Wonder Woman: Warbringer
by Leigh Bardugo
Batman: Nightwalker
by Marie Lu
Catwoman: Soulstealer
by Sarah J. Maas
Superman: Dawnbreaker
by Matt de la Peña
Superman created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster. By special arrangement with the Jerry Siegel family.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 DC Comics.
SUPERMAN and all related characters and elements © & TM DC Comics. WB SHIELD: TM & © WBEI. (s19)
RHUS38089
Cover art used under license from Shutterstock.com
Logo by Stuart Wade
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Random House and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
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Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: de la Peña, Matt, author.
Title: Superman: dawnbreaker / Matt de la Peña.
Other titles: Dawnbreaker | Dawn breaker
Description: First edition. | New York: Random House, [2019] | Series: DC icons series
Identifiers: LCCN 2018042230 | ISBN 978-0-399-54965-6 (hardback) | ISBN 978-0-399-54966-3 (lib. bdg.) | ISBN 978-1-9848-5194-9 (int’l) | ISBN 978-0-399-54967-0 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PZ7.P3725 Sup 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
Ebook ISBN 9780399549670
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
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Contents
Cover
Other Titles
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Excerpt from Batman: Nightwalker
Excerpt from Catwoman: Soulstealer
Excerpt from Wonder Woman: Warbringer
TO OUTSIDERS EVERYWHERE
AND TO THE TEACHERS WHO SEE US
The storm came with little warning. A flash of lightning lit up Clark’s glasses as he huddled beneath the Java Depot awning with three former football teammates, all of them watching the sudden deluge pound the streets of downtown Smallville. The whipping rain had forced them elbow to elbow, and if Clark exercised a little amnesia, it almost felt like old times, back when he and the football squad were thick as thieves.
He doubted they would ever be close like that again.
Not after he had quit on them.
Clark had always marveled at the power of thunderstorms, which put even his own mysterious strength into perspective. For others, the storm was nothing more than a nuisance. An older businessman, holding a briefcase over his head, sprinted toward a silver SUV, where he beeped open his door and dove inside. A drenched calico slunk beneath an industrial trash bin, looking for a dry place to wait out the downpour.
“We can’t just stand here all day,” Paul shouted over the roar of the rain. “Come on, let’s make a run for the library.”
Kyle crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. “Dude, this shit is, like, biblical. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I guess we could just do this here.” Tommy glanced back at the closed door of the coffee shop before turning to Clark. “Cool with you, big guy?”
Clark shrugged, still wondering what “this” was.
And why no one else could be within earshot.
He had been more than a little surprised when Tommy Jones, a lumbering offensive lineman, approached him at school wanting to “hang out.” He’d been equally surprised when Tommy then showed up at the coffee shop with star running back Paul Molina and fullback Kyle Turner. After all, they’d wanted nothing to do with Clark for the better part of two years—since the day he abruptly left the freshman team midseason.
Now here they all were, kicking it on Main Street again.
Like nothing had ever happened.
But Clark knew there had to be a catch.
Tommy raised the brim of his baseball cap and cleared his throat. “I’m guessing you know our record this past season,” he began. “We sort of…underachieved.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Kyle said, and Paul shook his head in disgust.
Clark should have known. This meetup was about football. Because when it came to Tommy, Kyle, and Paul, everything was about football.
“Anyway, us three have been talking.” Tommy slapped a big, meaty hand onto Clark’s shoulder. “We’ll all be seniors next year. And we wanna go out with a bang.”
A massive clap of thunder echoed overhead, causing the three football players to flinch. Clark had never understood that reaction. How even the bravest people he knew could get so spooked by a little thunder. It was yet another example of how different he was from his peers. The guys tried to play off their jumpiness by checking their phones and studying their drinks.
That’s when Clark noticed something odd.
About thirty yards to his right, a wire-thin man in his early twenties was standing in the middle of the road, holding out his arms and staring up into the pouring rain. He had a tight buzz cut, and he was dressed head to toe in brown. Brown long-sleeved shirt. Brown pants. Brown combat boots. Clark had an uneasy feeling about the guy.
“Look at this freak,” Paul said, noticing him, too.
“Who?” Tommy asked.
“Over there.” Paul pointed, but a slow big rig rumbled by, blocking their view. When it had passed, the man was gone.
Paul frowned, scratching the back of his shaved head and scanning the empty street. “He was standing out there a second ago. I swear.”
