She spun in a column of flame, tossed around, flailing as she tried to grab on to something. The choking smell of sulfur took the place of Breisi’s jasmine.
Then, just like that, the air cleared, and Dawn found herself whole and still, just like she was part of an audience facing a movie screen.
Except she was a part of the scene. And . . . not a part of it.
She was one of three shadowed figures sitting on horses that were clopping along a dirty, night-soaked street dimly lit by moonlight and candle-fueled lanterns. The stench of waste permeated the air as they passed a drunk man garbed in clothes that reminded Dawn of some chunky king like . . . Henry VIII maybe? The guy was wearing a flat-brimmed hat with a sagging feather and something she thought was called a doublet, and also breeches coupled with filthy stockings hugging his calves. Weaving, he tripped, then fell on his face into a puddle of mud. He crawled out, heading into a bar—or whatever they called them in those days—on the riders’ right side, where sodden voices were raised in song.
Her companions, who were wearing matching long, gray capes with hoods just like her, reined in their horses just short of the doorway. The animals snorted, shying away from the drunken revelry inside. Dawn noticed one of her group was riding sidesaddle, though she wasn’t.
Then her body spoke, her female tone tinted with lower-class abrasion. “ ’E’s inside, is ’e, Rose?”
The response came in the guise of another woman’s voice, this one far more cultured, with an inflection from some other European country, but Dawn didn’t know which. “Yes, I sense him mingling among humanity. He takes great joy from their songs. Yet . . .” Her soft voice trailed into oblivion.
The third shape was male, judging by the breadth of shoulders under his cape. He didn’t say a word, merely hefting a wooden stake out from under his clothing.
The woman called Rose raised a hand to halt him as her horse stirred. “More than just a master is present, Will.”
Dawn’s seer hopped off her horse, eager, her cape flowing around a pair of breeches and high riding boots as she hit the ground. No skirt in sight here.
“In we go,” she said.
“No.” Rose controlled her nervous mount. “We have been told time and again to leave a lair be.”
Dawn’s seer laughed as the moon hid itself behind a passing cloud, then reappeared.
“It is law with him,” Rose added.
Even in the cloudiness of this vision, Dawn knew who “him” was. Jonah. He’d used other teams in the past, and she was in the midst of one now.
Her seer’s laughter had ended abruptly. “Don’t you lord it over me, Rose. Don’t you tell me what it is ’e wants.” For emphasis, she slid off her hood. Moonlight in the window revealed the blurred reflection of short crimson-blond hair that would meld with the color of flame.
Fire Woman.
The male of the group just shook his head, as if he’d seen this dynamic between Fire and Rose too many times to count.
Hell, Jonah had been busy back then with at least one of these women, hadn’t he? He’d fed off other team members.
Jealousy impaled Dawn, forcing her backward as if to take her out of the vision. Desperately, she tamped down her emotions, and the pressure to leave stopped.
As the bawdy tune inside lit into celebratory yells, Rose kept her composure, turning her horse around to face away from the establishment.
“He would ask us to return to him before any trouble strikes. He will be the one to enter. Will?”
The cape-shrouded male of the group said nothing, just watched the windows with the concentration of a mercenary.
“There’ll be no retreatin’ for me.” The Fire Woman’s horse pawed the ground as she glared at Rose.
“Kalin . . .” Rose began.
Shock clutched Dawn.
And that was when everything went into fast motion.
From the cacophony of the door, a woman barged out, flying, her voluminous skirts spread like wings as she opened her mouth, flashing fangs. She went straight for the man, Will, who just had enough time to raise his stake before she tore into his neck, sucking madly at him, her graying, upswept hair coming undone in her frenzy.
He screamed, spiking his weapon into her chest. In a shower of ash, she dissipated, and he slumped over his horse’s neck. His nerve-addled mount took off, leaving Rose and Kalin alone. But not for long.
