Break of Dawn (5 page)

It took Dawn a second to comprehend that. Breisi, who had the calmest guts out of any team member, save for Jonah.

Kiko kept on going. “She told me never to bring her with me into a vision again. That’s why I don’t allow you guys to ride my skin, to touch me while I get readings. It’s too much for most people to handle.”

Now Dawn wondered if he was just scaring her off. Good try. “Are we going to do this or not?”

“If I have to.”

She wanted this, the answers—
any
answers. If she experienced what Kiko had, maybe she could decide for herself whether this vision belonged to Jonah. After all, he’d been inside her. Wouldn’t that give her judgment an advantage over Kiko’s?

She moved to the dagger, holding out her hand, pulse banging.

“I’m ready,” she said, oxygen tangled in her lungs.

Without preamble, Kiko took her hand and put it over his own, almost belligerently, as if he hoped he would teach her a lesson.

As he touched the dagger, ice thrust into her chest, her head, and she jerked back.

But she was unable to disconnect from what she was seeing. . . . Sitting at a long dining table in a room composed of stone, torches flaming to provide light that wavered over the tapestry-ridden walls—sanguine hunting scenes.

There were many men at the table, all facing front, all silent as they watched whatever was playing out before them. Rough men, bearded and leathered, hunched over their dinner plates. Meat and grease clung to their facial hair.

Looking down, she saw that her hands weren’t her own: they were big, strong, callused, one of them gripping the edge of a wooden table as a plate of half-devoured lamb and bread waited for her to finish them off. Her . . .
his
other hand was clenching a dagger, and it was coated with strands from the meat.

Then a blast of something coppery, something foul—feces and urine—hit her full force.

Slowly, she raised her gaze from the table, and she saw the reason for the stink. A nude man, drenched with blood, his mouth stretched open in sheer terror. His wrists and ankles were tied to two posts, blood and waste dripping from his body to the ground. One eyeball hung out of a socket, and upon closer look, the skin had been flayed from his legs.

Next to the victim, a commanding man stood. It wasn’t that he was tall; no, in fact, he was built like a cannon, strong and stocky. But his face—his
face
. The thin shape of it boasted a long nose with flaring nostrils and large green eyes that left no doubt as to who was in charge. He held a bloody dagger as he assessed his prey.

Eat, eat,
Dawn heard herself—him, the seer—think. The words were steeped in a foreign language, but somehow she understood everything.
If you do not continue feasting, you will displease him.

Dawn didn’t even taste the meat as she shoved it into her mouth. The seer wanted to retch on it.

But looking away would prove a weakness that could result in the seer’s own terrible death.

So he ate. As did the other warriors at the table.

In the meantime, the commanding man addressed his guests. He had invited his most faithful followers to attend tonight, a group proven trustworthy through battle.

His long, black hair curled past his shoulders, his mustache cruel over his calm smile. “Witness the wages of ineptitude,” he said, gesturing to his victim, a captain who had the misfortune of disagreeing with his sovereign’s own plans.

Their leader was noted far and wide for both his ferocious deeds and crusading spirit. Though he reigned through fear, he had done much to keep his throne and his people protected. However, at this moment, this
night
, a deeper streak of brutality was emerging as the man traced his dagger blade over his victim’s stomach.

“It is said,” their superior began, “that the enemies of the cross of Christ intend to challenge us, if not on this night, then the next. Or the next. It is said that, soon, I might even find my head delivered to a most grateful sultan.”

The men at the table made low noises of appeasing disagreement. As their sovereign turned back to his victim, the seer glanced at the warrior seated next to him. Dawn knew instinctively that he was a good friend who often served as a conscience, tempering the seer’s own discreet indulgences. It was known far and wide that their superior expected piety in those around him, though he had been no saint himself. Still, it was prudent to appear a loyal man of virtue.

In the next chair, the seer’s companion was quiet and still. His mouth remained in a line, his meal unfinished. He believed in their sovereign’s strict code of ethics and held their leader to high standards.

Nevertheless, under the table, the seer nudged his friend, reminding him to obey. His companion paused, then ate a hunk of bread.

Their leader had paused in taunting his victim, who had been reduced to quaking. He no doubt knew that if he lost consciousness, the sovereign would revive him, merely to visit as much agony on his prey as possible.

Tossing his blade to the ground, their superior held up his hands to his warriors and continued his speech. “I think I should not ever make an appearance with my head on a platter!”

