First Light (The Daylight Cycle, #1)

by Kody Boye

  FIRST LIGHT

  The Daylight Cycle, Book 1

  Kody Boye

  First Light

  (Daylight, #1)

  By Kody Boye

  Copyright © 2015. All Rights reserved

  Edited by Melodie Ladner

  Cover art by Corey Hollins

  Interior formatting by Kody Boye

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the proper written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situation are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Dedicated to the fans of Sunrise.

  Your perseverance and dedication helped me keep going during the darkest times in my life.

  “Because I could not stop for Death

  He kindly stopped for me

  The Carriage held but just Ourselves

  And Immortality.”

  Emily Dickinson

  Chapter 1

  That morning, Rose woke to the sound of a scream echoing throughout the flat.

  “But he loves me!” her roommate, Mary, cried.

  “Oh, get off it,” said her other roommate, her best friend Lyra. “He’s nothing but a wanker and you know that.”

  “He is not!”

  “He so is!”

  “He is—”

  Good God, Rose thought, floundering onto her side. Not this again.

  She blankly looked at the bedside clock—which displayed nothing more than her pasty reflection and the abysmal hour of ten-fifteen—and allowed her head to fall face-first into the pillow.

  There was no way she was going back to sleep.

  Once it started, it rarely ended.

  The sound of Mary’s whalesong reverberated throughout the flat at such a pace Rose felt her head would shake. Only occasionally muffled by the tone of Lyra’s comforting but equally-enthusiastic sarcasm, it continued for the next several minutes, but then a door slammed, thus ending the next act in the story of Mary’s dramatic love affair with Spencer.

  “Finally,” Rose mumbled. “Peace.”

  No sooner had she settled into her comfortable spot than a knock came at her door.

  Great.

  “Yeah?” Rose asked, hoping she was dreaming.

  “Are you awake?” Lyra replied.

  “Sorta.”

  “Well getcha ass out here. Don’t let me deal with this shit alone.”

  I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Rose thought.

  Groaning, she rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bedroom door in her nightclothes, only briefly glancing at her dark-haired, aquamarine-eyed reflection in the mirror. Lyra—who greeted her with a traditional raised eyebrow and crossed arms—briefly shifted her weight onto one leg before huffing air between luscious lips. “Lovely way to start the morning, eh?”

  “You’re not kidding there,” Rose replied, reaching up to push her dark hair from her bleary eyes. “What about you? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “The bloody idiot burst into the door just as I was about to leave and started wailing on about that slag. Spencer, Spencer! Oh, he loves me! God, what a fucking moron—the both of them. I missed the train and now I’m late.”

  “And you haven’t left because?”

  “Because Mary, if you haven’t noticed, is going to seek sympathy from you as soon as possible. It’s the way of the world: I call Spencer a slag, she goes on about how she loves him, then she storms into her room and awaits your ballroom entrance. I just thought I’d let you know what was going on beforehand.”

  “Thanks,” Rose mumbled. “I guess.”

  Lyra laughed. “God,” she said. “If a girl doesn’t have enough to worry about, all she has to do is wait for her roommate to come home and she’ll have a whole ‘nother purpose in life.”

  “At least she talks to you.”

  “Complains, more like it.”

  Shrugging, Rose slipped past Lyra and into the kitchen. The early-morning light that seeped through the high windows was almost enough to blind her.

  “Shit,” she said, shielding her eyes with her forearm.

  “You say that every morning,” Lyra commented.

  Rose cast a glance over her shoulder and flipped her friend the bird. Lyra, always the more eager of them, was quick to return it.

  “Off now,” she said. “See ya.”

  “See ya,” Rose replied.

  She watched Lyra grab her keys off the rack and walk out the front door.

  Rose sighed.

  The silence of the morning should’ve been spent in bed—dreaming blissfully of insignificant things like dandelions and rainbows—especially after an all-night study session.

  Oh well, she thought. You want to cross bridges, you’re going to have to build them first.

  She chuckled at the irony, considering she aspired to become an architect, and idly swept her gaze along the shelves, taking note of the assorted knickknacks and other memorabilia—most specifically, pictures. Several of her and Lyra--detailing a friendship that had thrived since Rose’s move to England when she was sixteen--were her primary focus.

  And to think I thought I would never fit in here.

  That first day in secondary school had changed everything—when, out of nowhere, a pretty black girl with the name of a beautiful instrument took her under her wing.

  Ten years later, they were still friends.

  Even if you’re an American snob, Lyra would’ve said.

  Rose giggled and reached into the fridge to pull out a carton of orange juice.

  Almost immediately, the reality of her exhaustion became clear.

  Though classes wouldn’t begin until that afternoon, she had little hope that she would get any rest.

  By the time she collapsed on the couch that night, she was ready to pass out.

  “You look beat,” Lyra remarked.

