Blood-Kissed Sky (Darkness Before Dawn) (24 page)

“Oh, man,” Michael says in awe. “Have you ever imagined anything like that?”

The walls are absolutely massive! I thought they were a small mountain at first, a geological oddity, before I saw the tracks running right into them. As the metal gate slowly retracts to allow our passing, Ian tells us that this is the only entrance into the city.

We speed along the tracks as if chased by demons, and they need to close the doors quickly to keep them out. As we enter the narrow passageway, I see that we barely fit, the designers of the wall wanting the smallest entry possible in order to safeguard their city. And the walls, which seemed tall from afar, are even more impressive as we move through them. They must be a mile thick, all stone masonry intricately laid to make them as strong as possible, and they are higher than the train itself.

When we emerge on the other side of the wall, I catch my breath. Shock ripples through me. The city is in absolute decay. It’s as though we’re going through an old battlefield, blocks of buildings that have been bombed so only their shells remain. Their clothes little more than rags, people walk the streets like the dead looking for the graves from which they escaped.

“This is the Outer Ring. Most of the poorer population lives here. And those deemed less than beautiful,” Ian says, surely noticing my surprise. “They’re as close to death as you can be while your heart still beats. They no longer fear vampires, only starvation.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Not many people do.”

“Why didn’t you tell Clive?”

“What could he do, Dawn, from so far away? He has enough on his plate worrying about his own city.”

The realist, once again. He’s right. I’ll put it in my report, and Clive will read it, but what can he do to help a city beyond his reach?

“I hate this city,” Ian mutters. “It’s rotting from the inside.”

I realize that he is one of the few who has seen the full devastation of our world. Even knowing that Los Angeles wasn’t like Denver didn’t prepare me for this. But I’m left to wonder what the other cities might be like.

A group of children are chasing a rat, and I hope that they aren’t grocery shopping. Men and women, their arms thin and their stomachs bloated from malnutrition, let the flies converge over their bodies, too tired to swat them away. It’s hell. There’s no other way to describe this place. It is hell.

Something grabs Ian’s attention. A man running toward the train makes a desperate leap onto the speeding machine and latches on to the front car. I don’t know what he’s hanging by, but it isn’t much, and his face contorts with pain as he struggles to hold on.

“Get off,” Ian mutters. “Get off, you idiot.”

It’s a cold thing to say. But then I realize Ian’s trying to save the man.

Up ahead, another wall, as large as the first, looms. I suspect we’re about to enter the Inner Ring of the city. And the man, clinging on for dear life, isn’t invited. On top of the wall is a guard tower, much like the ones around Denver. But the guardian at the top, rifle in hand, isn’t after vampires. He’s after trespassers.

He takes aim. I turn my head, hearing only the cracking report echoing in the distance. When I look back, the man who was holding on to the train is gone.

Tegan’s face is buried against Michael’s chest. He’s holding her tightly, and I wish I had Victor to hold me, wish he was here to share these horrors with me. Even though I’m standing beside Ian, with my friends at my side, I feel alone. There will always be so much that I can’t share with Victor. Even if he was onboard the train, he couldn’t be up here in the sunlight.

I wonder if he knows about these atrocious conditions. Surely Richard told him.

As discontented as people are in Denver, we’ve got it pretty good. What I don’t understand is how this could have happened.

A metal gate opens, rolling to the side and allowing the train to rush through, before quickly closing. Once again, the wall towers over us and lasts for several lengths of the train. But when we leave the chasm, my mouth drops open.

The Inner Ring is like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s like the war never happened. It’s beautiful. The streets are paved and clean, cars run through them, pedestrians carry shopping bags. Everyone is tall and gorgeous and perfect. The sun itself seems brighter.

“How is this possible?” I ask.

Ian looks across the city. “Money. Privilege. Civilians on the outside willing to work for crumbs of bread.”

At an intersection, a guy in a suit chatting on his cell phone is almost run over by a car. A trio of high-school girls smack their gum and text and look at their new manicures. A white convertible pulls up to them, two boys in it, their hair slicked back, shades on. The girls hop in and they ride off.

I notice a group of twenty people standing off to the side, one of them holding a gigantic camera.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“This is the only place in the world that still films movies,” Ian says. “They aren’t distributed, not yet, though that’s always been their plan. It’s Hollywood—I guess they just can’t do anything else, you know? It’s in the blood of the city.”

The white car stops and begins reversing. The girls get out, stand in their places again, and go through the same motions that they did a few minutes earlier.

“We probably blew their shot,” Ian says, a bit of hidden laughter in his voice.

I don’t get what he’s talking about, but I don’t understand how they can appear so carefree when so much darkness exists in the world. It’s like they’re so lost in make-believe that they’ve forgotten what reality is.

“I’m not sure I’m returning to Denver,” Tegan whispers beside me. “Have you ever seen anything so sparkly and clean?”

“I don’t like it,” Michael mutters. “Something about it is … wrong.”

I agree. It’s not right that it’s so beautiful here and so ugly on the other side of the wall.

The train eventually comes to a stop inside a gigantic building, complete with glass ceiling and marble floors. It’s a train station, one that I imagine gets plenty of scenes filmed inside.

We get our bags and disembark.

I could spend all day at the terminal, looking at the polished floors and stonework stairs, the ancient gargoyles nestled into the corner of the high ceilings. It’s stereotypical Gothic in its ornateness, so much so that it seems fake. Like the architects designed the place to be nothing but a set piece. It’s functional only as far as a train can pull through it. Looking around, I can see that winding staircases lead to dead-end walls, and that columns stand tall, only to hold up nothing.

