Blood-Kissed Sky (Darkness Before Dawn) Page 10

  I begin walking around the other rows of flowers, taking them in, each one so unique, so beautiful. I know Clive wouldn’t want me out by myself, and I know he especially wouldn’t want me to tell Tegan what I’m about to tell her. But the thing is, I have to. She’s been through too much, and I can’t just disappear on her.

  “Clive is sending me out west,” I say. “I’m going to investigate the Thirst.”

  “Dawn, that’s insane,” Tegan says with a measured calm. Maybe it’s the beauty of the garden keeping her levelheaded.

  “There isn’t any choice. The Agency agrees that Day Walkers are bad, but we can handle them. The Thirst-infected are more dangerous, and far more mysterious. We just don’t know enough about them to defend ourselves.”

  “But they’re way out there.”

  “For now,” I say. “But if people don’t donate blood, then Victor’s vampires may resort to feeding on one another, and then …”

  “They’re right outside the walls,” she finishes for me, seeing the dire situation unfolding.

  I give her a moment longer to think about it, to draw the inevitable conclusion that I have to go out there.

  “No one else knows about this,” I say. “Clive wants my mission to be top secret.”

  “Then why are you telling me?”

  I take a deep breath, unsure if the reasons are enough. But I hope she understands. The Tegan months ago wouldn’t have, when we were just kids who let the world do what it wanted. I mean, I always knew monsters were out there, but I guess I wished it wasn’t true. I’m older and wiser now, and it feels like we’ve both aged years in a span of weeks.

  “If something happens to me on the Night Train or in Los Angeles, I need someone to know why I went out there. Clive will no doubt eventually tell Rachel and Jeff and everybody why I truly disappeared. But how much of the truth will he reveal? I hate the thought of my legacy being that I ran away because I was scared. I hate the thought of no one knowing I tried to stop the Thirst, that my final actions were in defense of not just the city, but all of humanity. I guess … I guess I just want people to be proud of me.”

  There it is. Laid out on the table for her psychological mind to dissect. I expect distance, her sharp intellect working through all the hidden meanings. Instead, when I look up, she hugs me.

  “We’re all proud of you, Dawn,” she says. “We almost lost you, and when we stood over you in the hospital, watching the heart-rate monitor beat so slowly, all we could think about was the sacrifice you made. The sacrifices you always seem to make.”

  I hug her back, feeling the tears start to build up as my best friend tells me what I need to hear.

  “Come back,” she whispers. “Please just come back.”

  “I will,” I tell her, knowing it’s a promise I might not be able to keep.

  Chapter 12

  Because of the attacks at the carnival, school is cancelled on Monday. I spend the day preparing for my trip: packing, writing letters to those closest to me, putting the sealed envelopes away in a desk drawer to be found later and distributed if I don’t return, napping so I’m rested. After darkness descends, Rachel calls to let me know that Clive has her working on an extra project that will probably keep her in the office all night. I’m sure that’s part of his plan. He doesn’t want her interfering with my departure. After I get off the phone, I write her a note.

  Dear Rachel,

  I’m fine and safe. I’ve left the city on the Night Train. Tell Eris that if she wants me, she’ll have to find me.

  You’ve always been more than my mentor and guardian. You’ve been my friend. Be my friend now and understand that I had to do this. I’ll see you soon. I promise.

  Love,

  Dawn

  I’ve just secured it to the fridge with a magnet when a knock sounds at the door. My heart gives a little lurch, because I know who’s waiting in the hallway and what it means—no turning back.

  When I open the door, Clive strides in. He’s followed by a figure shrouded in black—cargo pants, turtleneck sweater, black leather duster, his face hidden behind the balaclava. Around his neck is a medallion that identifies him as a Night Watchman. The design is so complex, weaving different metals in and out of its shape, that it can’t simply be copied.

  “This is the Night Watchman who’ll be traveling with you on the train,” Clive says.

  “Wait a minute. You didn’t say anything about anyone going with me.”