  Rose rolled her eyes to find Lyra standing opposite her, nibbling on what appeared to be a pastry.

  “Huh?” Rose asked, struggling to make sense of what her friend had just said.

  The other woman inclined her chin toward the dingy television set against the wall. “You hear anything about that?”

  “What?” Rose asked, straightening. “America?”

  Lyra nodded and chewed on her pastry. The thick crunch of bread beneath her teeth pierced Rose’s ears and stabbed hunger into her gut. “You ask me,” Lyra said, “probably just a load of shite. People fight. There’s riots. But no—American sensationalism, always getting everything riled up.”

  “But this has been happening all over the country.”

  “What? You think it’s terrorism or something?” Lyra vaguely nodded and sunk her teeth into her lower lip. “Yeah. I can see that—I mean, if it’s something like 9/11 or some shit. Puttin’ something in the water, spraying it in the air. I mean, God—have you seen the shit they put in their food? People were bound to go crazy eventually.”

  The notion of ‘crazy’ didn’t necessarily suit the scattered reports coming in from overseas. Even Rose’s techno-conscious self hadn’t been able to sort the truth from fiction. Cries of ‘censorship’ and ‘constitutional rights’ had been quickly spewed, but in their place had risen American firewalls blocking access to information. She could’ve hacked it, if she wanted—her internet haunts as a teenager h
ad endowed her with such useful skills. Her only deterrent was the fact that they were on university internet and that she could be expelled.

  “What’re they saying now?” Rose asked. “I mean… if they’re saying anything.”

  “It’s the same thing, over and over. Attacks. Attacks, attacks, attacks.”

  “Mass violence?”

  “Not yet, but it’s getting there. It hit New York a few days back and has been spreading ever since.”

  Rose lowered her head and only slightly avoided Lyra’s gaze. It wasn’t as though she could blame her friend for forgetting her Queens lineage. She’d been here so long Lyra often introduced her as ‘her friend Rose from London.’

  “Shit,” Lyra said. “I’m sorry, Rose.”

  “It’s ok. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Have you been able to get a hold of your Mum? Or your Dad?”

  “No. Phones are down. I get a busy signal anytime I try.”

  A rough sigh escaped Lyra’s chest as she rounded the couch and settled down next to Rose. Slinging an arm around her shoulders, Lyra leaned into her side, bumped their heads together, and pulled her into a tight hug. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what else I can say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything,” Rose said.

  “Think of it this way: at least in America they have guns. That’s got to be some comfort, right?”

  A shrug followed by a short but forced nod gave answer to Lyra’s unintentionally hurtful testament.

  People in New York didn’t have guns. They were illegal.

  Sighing, Rose pulled away and craned her head about, her gaze instinctively falling upon the darkened hallway leading to the bathroom and bedrooms. “What about Mary?” she asked. “How’s she been?”

  “In her room. Cryin’. She kept trying to call that twat all day and couldn’t get an answer. I told her to suck it up and forget it, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “Because she knows you don’t like him.”

  “Because he’s a fuckin’ wanker!”

  Rose lifted a hand to suppress a giggle, which Lyra returned with a simple roll of her eyes before standing and making her way to the kitchen. “Should I go talk to her?” Rose finally asked.

  “Don’t you dare start her up again.”

  Standing, Rose pushed her arms over her head, arched her back, and cast another glance over at Lyra before starting toward the hallway. “I’m gonna call it,” she said, spinning to face her friend. “Long night, even longer day. Wake me up if anything exciting happens.”

  “I hope not,” Lyra said, then paused, eyes shifting toward her friend. “Hey... wait a sec. Have you eaten anything yet?”

  “Too tired,” she replied. “I’ll do it later.”

  “Yeah yeah. Skinny bitch.”

  Rose merely laughed before walking down the hall.

  “And he… he… he…” Mary’s wailing voice said from outside Rose’s bedroom.

  “He what?” Lyra asked. “You sound like a fuckin’ idiot when you blubber like that. Either tell me what he did or—”

  “He gave me an engagement ring!”

  What… the fuck, Rose thought, pulling her wet hair back over her shoulders before she started toward the door.

  Before she could reach for the door, it opened to reveal Mary—mascara smeared down her face, nose etched with snot, and lips quivering as she held her hand out before her. “I’m engaged!” she wailed.

  “Oh God,” Rose said, taking note of the ring upon her roommate’s finger, which looked to be a diamond, but she expected otherwise. Mary bowed her face into her hands and sobbed. Rose took careful care in pressing her hands against her roommate’s shoulders and wrapping her in a partial hug. “Congratulations, Mary. That’s amazing. But are you sure you should be getting married when you and Spencer have such an on-off relationship?”

  “He loves me!” Mary cried. “He loves me, Rose! Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”

  “Maybe because he’s the biggest slag this side of London,” Lyra muttered—apparently too loud, since Mary burst into a fresh set of sobs and stormed out of the room. “Uh-oh. Guess she heard that.”

