Break of Dawn

by Chris Marie Green

  His old friend smiled tentatively. “Did your Underground fail? Is that why you want mine? I wouldn’t turn you out, Costin. You know I wouldn’t. Or . . .” He frowned. “No—you were vanquished centuries ago. After the vow, after we crossed the Danube and . . .”

  “I did not expire.” Costin fought to contain composure. “Not in the conventional way.”

  Benedikte was clearly frustrated because he did not understand. He had almost regressed to being a child, this man turned poor beast.

  Truthfully, Costin did not understand everything, either. But there was one question he needed to ask, one more emotional detail before he would do what he must.

  “Did you ever hear me calling to you, Benedikte?” From the prison. From his own hell.

  The Master shook his head. “No. Never.” For a moment, the odd light that consumed his gaze clarified. “Had I known you were still among us, I would have answered.”

  Costin had only wanted to know. “Yes, I believe that.” Then he nodded. “But now there is business to attend to.”

  “Business?” Benedikte pushed the wild hair back from his face and broke into a shaky laugh.

  Costin was not certain it was because he found the challenge amusing or if it was because of the many things that must have further scarred his friend during years of pathetic existence.

  “When my first Underground was attacked—by Andre, of all vampires,” the Master added, “it was a less-civilized moment than this.”

  Costin knew of the warring between brothers. At times, it made his job easier, if that was how one wished to describe it. Then again, it also caused difficulties when more than one master banded together to strengthen their societies.

  “This can be painless, Benedikte,” he said gently. He just wanted this to be over. “Can you tell me where our father is buried?”

  The blood in Jonah’s body began to thrum in anticipation. Though The Whisper had once clarified that the dragon was expected to rise in the late 2000s, Costin knew time was precious.

  But Benedikte was not biting—just like the rest of them.

  “Why are you here?” he asked instead.

  When Costin did not answer, his old friend began laughing—out of control, unhinged while he turned his body toward Eva Claremont again.

  “I wouldn’t have expected this from you,” Benedikte said. “All those rumors about our brothers turning on one another, and I never thought you could ever be one of them, dead or alive.”

  Little did Benedikte know just how far Costin had turned.

  But his friend was not done talking. He had rested his back against a wall, his gaze still trained on the woman.

  A quiet alarm began to beat in red and blue urgency over the Master’s desk, but the vampire didn’t mark it. Costin, however, did. Had someone else breached the Underground?

  Dawn. Perhaps she had blocked his final mind blast. He had been depending on its effectiveness, but he should have anticipated her strength.

  “I still don’t understand,” Benedikte said softly, oblivious. “After the world said our father was ‘dead,’ it should’ve been so easy. Instead of pursuing his throne from beyond the grave, he decided to quietly enjoy his powers, just like the rest of us. He lay low and allowed his enemies to concentrate on other wars before he formulated the plan of plans to return.”

  Costin had heard the tale before from other masters, although he had been forced to construct it from piecemeal parts. After his so-called “death,” the dragon had enjoyed many gluttonous pursuits. They had never been enough, though, so he had decided to use the element of surprise to regain his properties . . . and then some. Yet just as the maker had been readying those plans, a book had been published in the late 1800s, a work of “fiction” that had brought his legend to light, and it became impossible for him to maneuver undetected.

  That was when he had directed his soldiers, his most faithful, to step up their efforts in serving him. The maker was going to rest until his strength increased, and all his sons had to do was create their own societies, their own patriots who would help to populate an entire vampire world—not just a nation—when their father arose like a mighty god. Instead of secret conquering, the dragon was going to use force.

  Hence, for a while now, he had lain buried, sleeping in a coffin containing his native soil, gathering power while his soldiers multiplied in number. And when he arose, he would not merely have an army. He would have Armageddon.

  Costin repeated the one question that had not yet been answered—the answer to getting his soul back.

  “Where is he buried, Benedikte?”

  His old friend glanced away from Eva and at Costin, looking startled to discover he was not alone with her.