  “I’m not letting you go alone.”

  “But, Clive, you need all the Night Watchmen here, guarding the city—”

  “Dawn,” he interrupts. “This is nonnegotiable.”

  “But the danger you’re putting him in—”

  “All the Night Watchmen understand when they sign up that their life expectancy is shortened. Ian Hightower will be watching over you, too, but he’ll be distracted because of his duty to watch the whole train. I want someone with you who is dedicated to watching only you.”

  During the war Ian Hightower was a legend, the deadliest vampire hunter in the world. To vampires he was a walking nightmare who plagued them during the day just as they plagued us at night. He was the only human to ever kill an Old Family vampire single-handedly. Now he guards the Night Train.

  I know Clive is right—Ian won’t be able to watch me all the time, but I hate the thought of someone else being placed in danger because of me.

  “It’ll make it easier for me to sleep at night, Dawn,” Clive says quietly.

  I nod. “Okay.”

  “Good. Now, here’s your ticket, a letter for Ian explaining who you are, and one for the Los Angeles Agency director. Just before the train leaves, I’ll contact Ian so he knows to expect you, but I won’t give him any details regarding why you’re onboard.” He holds up a key. “This will get you into the last car. I’ve ensured that it’s reserved for you. But I don’t want anyone to see you getting onboard, so …” He picks up a duffel bag from the floor. “You’ll go dressed as a Night Watchman.”

  It takes me a long time to get dressed, and Clive definitely doesn’t know the first thing about women’s sizing. Though I doubt the Night Watchman uniform comes in teenage-girl sizes. Nonetheless, I put on the black cargo pants, black sweater, dark coat, and thick boots that are way too big. I look like a kid wearing her dad’s clothes for Halloween, and the end result is a giant black tent hanging from my shoulders.

  The final piece is the balaclava. I put my hair up and slide it over my head, covering my face. It’s tight and constricting. It takes me a moment to calm my breathing, to recognize that I won’t suffocate. I feel self-conscious when I step out of my bedroom.

  My Night Watchman looks at me and even his mask can’t hide his eye roll. He walks over to me, kneels down, and begins shoving my pant legs into my boots, then rolls up my sleeves, tightens the belt that holds my stakes across my chest. He then plays with my black hood, fixing the fabric, before finally handing me my medallion.

  It’s just like his, and the intricate scrollwork and mixing of metals makes me wonder how long it took to make. I put it over my neck and then study my reflection in the entryway mirror. The illusion is complete. The Watchman, with a few simple adjustments, made me look passable.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  He shakes his head and puts his finger to his lips.

  Right. No talking.

  I glance over at Clive. He gives me a solemn nod. “You’ll do.”

  It’s nearly dawn when my guard and I head out, walking to the train station. He hasn’t spoken a word. Not even after Clive left. He just stood with his back to the door, arms crossed, waiting.

  I’m traveling light, carrying a duffle bag with a few changes of clothes, toiletries, and some of my dad’s writings. Maybe I can discover more about the symbol that’s haunting my dreams. My silent companion has a bag as well, but his probably contains an arsenal of stakes.

  I’ve heard that before the war people used to leave their cities all the time
, would go on something called a vacation. But leaving the city now requires a lot of money. Walking through the streets I can’t help but feel kind of badass in these clothes. The anonymity, the stakes, the cool medallion. While I have some fighting skills, they aren’t up to the standards of our elite guards, but right now, I just need to convince people I’m a Night Watchman, not actually be one.

  As the station comes into view, a bit of nostalgia hits me. Michael and I had a tradition of watching the train roll into town. Crowds always gather for its arrival. Not so much for its departure. For many, the Night Train is a symbol that we aren’t alone. We’re isolated but still connected to something beyond us. Twenty other cities, populated by humans. It gives us hope.