  “It’s the truth that hurts,” Rose replied with a sigh. She straightened herself out and looked Lyra in the eye. “You ok?”

  “Uh… yeah. Just… a little bothered by what I’ve been seeing on the telly.”

  “What’s that?”

  Rather than say anything, Lyra led her down the hall and into the living room. A short moment later, their eyes were on a news broadcast whose LIVE captioning appeared to dictate something of serious concern.

  “Dr. Lionel,” an anchorwoman said, holding her interlaced hands steadily before her as video of a violent confrontation inside a shopping mall played on the monitors behind them. “You’re a doctor of psychology at the University of Princeton. What do you have to say about the violence that’s occurring in New York City?”

  “Herd mentality—what most everyone refers to now as ‘mob mentality’—is common within all aspects of the animal kingdom. Think of the bison that move across the plains, or sheep that flock together to avoid predators: they do so because they feel the need to band together to take control of something, or at least exhibit a sense of security that comes with being a part of a group. As humans, we often react the same ways that animals do. We are evolutionarily designed as pack animals in order to survive—to share resources and seek company in others. In our case, mob mentality is often spurred by choice events that cause ripple effects across psychologies of crowds. It’s like someone shouting fire in a theater—if one person strikes a match, the rest of the building will go up in flames.”

  “What do you believe is causing these riots?”

  “They are believed to have been caused by a demonstration making its way through the streets of New York. It’s no surprise that people would be upset over the American President’s decision to leave armed troops behind in Afghanistan and Iran, especially after Great Britain withdrew their support. So when the demonstration came to Times Square and their message was being heard by a mass audience, the crowd erupted and violence surged.”

  “Are there confirmed reports of this?”

  “No. There are not.”

  “This doesn’t tell me anything,” Rose said.

  “It’s not that,” Lyra said. “It’s this.”

  Lyra flipped the channel.

  The local Liverpool station burst into life.

  Written across the bottom of the screen in red letters were the words, Violence arrives in England.

  Rose swallowed the lump that developed in her throat. “It’s here, then,” she said. “Whatever it is.”

  “Yeah,” Lyra said. “Coulda told you that much.”

  “Have they been saying anything on the news?”

  “Not really. It’s all been bar fights—drunk people, really. But that’s not surprising considering the area we live in.”

  The acknowledgement of their location did little to diminish the implications of such a threat. Having crossed the ocean, no longer was this an American threat. It posed an undeniable question that seeped into her mind like a bad seed whose roots spread deep into fertile soil.

  The calamity was simple.

  Who was doing this, and what--if anything--did they want?

  And what if it gets here?

  Common rationale led her to believe that such a thing was impossible. One half argued that the outrageous claims could not be substantiated, because little information was being released. Another, meanwhile, beckoned the possibility of what might happen if this ‘mob mentality’ were to come to their small town.

  The idea didn’t sit well with her.

  They lived in a three-story apartment that stood no more than three miles from the coast. Ten miles away stood Liverpool, then ten miles beyond that, the John Lennon Liverpool Airport. Statistically speaking, mass viruses—if it was, in fact, a viral outbreak—were quick to spread upon internationa
l travelling routes. She understood enough about biology to know that subtle symptoms would go unnoticed—coughing, sneezing, weeping eyes, itchy flesh. All were indicative of pollen allergy, but if someone had happened to create a virus mimicking such effects…

  The faint ‘click’ of the TV going dark knocked her from her reverie.

  “Rose?” Lyra asked.

  “Are they saying anything about us?” she asked, the beat of her heart returning to her chest.

  “Only to be cautious and not go anywhere alone.”

  Rose shook her head and pressed a hand to her temple, grimacing as her class ring chilled her skin. “Great,” she said. “That’s all we needed. Fucking lunatics in the streets.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Lyra smiled. “At least Mary is engaged.”

  Rose groaned.

  The quiet morning was pierced by the harrowing sound of a gunshot.

  From their place in the living room, Lyra and Rose raised their heads.

  “What in the world was that?” Lyra asked.

  “I… I think that was a gunshot,” Rose replied, making her way to the balcony window to look out at the street below.

  “Nah, couldn’t be.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  A second shot, followed by a third ripped through the afternoon. What sounded like a scream followed shortly thereafter.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Lyra asked, fumbling through the mass of magazines on the coffee table. “Fucking hell! Where the hell’s this stupid piece of motherfucking shit remote when you absolutely fucking need—”

  The click of the TV coming to life silenced Lyra midsentence.

  The hairs on Rose’s arms stood on end.

  All she could hear was the monotone drone of a dead channel.

  “Lyra,” Rose said, her attention set firmly on the street as another gunshot barked through the morning. The sound of squealing tires, then the bang and subsequent alarm indicated a car had crashed. “Why is the TV making that noise?”