Blood-Kissed Sky (Darkness Before Dawn) (14 page)

The massive train, forty cars in total, is waiting patiently. The blackened steel is covered with claw marks from vampires trying to get to the passengers. Even the iron wheels look oddly menacing, as if they have crushed plenty of bone and muscle underneath them in their time. Or maybe they’re just weary from carrying across the country the hopes and dreams of the human race. Smoke rises casually from the engine.

A few passengers are waiting on the station platform, along with several Night Watchmen. Most of those holding tickets look surprisingly young and I wonder if their parents are sending them off to another city, some place that doesn’t have Day Walkers.

My partner holds up a gloved hand, extending his first and fourth fingers. The guards nod, we move past them without anyone stopping us, and I wonder if he gave them a coded signal. I’ve heard Night Watchmen have ways to communicate without talking.

Only the door on the first car is open, admitting passengers. The attendant, dressed to the nines, begins looking at each ticket before waving the passenger through. A Night Watchman stands next to him scrutinizing every passenger and looking out for those subtle nervous tics that give away vampires in search of blood. There’s a door on every fourth car, but since it’s still dark, they want to be extra cautious with any vampires who are thinking about hopping on for a snack. Now they also have to worry about the Day Walkers.

My heart races as my guard skirts the passengers and leads me through the doorway. He slaps the Night Watchman three times on the shoulder as we pass, and I wonder if it’s another signal.

The inside of the train isn’t exactly what I expected. I can see the potential for beauty that it might have once had, but now the wood is warped in places, discolored in others. Oil lamps secured to the walls remind me of Valentine Manor.

As we hustle down the narrow aisle from car to car, I don’t have much time to notice the surroundings. My guard is moving with purpose and people duck into their private rooms, giving us space to pass. I peer quickly inside one and see sparse furnishings. A bench seat that probably folds out into a bed. A very small table. No windows. In fact, there aren’t any windows at all in this train, except for the glassed-in observation deck. As we pass by the circular stairs leading to it, I’d love to detour up them, but there will be plenty of time to check out that level once the train leaves the station and no one can order me off.

My escort stops at a steel door, which must lead into the last car. He holds out his hand and I drop the key into it. He glances back. No one is behind us. No one is watching. He slides in the key, unlocks the door, shoves it open, and ushers me in. He closes the door and snaps the dead bolt into place.

As my guard begins checking possible hiding places, I stare in disbelief around the room. It’s bigger than my bedroom, and more ornate than any room in Valentine Manor. A huge four-poster bed dominates one side, paintings line every wall, a chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and a fireplace at the very back warms a sitting area. Shelves are filled with books, tables stacked with fresh fruit, chairs complete with plush cushions. Hardwood floors glisten from being freshly waxed. A gigantic bear rug sits in the middle of it all, its pure white fur sticking up.

“Nice digs, huh?” I ask, but my guard doesn’t say anything.

Seemingly satisfied that we’re safe, he comes to stand in front of the door.

I remove my balaclava. “I don’t know how you guys can spend so much time completely covered like this,” I say as I shake out my black hair.

Silence. This is going to be a long trip.

I hear one short burst of the train’s whistle. I’ve watched the Night Train arrive and leave enough times to know that’s the signal that departure is imminent. Five minutes at most. Time to deliver the little speech I’ve been preparing during the entire walk here.

“Look, if you want to get off the train, now’s the time. No one is going to blame you. I don’t know what I’ll be facing out there. Okay, that’s not exactly true. I know there will be a lot of badass vamps and I have no idea how many allies I’ll find, but I’d prefer to go by myself. I don’t want to feel guilty if something happens to you. I already live with enough guilt to last me a lifetime.”

It’s like he’s turned into a statue.

“All right,” I say, accepting the inevitable. “So you’re here to stay.”

Still nothing. The hood casts his eyes in shadows. I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“Well, if you’re not in the mood for conversation, then I’m going up to the observation deck once the train starts. I want to watch as we leave Denver. You’re going to have to lose the hood if you plan on following me because if it’s obvious I have a Night Watchman with me, I’m not going to blend in.”

He gives a little twitch, like maybe he hadn’t considered that, that he hadn’t expected he’d have to expose himself. I wonder if he’s horribly scarred or if being hidden beneath the Watchman trappings makes him feel safe. The stories he could tell—

If I can get him to loosen up, at least until we get to Los Angeles, I might have a fairly entertaining trip.

“Might as well do it now,” I prod. I smile, trying to be encouraging. For all I know he may never show his face anywhere.

I watch his chest expand as he takes a deep breath. Slowly, he raises an arm, grabs the bottom of the balaclava, and in one swift motion yanks it up and over his face.

Michael!

I
stare at him in stunned disbelief.

“Surprise,” he finally says, wadding up his balaclava and tossing it onto a nearby chair. But he doesn’t smile, and he doesn’t seem particularly happy to be here—but then I’m not particularly happy about it, either.

“You can’t come with me,” I say.

“Not your call.”

“No, no, no. You don’t understand …” I rush over to him, wrap my fingers around his duster, try to get him away from the door so I can open it, shove him out into the hallway, and find a way to get him off the train. “Brady, what he was, it’s rampant out there. I couldn’t live with myself if you got hurt or worse.”

It would be hard enough to deal with it if something happened to someone I didn’t know, but for it to happen to Michael—

“I’m not leaving, Dawn.”

The train lurches, and I stagger. Michael grabs me, steadies me, our eyes lock, and I see absolute conviction in his. My feeble attempts to get him off the train are nothing compared to his determination to remain. I sag against him. “Michael.”

His arms close around me, and I feel the awkwardness in them. We’re not what we once were. We’re no longer a couple. But still—I was scared before. Now I’m terrified.