  The massive train, forty cars in total, is waiting patiently. The blackened steel is covered with claw marks from vampires trying to get to the passengers. Even the iron wheels look oddly menacing, as if they have crushed plenty of bone and muscle underneath them in their time. Or maybe they’re just weary from carrying across the country the hopes and dreams of the human race. Smoke rises casually from the engine.

  A few passengers are waiting on the station platform, along with several Night Watchmen. Most of those holding tickets look surprisingly young and I wonder if their parents are sending them off to another city, some place that doesn’t have Day Walkers.

  My partner holds up a gloved hand, extending his first and fourth fingers. The guards nod, we move past them without anyone stopping us, and I wonder if he gave them a coded signal. I’ve heard Night Watchmen have ways to communicate without talking.

  Only the door on the first car is open, admitting passengers. The attendant, dressed to the nines, begins looking at each ticket before waving the passenger through. A Night Watchman stands next to him scrutinizing every passenger and looking out for those subtle nervous tics that give away vampires in search of blood. There’s a door on every fourth car, but since it’s still dark, they want to be extra cautious with any vampires who are thinking about hopping on for a snack. Now they also have to worry about the Day Walkers.

  My heart races as my guard skirts the passengers and leads me through the doorway. He slaps the Night Watchman three times on the shoulder as we pass, and I wonder if it’s another signal.

  The inside of the train isn’t exactly what I expected. I can see the potential for beauty that it might have once had, but now the wood is warped in places, discolored in others. Oil lamps secured to the walls remind me of Valentine Manor.

  As we hustle down the narrow aisle from car to car, I don’t have much time to notice the surroundings. My guard is moving with purpose and people duck into their private rooms, giving us space to pass. I peer quickly inside one and see sparse furnishings. A bench seat that probably folds out into a bed. A very small table. No windows. In fact, there aren’t any windows at all in this train, except for the glassed-in observation deck. As we pass by the circular stairs leading to it, I’d love to detour up them, but there will be plenty of time to check out that level once the train leaves the station and no one can order me off.

  My escort stops at a steel door, which must lead into the last car. He holds out his hand and I drop the key into it. He glances back. No one is behind us. No one is watching. He slides in the key, unlocks the door, shoves it open, and ushers me in. He closes the door and snaps the dead bolt into place.

  As my guard begins checking possible hiding places, I stare in disbelief around the room. It’s bigger than my bedroom, and more ornate than any room in Valentine Manor. A huge four-poster bed dominates one side, paintings line every wall, a chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and a fireplace at the very back warms a sitting area. Shelves are filled with books, tables stacked with fresh fruit, chairs complete with plush cushions. Hardwood floors glisten from being freshly waxed. A gigantic bear rug sits in the middle of it all, its pure white fur sticking up.

  “Nice digs, huh?” I ask, but my guard doesn’t say anything.

  Seemingly satisfied that we’re safe, he comes to stand in front of the door.

  I remove my balaclava. “I don’t know how you guys can spend so much time completely covered like this,” I say as I shake out my black hair.

  Silence. This is going to be a long trip.

  I hear one short burst of the train’s whistle. I’ve watched the Night Train arrive and leave enough times to know that’s the signal that departure is imminent. Five minutes at most. Time to deliver the little speech I’ve been preparing during the entire walk here.

  “Look, if you want to get off the train, now’s the time. No one is going to blame you. I don’t know what I’ll be facing out there. Okay, that’s not exactly true. I know there will be a lot of badass vamps and I have no idea how many allies I’ll find, but I’d prefer to go by myself. I don’t want to feel guilty if something happens to you. I already live with enough guilt to last me a lifetime.”

  It’s like he’s turned into a statue.

  “All right,” I say, accepting the inevitable. “So you’re here to stay.”

  Still nothing. The hood casts his eyes in shadows. I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

  “Well, if you’re not in the mood for conversation, then I’m going up to the observation deck once the train starts. I want to watch as we leave Denver. You’re going to have to lose the hood if you plan on following me because if it’s obvious I have a Night Watchman with me, I’m not going to blend in.”

