention to me.

  “I’m fine,” I say, barely able to get the words past my moisture-stripped throat.

  “Don’t be brave just for your friend,” she says, examining my neck, and I know she’s searching for bite marks. “I can take care of you both. Follow George. I’ll meet you in the clinic.”

  I would’ve followed George no matter what. Michael’s hold on the guard loosens with each step, his strength sapped. I slip under his free arm, determined to get him where he needs to be, even if it kills me.

  The outside of the building is crude and simple, like all the others, but the inside is clean and tidy. On one side of a living area is an open office with a large desk. On the other, strings of beads serve as a doorway to a shadowed room. George walks straight through an opening that leads into what must serve as their infirmary. No tile or white sheets greet us, but care has been taken to ensure the dust and sand from outside don’t creep in. George lifts Michael onto an examination table that looks to be salvaged from some ancient scrap yard and hastily repaired.

  When George leaves, I step forward, take Michael’s hand, and squeeze it reassuringly. The gashes on his cheek look angry, swollen, and painful. I can only imagine how much worse the ones across his chest are.

  Dr. Jameson marches through the door, followed by a girl who looks to be about my age. Her blond hair is pulled back into a long braid. There is purpose in her movements as she sets a bowl of water on the counter. The doctor begins washing her hands while the girl arranges towels and instruments on a small table near where Michael is resting.

  A dark-haired girl enters carrying two glasses with clear liquid in them. She gives me one. “I’m Amy.”

  “Dawn,” I croak, before drinking the water. It’s cool as it travels down my parched throat.

  “Drink slowly,” the doctor orders.

  But it’s difficult. I never expected anything that didn’t have a flavor could taste so good.

  With a shy smile, Amy puts an arm beneath Michael’s shoulders and lifts him gently, taking the glass to his lips. He finishes it off quickly. She settles him back down, takes my empty glass, and leaves the room. I realize the other girl is gone as well. But I’m not leaving. Maybe Dr. Jameson recognizes my determination to stay because she simply ignores me and steps over to the table. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

  Scissors in hand, she proceeds to cut away Michael’s shirt to reveal the crimson furrows. I cling to his hand, more for my sake than his. I can’t believe he was able to help us get away. He must have been—still must be—in agony.

  “Nasty gouges,” Dr. Jameson says. “On your face and chest. What happened?”

  “Got into it with a cat.”

  She shoots him a warning glare. “Now isn’t the time for jokes.”

  Michael looks at me, hoping maybe I’ll crack a smile, but I’m too worried.

  “Someone swiped at him with steel-tipped claws.” The weapon, so frightening, seemed like a natural extension of Sin’s demented persona.

  “You’re lucky,” Dr. Jameson says. “If not for your ribs, these wounds could have gone a lot deeper, sliced into your organs. You wouldn’t be here now.”

  Dr. Jameson dabs alcohol over the torn flesh. I feel helpless while Michael takes in a sharp breath and cringes. He tightens his hold on my hand. He’s nearly died for me so many times that I’m losing count. I wish I could do more for him.

  “I’d love to offer you some anesthetic,” she says. “But all I have is this.”

  She hands him a piece of wood, about the size of my forefinger, wrapped in rope. Michael places it in his mouth and bites down.

  As she works a needle and thread through the wounds, she tugs tautly to close the openings. With every puncture, Michael grunts and tightens his jaw as he transfers the pain onto the piece of bark between his teeth. With my free hand, I brush my fingers through his short hair.

  I lean over so he can hear me easily. “Remember when we were kids and we played on the swings? Go there, in your mind. Go to a place where there’s no pain, no Sin.”

  He grows silent, and the doctor continues her work. I still feel the tension from his hand holding mine, but I can tell that my talking is distracting him. So I carry on, reminding him of all the good moments we’ve shared. He’s been my best friend for so long. For a while he was more than that.

  When Dr. Jameson is finished with his chest, she closes up the gashes on his cheek. “All right, all done,” she says when she’s completed her work.

  I help Michael sit up.

  “How do I look, Dawn?” he mumbles, trying to talk without reopening the wounds. “Am I still as handsome as ever?”

  Fighting back tears for all he’s suffered, I smile. He’s made another little joke, but right now it’s just a relief to know he’s going to be okay.

  “Chicks dig scars,” I say.

  Which he’ll have. Forever. Four deep strikes across his cheek, nearly cutting to the teeth, sealed up by a railroad of stitches. In a few weeks they’ll become small mountain chains of scar tissue. Then there are those along his chest, which the doctor is now covering with strips of gauze.

  When she’s secured the ends so the bandage won’t unravel, she studies me intently. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Just bruised a little.”

  She sits in a chair and sighs heavily, maybe slipping out of doctor-emergency mode finally. “So, who are you two?”

  “Dawn Montgomery,” I say. “Former delegate for the city of Denver.”

  “Impressive. And you?”

  “Michael Colt. Bodyguard.” Even away from Denver he’s careful not to reveal that he’s a Night Watchman. They’re a clandestine group, their identities always held secret so their families don’t become the target of the vampires they hunt.

  “Well, you two are certainly far from home. What brings you here? And is there trouble following you?”


  A lot, but while I want to reassure her, I’m too tired and can’t think of how to be diplomatic. “I’m afraid we’re a magnet for vampires.”

  “Who isn’t these days? But don’t worry,” she says, holding up her hand. “They never bother us here. I’ll have Amy get you some fresh clothes and show you where you can wash up while I get Michael settled in a bed.”

  “I’m not leaving Michael.”

  “He’ll be in the room through that beaded doorway,” Dr. Jameson says. “You can join him there.”

  “I’m not leaving him.”

  “I’ll be fine, Dawn,” Michael says.

  “No. We stay together.”

  With a wry grin, he looks at Dr. Jameson. “She’s stubborn.”

  “I’m getting that. Come on, then. I’ll have Amy bring the water to you.”

  With Michael moving gingerly, we follow her back into the front room and through the beaded doorway into a room with three cots and no windows.

  “What is the name of this town?” I ask.

  “Crimson Sands,” Dr. Jameson says.

  I imagine this place is in a delicate balance, teetering on the edge of oblivion. The harsh landscape can dry out societies, dry out souls. How many towns have tried to be Crimson Sands and failed? How long has this illegal town survived, and how much longer can it?

  “We’ll get your horse watered and fed. I’ll have supper ready for you when you wake up.”

  “Thank you. How long have you been living like this?” I ask.

  “Five years.”

  “That’s incredible.”

  “We survive by working together. Into bed now.”

  “We’ll do what we can to repay you,” Michael says.

  “No need. Crimson Sands has flourished, relatively, on the kindness we offer each other. It’s only right that we extend that kindness to those who wander our way. You could say it’s our little way of reclaiming the world after such a devastating war.”

  “By showing that you never lost your humanity,” I say.

  “Precisely. Now please, no more talk. You need your rest. Just make yourselves comfortable and sleep as long as you like.” She leaves, the wooden beads clacking in her wake.