  Costin frowned. And this was the vampire who had been lured by a fascination for Dawn . . . ?

  Oh. Oh, no. Costin knew how Dawn had endured an Eva complex her entire life, and this was not going to help if she knew that Benedikte might have his own Eva obsession to fulfill with the superstar’s own daughter.

  The Master came to himself with a start. “I can’t tell you where our father is, Costin. Whoever has him never told me. And it’s not as if we all keep in contact anymore.”

  The paranoia, the greed—Costin knew what had separated the brothers and caused them to attack one another.

  “Then,” Costin said, quelling Jonah’s own escalating pulse, “we haven’t much else to discuss. I’m not interested in your other vampires.” After Benedikte’s death, they wouldn’t be a factor anyway. Locating the Underground itself was half the challenge. The other was Benedikte, who was the only one here who could match up to Costin.

  Benedikte’s eyes grew cold, and he became the soldier Costin had once known: proud, strong, a touch mad.

  “A soldier’s war then.” The Master seemed to like the idea of keeping the others out of it. “Just you and me.”

  Costin bowed to his old friend, out of remembrance, out of a resurrected respect for what they had been to each other. “May the best of us triumph.”

  As Benedikte’s body began to mutate, Costin emerged from Jonah, knowing he did not have much time to fight outside as a free spirit.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE VOID

  DAWN’S right ear was a wet patch of nerve endings on fire.

  Below her, Paul Aspen kept pressing up against her chest to maintain his hold on her against the wall. His other hand held her blood-moon earring.

  With a boyish grin, he dropped her to the floor. Blood coated her jaw and neck, and his nostrils flared as he took that in. But instead of begging her for a drink, as Robby Pennybaker had done, Paul jauntily undid one golden hoop out of his own left lobe and replaced it with her earring.

  It shimmered in red and silver glee.

  The pounding in her ear paced the anger that was gathering. Her head throbbed, as if containing a monster itself.

  “Does this make me cool, too?” Paul asked, turning this way and that while taunting her. “I asked the other Elites for permission to get first crack at you, and since I’m one of the oldest ones here, they were fine with it. Well, maybe they didn’t want to annoy the Master, but I’m past caring with you, sweetheart.”

  Arrogance—she could always bank on that from a bastard who’d sold his soul for fame.

  Her sight became the color of the blood wetting her skin as her head thudded louder.

  “You need some lesson learning,” he added. “And, sorry to say, but you set off an alarm, so if you think you and your pals are getting anywhere . . .” He flicked the earring, and it danced. “The other Elites will be waiting to take you all to school.”

  THUD—

  Her mind blasted against him, and she just had enough time to enjoy the comical look of shock on his face before he went flying back, knocking over a shelf of paper, sheaves spitting into the air and slowly free-falling. Through the chaos, she caught sight of him splayed against the far wall like a spider whose legs were about to be picked off by a wic
ked child.

  She could tell he’d underestimated her, even though he’d known damned well what she was capable of: it was written all over his drama-king face as his body began to flicker, on the verge of changing into Danger Form.

  Dawn whipped out the first weapon she came to in her bag, one that would be accurate at this range.

  The small flamethrower.

  Elites can walk in sunlight because of drinking the Master’s blood, she thought, but would they truly die by fire?

  She pulled the trigger, flame heaving across the room and catching the last falling paper on fire, just like Paul Aspen’s body. He writhed, moaning and screaming in fits while he slid down to the ground, caught in a conflagration. He yawed in a screech, his angelic beauty only an echo in the flames.

  Before water could begin raining from the ceiling, Dawn gave him another blast, crisping him to a modern art sculpture—an eternal work that would last through the ages. An Elite would appreciate that.

  As moisture from the sprinkler system came down, she dropped the flamethrower, reached for a machete, and cocked it as she jumped at the vampire.

  With one swing, his toasted head went flying.

  Time seemed to slow into itself, and Dawn took in what she’d done, water sluicing over her face. Paul’s separated head was blackened, his mouth gnarled in a whimper. If her earring hadn’t been embedded in the freakish charcoal of his flesh, she would’ve taken it, even though she had no right to the item. Not anymore.