Clark searched for the man, too. Random strangers dressed in all brown didn’t just appear on the streets of Smallville, only to disappear seconds later. Who was he? Clark glanced back through the Java Depot window, where a dozen or so people he recognized were sitting at little round tables, drinking coffee and talking. Doing homework. Taking refuge from the storm.
He wondered if any of them had seen the guy.
As swiftly as the storm had beg
un, it now slowed to a quiet sprinkle. Steam rose off a drenched Main Street. Heavy drops fell from the trees. They streaked down the windshields of parked cars and zigzagged down street signs. The road was a sea of puddles.
“Let’s walk,” Tommy said, and they set off toward the public square, Clark still looking for the man dressed in brown.
The four of them had to veer around a series of orange cones blocking off yet another construction zone. A surging local economy had led to a serious transformation of downtown Smallville over the past several years. Gone were all the boarded-up storefronts and dilapidated buildings of Clark’s youth. In their place were trendy restaurants, real estate offices, a luxury condo development, and two shiny new bank branches. Multiple construction projects seemed to always be under way now, including the future headquarters for the powerful Mankins Corporation. But there was no work being done this afternoon. The storm had turned Main Street into a ghost town.
“Look, Clark,” Tommy said, attempting to pick up where he’d left off, “we all know how much better we would be with you in the backfield. I mean, there’s a reason we were undefeated in the games you played freshman year.”
“Yeah, before he bailed on us,” Paul scoffed.
Tommy shot Paul a dirty look. “What’d we talk about earlier, man? This is about moving forward. It’s about second chances.”
Clark shrank into himself.
Two years later and he still couldn’t stomach the idea that he’d let the team down. And then lied to them. He hadn’t quit football to concentrate on school, like he told everyone at the time. He quit because he could have scored on just about every play from scrimmage. And the urge to dominate—wrong as it seemed—grew stronger with each passing game. Until one day he ran over Miles Loften during a tackling drill, sending him to the hospital with fractured ribs. And Clark had only been going about 50 percent. After practice, he’d climbed the bleachers and sat alone, long into the night, contemplating what was no longer possible for him to overlook—just how drastically different he was. And how bad it would be if anyone found out.
Before leaving that night, he’d decided to hang up his cleats.
He hadn’t played an organized sport since.
When Tommy stopped walking, everyone else did, too. “I’m just gonna come right out and say it.” He glanced at Kyle and Paul before turning back to Clark. “We need you.”
Kyle nodded. “Come back soon and you’ll be able to reestablish yourself before summer workouts. Shit, Coach would probably even make you a captain.”
“What do you say, Clark?” Tommy play-punched him in the arm. “Can we count on you?”
Clark wanted so badly to come through for these guys. To put on the pads and get back to work. To feel like he was a part of something again, something bigger than himself. But it was impossible. Injuring teammates and scoring seven touchdowns a game was bad enough when he was a freshman. Imagine if things like that happened on varsity. With everyone watching. He just couldn’t risk it. His parents had warned him how dangerous it could be if the world were to discover the depths of his mysterious abilities. And the last thing he wanted to do was bring trouble to the family. Kids at school already teased him about being too good. Too perfect. It was the reason he’d started wearing glasses he didn’t actually need. And mixing in a couple of Bs on his report card.
Clark adjusted his glasses, looking at the sidewalk. “I really wish I could,” he told Tommy in a lifeless voice. “But I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“See?” Paul said. “Told you he didn’t give a shit about us.”
“Unbelievable,” Kyle added, shaking his head.
Tommy turned away from Clark. “Easy, fellas. We can’t force the guy to be loyal—”
The man in brown turned a corner and cut right through the four of them. He forcefully bumped shoulders with Tommy, causing him to fumble his iced coffee to the ground.
Clark and his ex-teammates were struck silent for several seconds, until Kyle kicked the plastic cup across the sidewalk and called after the guy, “Hey, asshole! You need to watch where the hell you’re going!”
The man spun around and shouted something back at Kyle in Spanish. Then he spit on the sidewalk and held up a small blade, as if daring them to say anything else.
“Yo, he’s got a knife!” Paul shouted.
When Clark stepped in front of his friends, he saw how jittery the man’s bloodshot eyes were. And he was mumbling under his breath.
“What’s he saying?” Kyle asked Paul, who was Mexican and spoke Spanish at home.