Soldiers slapped their hands against the table in agreement. And although the seer still clutched his dagger, he and his friend responded in kind, as well. After all was said and done, they did not wish to see their leader—their land—vanquished by the enemy. They had often risked their own lives to make certain this never came to pass.

Their leader held up his palms, and silence tightened the air.

“I will not perish at the hand of an adversary.
We
will not.” He tilted his head. “I have made it so.”

Without warning, he reached out to the bleeding victim, snatching the man from his bindings in a motion so swift that the eye barely caught it. A sickening
rip
sucked through the room.

Gradually, the seer’s eyes focused on the abomination in front of him.

On a human beast gripping two halves of his prey’s body in each hand.

A collective gasp from the warriors led to utter quiet.

“I,” their leader said, a giddy tremor in his voice, “shall never be destroyed.” He dropped the two halves like so much discarded meat, then approached the long table. “And you shall be as I am.” His tone had turned low, strangely persuasive. “I ask you to join me in eternal dominance where, together, we shall always rule. We shall have the strength to conquer not only the infidels, but all.”

A pause stifled the room, and their superior lowered his gaze at his men. The seer’s gaze blended in confusion, as did his mind.

Enthralled,
Dawn heard him think.
Swayed . . .

Moments later, thunderous noise grew in force as the soldiers rose in forceful compliance. In spite of himself, the seer stood, too, under a compelling, unquestioning sway. His loyal friend also obeyed, his voice raised in the same primal glee.

“Immortality,” their leader yelled as he ran his blazing gaze over his followers, connecting with them one by one. “It is ours!”

The very idea thrilled the seer. No fear in battle. A life of glory and joy. It could all be his. . . .

He loosed a gut-level yell of agreement, too.

Their leader’s gaze traveled the table, the roaring men. Then he came to the seer, his eyes resting on him.

He reached out a hand.

The seer did not notice anything in his path; he did not even take the time to drop the dagger he was still fisting. Vision going red, he barged over the table, upsetting plates of food in his rush to obey.

He came to bow at his leader’s feet. His sovereign helped him up, laughing as he flicked a glance to the seer’s dagger.

“My first,” the god said, his eyes glowing with such promise that the seer could not resist. “Do you vow your soul to me in exchange for the world? Do you promise always to fight in this glorious war we will wage for our land and our people?”

“Yes.” Fevered, needing, hungering. “Yes, I do.”

With care, the sovereign brushed the seer’s hair back from his neck, cocked his head back. Then struck.

The seer’s sight bled to gray, though he could still hear his own shocked cry of anguish.

Empty, piercing pain, his veins like hollows in his very body—

The world turned black, drained. His soul, the very essence of him, dying.

Yet, then, like a flower as it blooms, darkness was replaced by glorious images: riches, women, all that the seer’s heart had ever desired.

He fell to the ground, heaving in air. Something within him grew, building, consuming his body. Rage, arrogance . . .

Craving.

The seer turned his head to his fellow warriors, locking eyes with his constant friend, who was watching him with blank wonder. Saliva flooded the seer’s mouth as his companion smiled, just as their superior had.

Then the seer caught scent of it: blood. He sniffed, guided by a twisted desire to the torn body. Crying out in ecstasy, he pounced on it, burying his face in the meat, lapping up thick liquid. In his excitement, he dropped the dagger—

With a push of horror, Dawn jolted to reality, slamming against the ground. She gasped for breath, jarred by her fall, by what she’d seen. A film of defiled nastiness coated her skin, her bones.

Above her, Kiko stood, his shirt soaked with sweat as he shivered. “Didn’t I tell you? I knew I shouldn’t have—”

“What the hell was that?” she grated out. “Who were those . . . things?”

“I don’t know. . . . I don’t know. . . .” His eyes were reddened, haunted and pained.

“Where were they?” she asked. “And when . . . ? What happened after . . . ?” Then comprehension descended as she started putting two and two together. “Vampires. Oh, God, who was that guy with the crazy eyes—the one who tore that man in two, Kiko?”

Now the psychic looked scared, as if she’d asked a question he’d been wondering about, too. As if he’d been afraid to know the answer.

“You’ve studied vampire lore, Dawn.”

This was a joke. One big cosmic hah-hah. The only cruel big guy she remembered from vampire literature came with names like Vlad. But maybe there were others like him . . . maybe?