  Unlike with Robby’s death, she didn’t feel any twinge of guilt.

  Then, as time sprayed back to normal, Paul’s body sucked into nothing.

  After cleaning the machete in the water, she went back to collect her dropped weapons and secure them, then reload her saw-bow. The ceiling stopped spraying, and Dawn withdrew out of her bag a capsule of healing unguent that Breisi had once concocted, smearing it on her torn ear. It neutralized the bleeding.

  Then she grabbed her revolver, her saw-bow in her other hand, and made her way out of the soaked room. The blood had washed away from her skin but stained into her tank top like a new, pale red emblem.

  Detached, she continued in the direction she’d seen Frank and Kiko run, but she didn’t get far. She was stopped by Jesse Shane lingering by the door of the emporium, as if on watch.

  Eyebrow raised in something like surprise, he smiled that killer smile. “This time when I ask you to play, I’m not going to take no for an answer.”

  Based on what Paul Aspen had said, Dawn knew Jesse realized that she was now on the Underground shitlist, so she didn’t take his invitation to Tiger Beat heart.

  This was just part of how Elites fought, both Below and Above: with mind games. With finesse, until their willing victims realized that they hadn’t been anything more than a diversion. A toy.

  There would be more Elites waiting in the emporium, so she wasn’t about to go inside. Besides, she needed to find Kiko and Frank. And where were the Friends since they’d disappeared from the Limpet house along with Costin?

  And speaking of Costin . . .

  A bruise seemed to swell in her chest at his name. With every pumped heartbeat it hurt more.

  Meanwhile, Jesse grinned as he opened the emporium door, looking around behind her at the same time. Had he been expecting Paul to escort her?

  The silence from inside the room spoke terrifying volumes.

  He jerked his head toward the entrance teasingly, making his summons all the more ominous. His longish golden hair gleamed around his face as he gave a perfunctory glance to her wet appearance, her weapons bag, her saw-bow, and her drawn revolver. Then he lingered over the blood on her shirt and ear, his nostrils flaring only slightly. Maybe the red was too washed out or tamed by Breisi’s healing gel, she guessed. It wasn’t a fresh temptation anymore.

  “Paul Aspen wanted to show me a good time, too,” Dawn said. “But I suspect you already know that.”

  The star raised a bare, muscled arm and leaned it against the wall in a sexy, naughty pose. His eyes began to swirl with the release of his Allure.

  But when Dawn blocked it, he raised an eyebrow, startled.

  Then he got pissed.

  “So what’d you do with Paul anyway?” He was just now acknowledging that Dawn had earned a killing reputation, that she had some mind powers. That she was wandering the halls away from the vampire who was supposed to have taught her a lesson.

  “Paul made his last mistake with me,” Dawn said, acting! for all she was worth. She was Cool Hand Luke right now.

  Jesse lost his photo-spread posture, going into a stiff, readied stance instead. Now she wasn’t just a toy anymore.

  For a loaded second, it was a standoff, neither of them moving.

  Don’t lose your cool; just draw when you’re ready. . . .

  He false started, and she brought up her revolver.

  But, in a flash, Jesse took her by the waist and tossed her into the emporium. She dropped her saw-bow in midflight: it wasn’t a choice if she wanted to land right. Skidding and then balling into a series of rolls, she balanced up to her bandaged knees, aiming her .45 at the first streak of movement to catch her eye.

  Yet, before she could fire, a whirlwind cry came from Jesse, and Dawn knew he’d gone into Danger Form.

  He swiped at her with a tentacled arm, but she anticipated him, jerking back just in time.

  A blow from another one of his arms blasted her off her knees, sending her through the air, and she slammed into . . . something—she couldn’t tell what it was at first because everything, including her bones, was ringing.

  In the vibrating craziness of her vision, she focused on where she’d landed.

  But she couldn’t see much. Not unless you counted the Elites circling her, all in misty, flowing, ghost-angel Danger Form. Maybe thirty of them, if she wasn’t seeing double.