Paul shook his head. “I don’t know. Something about getting back to Metropolis.”
Clark wondered if the guy might be on drugs. What else could explain his bloodshot eyes and the way he’d been standing in the pouring rain? And he wasn’t just staring at Clark now. He was staring through Clark. “Let’s leave him alone,” Clark said, focusing on the knife in the man’s left hand. “There’s something off about the way he’s acting.”
“Screw that,” Kyle said, elbowing past Clark. He pointed at the man, shouting, “Nobody slams into my teammate like that without apologizing. You think I’m scared of that little bullshit switchblade?”
The man lunged, swinging the knife violently, the blade grazing Kyle’s forearm, before quickly retreating.
Kyle looked at the blood trickling down his arm. He looked at the man.
Then all hell broke loose.
Clark bounded forward to kick the knife out of the guy’s hand, sending it skittering under a parked car. Tommy and Paul threw their backpacks into the street and charged. They tackled the man onto the hard, wet pavement, but he managed to scurry out of their grasp, leap to his feet, and retreat.
Kyle made a move to join the fray, but Clark pulled him back. “Hang on!”
“Oh, hell no! He just cut my ass!” Kyle took a wider angle this time and joined Tommy and Paul as the three of them stalked the guy, backing him into a row of parked cars.
Clark knew how lopsided the fight would be. The man was wild-eyed and showed no fear, but he was clearly no match for three hulking football players.
Clark’s instinct was to rush in and break everything up before anyone got seriously hurt. But things had gone horribly wrong the last time he’d used his powers in public. It had been winter. He’d been walking to the library when he spotted a big rig careening across a large ice patch on Highway 22. Without thinking, he’d sprinted over and used his strength to grab hold of the massive truck before it could flatten the Alvarez Fruits and Vegetables stand at the side of the road. Only he’d somehow overcorrected the big rig’s momentum, toppling the heavy trailer, spilling dozens of oil drums out onto the two-lane highway. Oil had gushed everywhere.
Clark would never forget helping the driver from the wreckage. The man’s face had been as white as a sheet, his leg twisted grotesquely. Would he have even been hurt if Clark hadn’t stuck his nose in things? The question haunted Clark, and he’d promised himself to stop and think before physically intervening like that again.
But he could use his voice.
“Let him go, guys!” he shouted at his ex-teammates. “It’s not worth it!”
The man in brown backed right into an old truck before slipping between parked cars and running away.
Tommy turned to Kyle, grabbing his bloody arm and studying the cut. Paul huffed into the middle of the street to retrieve his backpack.
Clark cautiously followed the man in brown down the next block. He had to make sure he was really leaving, so no one got hurt. He stopped in his tracks when the guy began pounding his bare fists against the side of a beat-up white pickup truck while the driver cowered at the wheel. Clark stood there watching, absolutely baffled. What was wrong with this guy? And why was he beating on this one particular truck? It had just been innocently idling there at the side of the road. And th
e man was attacking it with a shocking ferocity, bloodying his fists in the process.
He turned suddenly and stalked back the other way, in the direction of Clark and the football players. Clark made a move to cut him off, but the man lunged toward the silver SUV instead, the one where the gray-haired businessman was waiting out the storm. The man in brown flung open the driver’s-side door, threw the businessman onto the street, and climbed in to start the engine.
Clark’s eyes widened with panic when the SUV lurched out of its parking spot and then sped forward, heading directly toward Paul, who was still kneeling in the street, zipping up his backpack.
“Look out!” Clark shouted.
Paul froze when he heard the screaming engine.
He was just kneeling there, a sitting duck.
Clark felt the familiar weightlessness of reaching warp speed.
His skin tingling and raw.
His throat closing as he bolted soundlessly into the street, eyes fixed on the SUV barreling down on Paul.
Clark instinctively calculated his angle, the speed of the SUV, and the potential for destruction. He dove at the last possible second. And as he tore through the air, he peered up into the crazed eyes of the man gripping the steering wheel, and he saw how lost the man was, how bewildered. In that instant, Clark understood this was an act that ran far deeper than he or anyone else could know.
Then came the bone-crushing impact.
As Mrs. Sovak droned on about the history of American labor at the front of the classroom, Clark watched Paul’s futile attempt to take notes left-handed. The poor guy’s entire right side was out of commission. His right arm was in an elaborate sling designed to help heal his dislocated shoulder and partially torn labrum.
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