Or, yeah, maybe Jonah had gotten ahold of some artifact from the Impaler’s era? There were so many rumors about the prince, so many so-called facts that’d been bent and turned into fantasy throughout the years. . . .

The next thing she knew, Kiko slumped to his knees, his arms wrapped around his torso while his shaking got worse.

This vision had gotten to him, and he’d summoned it for her. Or was he reacting to his medication withdrawal?

She wasn’t amping out half as much as Kiko, so it had to be about the pills.

“Kik?” Dawn darted over to his side, everything else but worry for him disappearing.

“Don’t give me any . . . pills. . . .”

Dawn took him in her arms. “Right, you don’t need them.” That was probably why he’d been able to get such a clear vision, she realized. He’d gone cold turkey, and his powers were coming back full force.

“I can make it without . . .” he said, sweat drenching his face as he cast a pitiful glance up at her.

“I know, Kik. You’ve got your mojo back. It’s all there again.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Hurts . . .”

Unsure of what to do, she hefted him up in her arms. He was little, but still heavy. Struggling, she made her way out of the weapons room and into Jonah’s office. There, she eased Kiko onto a velvet couch.

“Someone get in here!” she shouted. “Breisi? Kik needs help!”

She didn’t want to leave him alone, so she glared around to see if one of the Friends had awakened and could lend aid. Then she saw the portrait with the fire landscape, and she stopped cold.

Because it had just filled up with a shape boasting long, dark hair and a red cape that hid all identity.

FIVE

BELOW, TAKE ONE

As
night gathered strength, so did the vampires under the streets of L.A.

The Master adjusted a silk pillow on a sunken bed, the round mattress surrounded by netting held back by ribbons. He mounted the stairs to look down upon his work, then smiled.

At the moment, he was in his original human body, feeling more complete than what his usual nebulous form allowed. In this solid shape, he was unfettered by the sorrow that had imprisoned him for years; instead, he felt liberated by the events of the past few months.

Benedikte was someone again, and when Dawn Madison finally joined him here in the Underground, he would never have reason to go back to being nearly invisible.

The door to Dawn’s future room slid open, and without even glancing, the Master knew his second-in-command, Sorin, had entered. He heard his son’s thoughts via their Awareness, a direct link between maker and high-vampire child, or also between . . .

The head vampire’s sight darkened. Or also between the other masters in Benedikte’s brotherhood.

As Sorin surveyed the decadent room, his words were silent.
I would have guessed Dawn Madison to have simpler tastes.

At her name, Benedikte’s vision cleared. He took in the chambers he’d designed just for her: a bed fit for adventure and peaceful dreaming, walls adorned with peacock feathers, an urnlike fountain dribbling water. But he’d also addressed her more aggressive side, including gymnastics equipment artistically built into the walls so she could amuse herself.

Benedikte didn’t bother using his Awareness, preferring to speak out loud. His recent activities Above—pretending to be “human” in order to perform spy work—had given him a taste for life as it used to be. “Dawn doesn’t really know what she wants yet, Sorin. She might not dress in silk now, but once she joins us down here, she’ll admit to desiring prettier things.”

“You know her well enough to be certain.” His son sounded doubtful.

Benedikte finally looked at Sorin: shoulder-length brown hair, a haughty bearing revealing a handsome contempt usually reserved for his siblings, the Elites, who weren’t as pure-blooded as he was. Since the other high-level vampires received a once-a-month dose of the Master’s blood to maintain themselves, Sorin believed he was superior since he’d been born from merely one bite over three hundred years ago. He didn’t like knowing that Dawn would be receiving the same treatment when she finally arrived.

“I suppose I would know what Dawn wants,” Benedikte said.

In a playful mood, he decided to taunt his favorite son by shifting shape. He melded into the body of a Servant, Matt Lonigan, a visage he’d recently been using to seduce the unknowing Dawn to their side, to extract information from her—unsuccessfully, until last night.

Sorin glanced away to register his protest for this dangerous charade. For security’s sake, he believed Benedikte should stay shielded Underground, safe until absolutely needed to fight Jonah Limpet when they finally lured him to their territory, where they would destroy him through greater numbers, power, and strength.

“I do not understand the reason you insist upon wearing that body, Master. A mere PI is not worthy of you.”

“But
she
likes it.” Benedikte peered into a mirror slanted to reflect the bed. There, he saw the pale blue eyes of a tough face he would’ve never considered attractive, himself.