Tegan, Michael, Ian, and I begin walking up the stairs into the sunlight. I suppose Faith and Richard will have to wait until dark to disembark.

Once we leave the station I immediately see the building that Ian told us last night would be our first destination. The Agency, much like the one in Denver, is housed in a tall, glass, reflective building at the heart of the city. But to get there, we have to deal with the people. And the traffic.

“Look at all the cars,” Tegan says in awe. “How did they end up with everything here, while we ended up with nothing?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. I can’t imagine that there are any rolling blackouts here. If I hadn’t seen the ugliness that existed between the two walls, I might consider never leaving this place.

Of course, the people aren’t exactly inviting. They may be gorgeous, but they’re rude, seeming to only care about themselves. Talking on their phones, they expect me to get out of their way because the business they’re discussing is too important. When one particularly obnoxious man shoulders me, Michael stops him.

“Hey!” the guy yells.

Michael grabs the man’s wrist, twists it, and pulls the phone free before launching it into the street, where fast-moving cars smash it.

“Watch where you’re going next time,” Michael says, before shoving the man away.

“Thanks,” I say.

“It’s my job,” he says, all business.

Ian looks at him. “Normally I’d get onto you for lacking tact. But here, I can forgive you.”

After that, Ian takes the front and acts like a wedge, diverting people around us, while Michael stays close by. But eventually, the congestion gets too thick and Ian decides it’s time for a cab.

He hails one, a strange ritual in which he holds up his hand until one stops for him. He pops the trunk, and we place our bags inside before climbing into the vehicle. Ian pays the driver to chauffeur us around. We don’t have enough working cars—or gasoline—in Denver to allow for this sort of luxury.

The driver takes us to the Agency. Ian instructs him to wait for us. Saves us the trouble of having to cart our bags around with us. We jaunt up the steps, but are stopped at the entrance by several armed guards. They seem like they’re playing a part. Their body armor and weapons are cliché. It’s just what I’d expect from a props department for one of the
terrible
television shows they put on in Denver.

Ian gives them the proper paperwork, and they call in. Everything checks out and we’re waved through.

“Some advice,” Ian says. “Everyone here has a huge ego. They’re idiots, but they’re very powerful. A dangerous combination. Whatever it takes to please them, do it. You were a delegate, so act like this is just another Old Family vamp you have to make happy. Use him to get what you need, but rely on yourself as your ultimate resource.”

At the very top of the building, we exit the elevator. Ian tells a receptionist that we’re here to see the director. She presses a small intercom button.

“Mr. Matheson, Ian Hightower is here to see you.”

“Oh goodness me,” the gruff voice comes back. “Send him in right away. Yes, yes, indeed. Right away.”

“He has several guests…”

“Send them all in!”

She clicks off and points to a heavy hardwood door.

Ian doesn’t seem excited when he opens it, and he looks ready to leave this place before he’s even stepped foot inside.

“Ian, my good boy, how are you?”

Mr. Matheson, the Agency director, stands up from behind his desk. He’s one of the oddest characters I’ve seen so far. With a large mustache waxed at the ends, a monocle, and coat with tails, all he needs is a top hat and cane to finish the picture of an ancient aristocrat from one of my history books.

“I’m well,” Ian says, shaking the man’s hand.

Matheson’s elaborate office is the opposite of Clive’s. Instead of the rustic wooden furniture that was probably dug out of junkyards and revarnished, Matheson’s place looks like it was built brand-new yesterday. Once again, it reminds me of a stage set, and he appears to be just an actor in a movie waiting to be produced. It’s as if all their history came from the films in their great vaults, and they think this is how life should be lived.

“And the Night Train? How fares it?”

“We were attacked by rogue vampires.”

“Really? My, my, what trouble that is. And who has accompanied you today into my fine city? Hello, little ones. I’m James Matheson, director of the Agency and the mayor of this wonderful metropolis.”

The news of the attack doesn’t seem to faze him in the least, and I’m wondering if this guy is for real, or if he’s fake like everything else I’ve seen so far. Either way, I hand over the letter from Clive. He barely gives it a passing glance before saying, “Dawn Montgomery? Denver’s delegate?”

“Yes, sir.” I guess Clive thought a little fudging of the truth was in order, or maybe he’s reinstated me for the mission.

“Terrible news about your parents. I’m so sorry, my dear.”

“Thank you.” I say it automatically now; I’ve heard everyone’s sympathy too much to say anything else.

“I’ve heard Valentine is a tough customer; I do hope he’s treating you well. I’m afraid to say that we have it lucky here. Old man Carrollton is merely a nuisance and little else.”

“He’s had a change of heart recently,” I say. Apparently word of Valentine’s demise hasn’t filtered to the Agency here. Understandable. The vampires have done what they can to limit communication between the isolated cities. “Actually, his son has taken control.”

“An ascension? Those are usually so violent and create turmoil within the vampire community. Have things gotten ugly in Denver?”

“They have, but not because of Victor. Are you familiar with a vampire named Sin?”

He looks taken aback. “What an unusual name. I wager that he’s a troublemaker.”

“That’s putting it mildly. He’s a Day Walker with an agenda.”

“Oh no,” he says, chuckling. “Not you, too. Their existence is a myth.”

“Believe me, we wish that were true. Sin is trying to take over Denver. We thought you might know something about him because he says he came from here. Do you have any information that might help us defeat him?”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of the fellow. And I’ve certainly never seen a vampire walk in the sun.” He twists the end of his mustache. “Although I suppose I wouldn’t. We don’t allow vampires into our city.”

It makes sense that if Sin had been here, he wouldn’t have shown his hand. He’d save his unveiling for Denver so it would take us by surprise.