Another vamp—a male—burst out of a window in a wide silk coat of many slashed colors. While Kalin ducked the tumbling glass shards, Rose drew her own stake out of her cape. Her hood slumped down, showcasing a lacy cap-covered head and a face Dawn didn’t recognize from any portraits.
Then, out of nowhere, a stream of fire zinged from Dawn’s seer toward the attacking vampire before it could harm Rose; the streak caused the creature to burst into flame, then ash.
Dawn looked at her seer’s hand. It was outstretched, fingers smoking.
Rose had turned toward Kalin, maybe to thank her since her mouth was open, but then . . .
Then a fist punched through Rose’s chest, spraying blood over her horse, over Kalin, who raised her hand again. She aimed, literally firing as Rose fell forward to reveal another male vampire behind her.
Kalin’s flame bolt knocked him backward, incinerating him in midair. Rose’s horse took off, wailing.
Breath coming in gasps, Fire Woman targeted around for other vampires. When none showed up, she pulled her horse toward Rose, who had hit the ground with a sickening thump. Her pale velvet skirts surrounded her, blood soaked. Kalin grabbed Rose, then shoved her up onto her own horse and mounted, spurring it to ride hard as she entered the night. . . .
Dawn’s mind fizzed. Heat, twirling fire, sucked backward—
With a startling pop, she found herself back in front of the portrait. She smelled of sulfur.
Wobbling to her knees—her body couldn’t hold itself straight anymore—Dawn bent over, veins iced with adrenaline, chest knotted. Gradually, she scented Breisi next to her, hovering and waiting.
“Did you see it, too?” Dawn asked.
“Yes.”
Of course. The Limpet spirits were one big happy family.
“Rose isn’t one of you.” Dawn used all her strength to glance up. “Why?”
“She wanted to rest in peace.” Breisi’s voice came softer, nearer, to Dawn’s ear. “And speaking of rest . . .”
Relaxed. Her Friend’s voice was like warm milk on a scary night. Breisi was putting Dawn down before she could yell out any more commands, wasn’t she?
Dawn fought to speak, her words slow. “Kalin? She’s . . . the one . . . in this painting.”
“You saw her worst memory. It lives at the top of her consciousness, but she takes strength from it, learns from it.”
Fire Woman, Dawn thought. Now she knew why Kalin was wrapped in a column of flame in her portrait.
“She was a hunter.”
“One of his first. One of his best.”
“And the . . . other Friends?” It wasn’t a command, just a question.
“Shhh, Dawn.”
Breisi’s voice was a part of Dawn now, a tickle in her ear, a warm gliding thing in her chest, a weight on her eyelids.
“You were all . . . hunters.” Smiling in her pool of hard-won knowledge, Dawn felt Breisi’s essence like hands on her back, lowering her to the floor.
Then a multitude of Friend voices joined Breisi’s, just as they had with Kiko all those hours ago. An ethereal chorus woven into a lullaby.
“Sleep,” they whispered, their song like blood in Dawn’s veins. “Rest.”
She was so content that she barely realized when another Friend entered the foyer, yanking Breisi’s voice out of the harmony.
Kalin? Dawn thought.
But she was asleep before she could wonder what kind of damage Fire Woman was doing to Breisi for allowing Dawn into her sanctuary.
EIGHT
THE SECOND SUITOR
WHEN Dawn came to,
the first thing that hit her was a slight breeze wiping her face. Cool and constant.
She opened her eyes, realizing she was feeling the air conditioner in a guest room she’d never seen before. Although it was fairly dark, moonlight peered through a slit in the curtains, bouncing off the white walls and allowing her to identify some decorative ivy trailing from the ceiling and over the posts of her bed. The effect reminded her of a conservatory: this might be a bright room if the sun were allowed in during its strongest hours.
Stretching her arms over her head, she languished under the sheet, lazy and content with the remnants of the Friends’ voices still washing over her—a wispy hum in her ears, a tune that sounded familiar, yet entirely foreign. The linen played against her skin. Someone had dressed her in a long, sleeveless nightgown.