“How long have you been a Night Watchman?” I ask.

“Can we save the questions for later? I’ve got a slew of my own, too—but I really like your idea of watching us roll out of Denver.”

Michael’s never been beyond the wall—except for one night when we went wall-walking with Sin and found a way out of the city, but we didn’t go far. The city’s shadow still touched us.

I work my way out of his embrace, still in disbelief that he’s here. I give him a wobbly smile.
Get it together, Dawn. You’ll figure out how to ditch him when you get to Los Angeles. A way to keep him safe while still doing what you need to do.

“Yeah, sure,” I say. I can give him this, at least, a view of Denver that most people never see.

Michael quickly takes off his heavy coat, sweater, and bandolier, leaving only his dark pants and undershirt. He opens his duffel bag, shoves the clothes inside, and pulls out a dirt-brown shirt. Putting that on, he buckles the stake-filled belt around his chest and throws a casual jacket over it. His weapons are hidden, and he looks like any other passenger.

I follow suit, stripping away the heavy Night Watchman’s disguise and revealing the simple civilian’s clothes underneath.

We head into the passageway, our steps a little unsteady with the rocking of the train. We reach the metal curving stairs and ascend them to the observation deck. Its walls are made of thick, shatterproof glass. Chairs are dotted throughout but no one is using them. Everyone is standing, as though what they are seeing deserves that sort of respect. Michael takes my hand and wedges me between two people until I’m right next to the window. He puts his arms on either side of me, pressing his palms to the glass, creating a buffer between me and everyone else—just like he used to do back when we were a couple standing at the barricade watching the Night Train roll in.

“You’re getting your wish of going beyond the wall,” I whisper, trying to pretend everything is normal, trying to ignore the danger he’s placed himself in by coming with me.

He gives me a small smile, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the old Michael, the one who could make me laugh, the one with whom I used to share my dreams. “Pretty exciting.”

“Not too exciting, I hope,” I tease. “A dull, boring ride to Los Angeles would make me much happier.”

The city is rushing past us and the sun is rising higher to reveal that we’ve slipped beyond the part that has been rebuilt. From here, it looks like the destruction of the war was only last week.

“There’s the wall,” Michael says quietly. “Too late to turn back.”

It was too late when the train started. I just wish I could have convinced him to get off.

“Did Clive know it was you?” I ask.

“No.”

Does his mother know what he is? When he doesn’t come home will she think he’s just out protecting the city? I try not to think about how worried she’ll be. How upset Rachel will be when she finds my note. What I’m doing is important. I have to remain focused on that.

The sun’s heat is intensified by the glass, and I feel like we’re all ants under a gigantic magnifier. There was a time when all passengers were ushered up here to face the sun. It ensured no vampires were onboard. It’s a policy they’ve obviously stopped.

The train barrels through the open gate so fast that the edge of the wall is just a concrete blur. Then we’re out in the open.

“It’s so … barren,” Michael whispers.

Spreading out before us are the charred and desolate remains of war. Even after all this time, ten long years, the earth is still struggling to recover. When we went wall-walking, we saw this same wasteland. But for Michael, who’d never been outside the walls, I guess there was still hope that it would look different in daylight, or that something beautiful lay just over the hill. But it’s all the same gray and colorless landscape.

Everyone is silent. Some of these people are old enough to remember what it was like before the war. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an older gentleman wiping a tear from his cheek.
What does he see?
I wonder.
The trees that once grew? The green grass that flourished within his lifetime? Or does he see the horror of the fires created by all the bombs we dropped in an attempt to rid ourselves of vampires?

Slowly, one by one, people begin to leave. But Michael and I remain. Maybe because for us, we’re still fighting a war.

Eventually it’s only the two of us, standing there, gazing out. Denver is quickly becoming a speck on the horizon.

“All right,” Michael says. “I think we’ve seen enough. We’re going back to our room and we’re staying there until we get to Los Angeles.”

“Okay, we obviously need to set up some ground rules here,” I say, “because you’re not in charge.”

“No, he’s not. But I am,” a deep stern voice announces.

I spin around to find myself staring at the deadliest vampire hunter to ever live. The last person on earth I’d ever want to see angry.

Ian Hightower.

And he’s definitely not happy.

I’ve seen Ian before—one of the reasons Michael always wanted to see the Night Train was to catch a glimpse of his hero. But even when we stood close to him, Ian never seemed real. He was more like an urban legend. He’s wearing a black shirt, pants, and duster. Across his chest is a bandolier with metal stakes woven through, each one ready for easy access. His black hair is short. His five-o’clock shadow shows little hints of gray, caused by the premature aging that comes from staring into the eyes of an Old Family vamp and thinking your life is over. Not many walk away from that. I have. And so has Ian. The difference? Ian’s Old Family vamp
didn’t
walk away. Lord Percy died with a stake through his heart.

Ian strides toward us and I can’t help but compare him to Victor. He’s just as deadly, just as dangerous. Instead of the refined tastes of a vampire, he reflects the survivalist instincts of a human—the unending desire to see just one more sunrise, and never knowing if you will. That mentality breeds a state of mind unique to warriors. Ian has spent more time outside of city walls than in them. He has to rely on his wits and strength for protection. No one does it for him.

He glares at us. Across his cheeks, I can see the faint traces of old wounds, each one a close call, each one a near-death encounter. A man this young shouldn’t look this old.

“Dawn Montgomery,” Ian Hightower says, his voice deep and ragged, as if scars line his throat as well. It’s not a question, it’s a statement, and I can’t imagine that he ever asks anyone anything. Everything that comes out of his mouth would be said with certainty.