  Out of panic, Dawn pushed out with her mind to swat them away, yet nothing happened.

  Angrier, she thought, you’ve got to be angrier. . . .

  But, at the sight of their surrounding beauty, she wasn’t. No, all she saw around her was the usual reluctant temptation, the in crowd, the startling perfection in every Danger Form.

  You can be one of us. She witnessed that in their mist, and she was drawn to it down to the depths of her soul. It was something she couldn’t resist, no matter how hard she tried.

  Her head tilted as she felt peace hush through her, felt the inebriation of being accepted, even if it was only a fantasy stirred up by discombobulation. . . .

  Then she felt her body being picked up by cold tentacles, and an Elite vampire whipped her around to face its heavenly countenance. As Dawn recognized Rea Carvahal, something told her to grip her revolver. But she’d already dropped it.

  Dawn tried not to get lost in the Elite’s breathtaking beauty. Instead, she told herself to concentrate on the vampire’s prideful ire shining through the mist.

  “Tit for tat,” the gorgeous vamp said, batting Dawn upside the head with a cloudy limb in imitation of what Dawn had done to Rea earlier.

  The cuffing had a gonglike effect. In fact, when Rea tossed her away, Dawn didn’t even realize it until she was halfway across the Elites’ circle.

  Another vampire swatted her in midair—gong. Then another. Another.

  They laughed at her, laughed and laughed.

  With each smack, she flailed in helpless instinct, trying to grasp on to something but catching only air. With each progressively harsher punch, she groaned, her ribs sore, her body pummeled with more than just physical violence—with mortification, too.

  They laughed harder. And harder.

  Finally, one vampire missed, and Dawn hit the floor, barely avoiding dinging her face on the marble. There, they allowed her to gasp for breath. She felt pulverized, shamed.

  “What about Eva?” she heard one of them say in the fuzz of her hearing. The voice was ethereal—angelic and demonic at the same time.

  More laughter. Then someone
answered in that same preternaturally tinged tone—male, female, Dawn couldn’t think what gender it was.

  “Screw Eva,” that vamp said.

  Hilarity ensued, and Dawn’s throat tightened at the cruelty. She was back to being twelve, teased by the other Hollywood kids for being a tomboy and not having a mother to go home to.

  Between the strands of their laughter, Dawn thought she heard something distant, out in the hall. A yell . . . maybe a cry.

  The Groupies, the Guards . . . Was it them? Were they coming now, too?

  As a pressure built from her chest to her throat, making her perspire with damp panic, she tried to push away from the floor. But a tentacle snapped out to slap her down. The side of her face met the marble, making it spike with pain.

  A different Elite spoke up. “We heard you’ve been a bad, bad girl, Dawn. The Master’s supposed to be mad at you—that’s the rumor. And thinking you could walk around with weapons to use on us . . . ? Who do you think you are?”

  Weapons—she needed them, just one of them. . . . Face smashed against the floor, Dawn snuck her hand under her belly, toward her bag.

  “Do you think the Master would like to be in on this?” another asked.

  Dawn touched something hard near the top of her bag. A silver-tipped stake—a close-range tool. She tried to dig deeper.

  “He can tell us later, when he gives us an update about what’s exactly happening now,” yet another vamp said, extending the lazy discussion that had gone from surreal to rude, now that Dawn’s head had stopped buzzing.

  “Update?” Was that Jesse Shane’s altered voice? “We kick ass on anyone who enters with a bag of weapons; that’s what the Master would want. That’s my update.”

  They all laughed again, like they were at a cocktail party listening to the action hero talk big. It gave Dawn the opportunity to squirm her hand way down into her bag.

  But when one of the Elites spanked her with a tentacle, Dawn froze, mouth opening in a stifled cry.

  Don’t you let them see your shame. Don’t, Dawn.

  “Bad girl,” the random vampire said. Actually, it sounded like Rea Carvahal. “I’ll get you again if you don’t tell us if Limpet came in with you.”