Jonah? she thought. But it was the Friends who had given her the gift of sleep.
Among the hushed chorus in her head, she thought she heard a giggle. Sultry, lazy. Then another giggle joined the first, the laughter braiding together.
Dawn closed her eyes, allowing the sounds to flood her. And when she felt the sheet being tugged down, over her chest, her belly, she didn’t mind.
A soft female voice whispered in her ear. “Da-awn . . .”
As her nightgown slithered up her legs, pushed by an invisible force, Dawn jerked out of her sluggishness and opened her eyes. She reached out to grasp the nothing that was messing with her.
More giggles.
The cool breeze swept over Dawn again, but this time it was denser, stronger. Instinct told her to glance to her left, to the shaded corner of the room.
“Stop now,” said Jonah’s voice from the darkness. “She’s relaxed enough.”
Her skin puckered at the sound of him.
A mewl of protest accompanied a whoosh of jasmine as the Friends left the room. The ivy wavered with their passing.
“Some of them are just as bored as you,” Jonah added. “I would apologize for them interrupting your sleep, but since your adventure into Kalin’s portrait, they’re feeling more disposed than ever to bond with you.”
For some reason, Dawn drew the sheet up to her chest. The nightgown made her feel out of whack—exposed, even though it covered her in lacy modesty. “It’s not the first time they’ve nuzzled up to me. They’re a jolly bunch.”
Neither of them uttered a word. Dawn knew he was waiting for her to blurt something about her recent investigation into him. But what could she say that she hadn’t said before?
Just as the air was about to snap apart from all the stress, she sat up, the sheet still clutched to her chest, her hair free around her shoulders. Jonah had obviously loosened her usual low ponytail, and this unbound style added to her keen self-awareness.
The only way she could possibly feel comfortable again was to resort to old measures. “So you’re done plotting, huh? Did you come here to ask me for my hankie so you can carry it next to your heart while you go off and joust?”
“I’m not . . . quite ready to venture outside yet.”
Confused now. “Then why are you out of your cell?”
No answer—at least, he didn’t address that particular question. Instead, he dodged around it, as if trying to avoid his own motivations.
“I have gained much knowledge these past hours,” he said softly. “Except in regard to determining the Underground’s location.” He paused. “These vampires are all but undetectable while hiding below the earth. Most are.”
Dawn recalled how he’d looked like a warrior mentally preparing for battle while kneeling before that crucifix. “Were you meditating for answers?”
“I suppose that is close enough to what I was doing, yes.”
“Or maybe a higher power laid out your strategies for you.” She was kidding . . . sort of. The crucifix wouldn’t leave her mind.
“I’m fairly certain the Underground is waiting for me to come to them—when I find where they are.” He made a sound that resembled a laugh in form, but it didn’t contain any humor whatsoever. In fact, it sounded more like a choke. “Or perhaps I’m only waiting for enough courage to carry out what I have decided must be done.”
The naked admission surprised Dawn. She’d always perceived Jonah to be more powerful than anyone. Kiko had even hinted as much. But hearing confirmation that it might not be true scared her, made her realize how wrong she had been—and could be—about so many things.
“I’d like to say you’re going to do just fine,” she said, “but I don’t know enough about you to be sure.”
A shifting in his corner alerted her skin. Her flesh felt like a roll of flame.
“You know more about me now than you did when the sun first rose today.”
Jonah’s voice had taken on its usual ragged undertone, etched with that scratch of an accent. But what kind of accent? she thought. Had he smoothed out the influence of his homeland—the place she’d seen in Kiko’s dagger vision?
“I suppose I do know more now,” she said, “but I’m not going to apologize for snooping.”
“Tell me, what did you and Kiko see in the weapons room?”
He didn’t sound angry, as she would’ve expected, just . . . curious. And a little sad.
So she described everything to him: the dagger; the bound and mutilated man; the wild-eyed leader who’d taken the human seer and turned him into a monster.
“A monster,” he repeated after she’d finished, his tone analytical.