  He gives a little twitch, like maybe he hadn’t considered that, that he hadn’t expected he’d have to expose himself. I wonder if he’s horribly scarred or if being hidden beneath the Watchman trappings makes him feel safe. The stories he could tell—

  If I can get him to loosen up, at least until we get to Los Angeles, I might have a fairly entertaining trip.

  “Might as well do it now,” I prod. I smile, trying to be encouraging. For all I know he may never show his face anywhere.

  I watch his chest expand as he takes a deep breath. Slowly, he raises an arm, grabs the bottom of the balaclava, and in one swift motion yanks it up and over his face.

  Michael!

  Chapter 13

  I stare at him in stunned disbelief.

  “Surprise,” he finally says, wadding up his balaclava and tossing it onto a nearby chair. But he doesn’t smile, and he doesn’t seem particularly happy to be here—but then I’m not particularly happy about it, either.

  “You can’t come with me,” I say.

  “Not your call.”

  “No, no, no. You don’t understand …” I rush over to him, wrap my fingers around his duster, try to get him away from the door so I can open it, shove him out into the hallway, and find a way to get him off the train. “Brady, what he was, it’s rampant out there. I couldn’t live with myself if you got hurt or worse.”

  It would be hard enough to deal with it if something happened to someone I didn’t know, but for it to happen to Michael—

  “I’m not leaving, Dawn.”

  The train lurches, and I stagger. Michael grabs me, steadies me, our eyes lock, and I see absolute conviction in his. My feeble attempts to get him off the train are nothing compared to his determination to remain. I sag against him. “Michael.”

  His arms close around me, and I feel the awkwardness in them. We’re not what we once were. We’re no longer a couple. But still—I was scared before. Now I’m terrified.

  “How long have you been a Night Watchman?” I ask.

  “Can we save the questions for later? I’ve got a slew of my own, too—but I really like your idea of watching us roll out of Denver.”

  Michael’s never been beyond the wall—except for one night when we went wall-walking with Sin and found a way out of the city, but we didn’t go far. The city’s shadow still touched us.

  I work my way out of his embrace, still in disbelief that he’s here. I give him a wobbly smile. Get it together, Dawn. You’ll figure out how to ditch him when you get to Los Angeles. A way to keep him safe w
hile still doing what you need to do.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say. I can give him this, at least, a view of Denver that most people never see.

  Michael quickly takes off his heavy coat, sweater, and bandolier, leaving only his dark pants and undershirt. He opens his duffel bag, shoves the clothes inside, and pulls out a dirt-brown shirt. Putting that on, he buckles the stake-filled belt around his chest and throws a casual jacket over it. His weapons are hidden, and he looks like any other passenger.

  I follow suit, stripping away the heavy Night Watchman’s disguise and revealing the simple civilian’s clothes underneath.

  We head into the passageway, our steps a little unsteady with the rocking of the train. We reach the metal curving stairs and ascend them to the observation deck. Its walls are made of thick, shatterproof glass. Chairs are dotted throughout but no one is using them. Everyone is standing, as though what they are seeing deserves that sort of respect. Michael takes my hand and wedges me between two people until I’m right next to the window. He puts his arms on either side of me, pressing his palms to the glass, creating a buffer between me and everyone else—just like he used to do back when we were a couple standing at the barricade watching the Night Train roll in.

  “You’re getting your wish of going beyond the wall,” I whisper, trying to pretend everything is normal, trying to ignore the danger he’s placed himself in by coming with me.

  He gives me a small smile, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the old Michael, the one who could make me laugh, the one with whom I used to share my dreams. “Pretty exciting.”

  “Not too exciting, I hope,” I tease. “A dull, boring ride to Los Angeles would make me much happier.”

  The city is rushing past us and the sun is rising higher to reveal that we’ve slipped beyond the part that has been rebuilt. From here, it looks like the destruction of the war was only last week.

  “There’s the wall,” Michael says quietly. “Too late to turn back.”