Blood-Kissed Sky (Darkness Before Dawn) Page 26

  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’d 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.

  With a deep sigh, Michael sits on one of the cots. “I think I’m safe here. You could get to Denver faster without me.”

  “You are turning me into an echo. I’m not leaving you. Now get some sleep and I’ll keep watch.”

  “But—”

  Before he can finish, the beads are clicking again. Amy sets a large bowl on a small table. “Brung you some water and clothes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll help him put on the shirt I found for him.” She gives Michael another shy smile as she walks toward him. “Don’t want to undo Dr. Jameson’s handiwork.”

  While she’s tending to Michael, blocking his view of me, I quickly remove my shirt. I wash my hands, face, neck, and chest. The gray T-shirt she brought for me is soft and faded with age, somehow comforting.

  The beads smack again. Dr. Jameson is holding two mugs. “Decided you should have a little soup before you sleep.”

  She hands me one, then takes the other to Michael before leaving, ushering Amy out of the room as well.

  I ease onto the bed across from Michael. I take a sip of the thick, creamy, tomatoey soup. “It’s good.”

  “Yeah.” He barely opens his mouth to take a long swallow.

  “Are you in much pain?” Stupid question. I know he is.

  “I’ll be all right.”

  If he were dying, he’d say the same thing. Not only because stoicism is part of his training as a Night Watchman, but because it’s in his nature to downplay his own suffering. Even when we broke up after going together for several months, he contained his anger and pain as much as possible.

  I’m just grateful that we were able to become friends again after we separated.

  Once we finish off the soup, I set both mugs on the table and return to the cot. “You try to get some sleep.”

  Reaching across, he touches my leg. “Are you okay? Sin and that old vampire in the cave laid some heavy stuff on you. Just so you know, I don’t believe any of it.”

  I don’t either. It’s just not possible. “Thanks. I’m fine.”

  “I mean, your dad would have told you if you were … you know, a vampire.”

  If I was a vampire. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly against the obscene thought. I shoved back everything I was told. I wasn’t ready to deal with it—not while Michael was bleeding, not until we were safe. Octavian, the ancient vampire in the mountain, claimed to be the last full-blooded vampire of the Montgomery clan. He claimed I was one of his descendants.

  “Sin said I was a dhampir. Not exactly a vampire. More like some half-breed freak. But Sin has done nothing but lie to us. Why believe him now?” Especially when the truth could be so painful.

  Michael pulls back his hand, rubs it on his jeans. He probably doesn’t even realize what he’s doing—wiping me off his skin. He still hates vampires as much as I used to. He lies down. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired.”

  “Me either.” I hear him snoring before I’m fully stretched out on the mattress, my eyes on the beaded doorway. I can’t sleep, not for a while yet. I want to trust these people, but Sin has destroyed my ability to trust. He let us go so easily. What if he knew about this place? What if he has already made its citizens his disciples?

  But if they answer to him, then why not just admit it? Take us captive?

  Beyond the walls that surround us, I can hear the movement of people as they work: hammering, scraping, shuffling feet over the ground. It all sounds normal, safe. I fight to keep my eyes open, to remain on guard, but the past few days and the horror of last night have taken their toll.

  If I give in and sleep, I could also reach out to Victor. Victor, the Old Family vampire who changed my life and worked his way into my heart. After being terribly wounded during a fight, Victor was forced to drink my blood in order to survive. Now we have a connection where we can visit each other’s dreams. I shy away from the thought that this bond may be proof of my vampire heritage. What’s important now is finding Victor.

  I relax and succumb to sleep.

  I feel like I’ve been floating forever. Then I find myself at a place that starts my heart racing.

  The mountain.

  I’m inside the cavern where Sin brought us, where I met the Old Family vampire who claimed to be my ancestor. The area is awash in blues as the moonlight spills in from a hole in the top. I see the throne where the ancient vampire sat. Now there is nothing except a pile of ash. The sun poured through earlier and destroyed his body.

  A forlorn figure is kneeling before the throne, his fists clenched, his head bent.

  “Victor!”

  He turns toward me, and without a second’s hesitation we embrace each other. Although I’m in his dream, I can feel him. He’s solid, comforting.

  “Dawn, you’re alive. I was so afraid.”

  “I’m fine,” I assure him. “But how are you here?”

  Releasing me, Victor paces before the throne, combing his fingers through the ash of the vampire who once sat there.

  “Jeff and I were here,” he says. Jeff served as my bodyguard at the Agency. “After you came to me in the dream and told me Sin had taken you, I left Denver with him as soon as I could. But we were too late.”

  He throws a handful of ash onto the ground in frustration.

  “We were so close …” he whispers.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Our blood kiss has brought us together again. In this place.”

  Victor nods, still investigating the throne and its ashen king. “What happened here, Dawn?”

  I rush toward him and grab his shoulders, forcing him to stare into my eyes with his deep blue ones.

  “I’ll tell you everything when you find us.” There’s no time to discuss it now. Our dreams are so fragile that either of us might wake at any moment. We’ll lose our connection and the ability to communicate. “Michael and I are in a town, not too far from here. To the southeast. You’ll see a windmill. Come for us.”

  “What about Sin? Does he know where you are?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  I touch his face. The bristle along his jaw scratches my fingers. I’ve never understood how I can experience all these sensations when we’re together like this. “I need you, Victor. Please, get to us as soon as you can.”

  “I will,” he says, and I feel him move sharply.

  It’s like his body is being pulled from me by some invisible string, jerking him across vast distances. My hand passes through the empty air where he stood just a moment ago.

  He’s woken up, breaking our connection. He’ll find me. I know it.

  I walk over to the throne and stare at what remains of the ancient vampire.

  What if I am a descendant of the lost vampire family—the Montgomerys—as Octavian claimed? It changes
everything if I’m no longer human. What world do I fit in? The humans won’t want me, and since the Old Families signed a death warrant to eradicate the Montgomerys, I’m pretty sure the vampires won’t want me either.

  Like him, I may be cast out, forced into hiding, and left to live my life alone.

  Other Works

  THE DARKNESS BEFORE DAWN NOVELS

  Darkness Before Dawn

  Blood-Kissed Sky

  About the Author

  J. A. LONDON is the mother-son writing team of Rachel Hawthorne and her son, Alex London. Rachel has written many novels for teens, including the popular Dark Guardian series. Alex, a recent graduate with a degree in Historical Studies, enjoys combining history and fiction to create unique worlds. The Darkness Before Dawn series is their first joint project. You can visit them online at www.jalondon.com.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Copyright

  HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

  Cover photograph © 2013 by Derek Brewster

  Cover design by Sammy Yuen

  Blood-Kissed Sky

  Copyright © 2013 by Jan Nowasky and Alex Nowasky

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