“How else should I describe what the seer became?” Her stomach was roiling at the memory of blood, warm and thick on the seer’s face, in his mouth.
“No, ‘monster’ is more than sufficient.” Something dark—a hunter’s hatred?—crept into his voice.
Had this seer done something to cause such venom?
“You’re the only one who probably knows who the seer was,” she said, hoping to ease the way open for him to spill everything. “And you know who that leader guy was, too.”
“I do know.”
She waited and, when he didn’t continue, chuffed. At least he was consistent, even when he was disappointing her.
“Dawn, you seem to forget how much you hate when Kiko or I or anyone else tries to get into your head. You don’t like your memories to be riffled through. You consider it an invasion. Why shouldn’t I feel the same?”
His words made so much sense that shame made her bow her head, her hair blocking her face from his view. She hid behind the strands, grateful they were unfettered just this one time.
Hadn’t she always despised starlets and Hollywood brats because they thought they were the center of the universe? When had she started thinking of herself the same way? When had she become just as entitled?
Jonah saved her from herself. “I do regret that we never had the opportunity to train in more than mind blocking.”
He was referring to her obvious emerging talent for . . . What was it—telekinesis?
“I know,” he said, “that you have made a habit of blocking people your entire life. The talent was always there, but . . . did you ever notice a propensity for striking out, as well?”
She hadn’t wanted to remember, but now that Jonah was trying to pull it out of her, a memory surfaced, one she’d tucked away in a mental box along with Eva’s crime-scene photo and so many other things she’d just wanted to erase from her conscience.
When she didn’t speak, Jonah said, “It will not hurt you to share. It cannot hurt you.”
He was right. Here, in the secure Limpet house, what was the harm? “I was . . . I don’t know. I can’t remember how old. Pre-teens? Frank and I were having another showdown—I don’t recall what about. Doesn’t matter. But I know I was angry. So angry. And I wanted to hurt him.”
“Did you?”
“Almost. We were in the dining room.” It was all coming clear now—the smell of the TV dinners she’d pulled from the oven. The clatter of a basketball game on the tube. “I glared at him and, all of a sudden, a fork flew off th
e table and almost got him in the arm. It missed by inches.”
“Did it ever happen again?”
“No.” Dawn shook her head until her hair slapped her face. “I was . . . horrified. Scared.”
“You shoved it away so you would not have to confront it again. You found other ways of taking your anger out on everyone.”
She nodded. She’d repressed it. So how was it that she could make things shiver and shake now? Had she spent so much time fighting this “talent” that she’d weakened?
Or had she gotten stronger through all this vampire crap?
“I wish I knew everything that’s going on,” she said, realizing it was no excuse for her recent behavior. But it was the best she could do, and at least her motives were pure.
“By the end of this, you will probably know more than you ever wished to.” He sighed. “The Friends even understand your insatiable curiosity—except for Kalin, that is. After you ordered Breisi to take you inside Kalin’s portrait, a smattering of hell broke loose between the two of them.”
Dawn jerked her head up. “Is Breisi okay?”
“Breisi always holds her own, even in spirit form, but you didn’t do much for Friend relations.”
“Well, I get the feeling Kalin does a pretty good job of ruffling Friend feathers herself. I’m sure Rose would testify to that.” She couldn’t help referring to the tension she’d seen between the two women hunters. “And remember the day you had Kalin bind me during that misguided foreplay session? The rest of the Friends were calling for her to stop and, when she did, they seemed to be arguing with her. . . .”
“Kalin has always been strong willed.” There was a warning in his voice—one that told Dawn to lay off the Fire Woman. “In her day, she was lucky not to be called a witch and murdered for it. Someone else I know has much the same attitude, Dawn.”
Well, okay. Touché then.
Even now, Dawn’s inner detective was kicking in, sensing an opportunity to learn more, at any cost. From what Dawn knew of Kalin, the older hunter would’ve done the exact same thing—pursued like a mad dog.
Break of Dawn Page 8