Sorin remained still. The Master didn’t need Awareness to know that his son believed Benedikte was taking an obsession too far. That he was transferring the love he once had for Eva Claremont and lavishing it on her daughter now. Vengeful love. But the old vampire knew it was more than just that. No, he’d finally found acceptance in Matt Lonigan’s body. He was finally the object of a deep, romantic passion, just like in the movies he’d studied for decades.

“Ironic,” Sorin said, wandering down to the bed and carelessly reaching out to test its filmy netting between his fingers. “It is so very strange, as well as insulting, that you would choose to masquerade in the body of a human who has never even expressed the willingness to become one of us.”

“I know Matt Lonigan, and I understand why he wants to keep being a human. He has heavy commitment problems, Sorin. We know from TV and all the stories we hear that children of divorce usually feel that way.”

“I do not trust anyone who refuses to pay the ultimate price of admission.”

“You don’t trust much.” Benedikte went to Sorin and patted his head. “That’s why you’re my second,
my
most trusted.”

As Sorin glowed with contentment, a perverse need seized the Master. He glanced up at a different mirror, this one poised over the bed, and caught sight of his “human” Matt Lonigan body next to the vampire Sorin. The difference in image was almost enough to make Benedikte believe
he
was human again.

He sighed, then began guiding his son toward the exit. There was a lot to do tonight: he needed to go Above to see Dawn and follow up on last night’s progress with her. After the death of her friend Breisi, Dawn was in need of “Matt”’s help. It was time to reel her in.

After that, the Master would have to keep tabs on the preparation for Limpet’s expected attack. The plan was to draw the suspected rival master and his team to this lair since it was unthinkable to launch a battle Above, where humans would discover their use of vampire magic if it wasn’t properly disguised or buried.

That was just one of the reasons Benedikte had assumed the identity of a real human Servant: to cover up his intentions. To dig for information from the Limpet hunters without them knowing. Up close and personal, he’d been able to monitor the moment Dawn was ripe for recruitment.

When Limpet attacked, he’d be surprised to see that Dawn wasn’t on his side.

This subtle plan had been so much more acceptable than outright destruction of the team. The Master made certain his vampires never, ever attacked humans who would be missed by families or other loved ones. And that was why he’d persuaded another human, Cassie Tomlinson, the so-called Vampire Killer, to do away with one of Dawn’s team members
for
them. Too bad chances like that didn’t come around more often.

Once out of Dawn’s room, the Master and Sorin traversed a hidden tunnel connected to the emporium. Reluctantly, Benedikte shifted from Matt’s form to an almost invisible mist as they entered the opulent amusement area from behind a velvet curtain.

In his new shape, he hovered over Sorin’s head like smoke from burning incense. Being “Matt” was normally his preference: it made him feel closer to Dawn. However, since most of the populace, except for the Elites, knew Sorin—not Benedikte—as their Master because of the body doubling instituted as a safety precaution, near invisibility was prudent for the Master now.

As they strolled through the spacious area, vampires flew around them, training for the moment Jonah Limpet would enter their domain. It would be a mercilessly short battle, just like the time they had lost their first Underground to another master who’d wanted to usurp what Benedikte had built. Except this time Benedikte would come out the winner.

Something like rage made the Master’s misty form expand and pulse. He still couldn’t comprehend how boredom and greed had urged his brothers, the men who’d also taken the blood vow, to turn on one another while the ultimate master lay sleeping, gathering power, over the centuries.

But Benedikte held himself together because, when his own maker rose again, more powerful than before, more capable of conquering nations and winning back more than just his throne,
this
master would have remained faithful.

Go forth and create societies,
the ultimate master had told them just before going to rest in a location only one unknown master knew.
Populate so I might have an army when I awaken.

And Benedikte had done just that, obeying like the soldier he’d been in life.

His reverie was interrupted when a ghostly misted Elite swooped through Benedikte’s own cloudy form, parting him. He contracted in pleased shock, watching as the comedian named Danny Dukes continued on his way and darted up to the emporium dome. There, the Elite vampire crouched upside down, tendrils from his white, angelic body wavering against the golden leafing. Then he zoomed downward, his body a rocket aimed at whatever was unfortunate enough to stand below him.

But instead of hitting the ground, he pulled up and landed gently next to another Elite, his tentacles waving. He was laughing, as if at death itself.

The other high-level vampire, Amanda Grace, toyed with a pearl-studded fan in her “human” form. Ever since her return last night, her siblings had been attempting to win her over, as if she were their queen. And why not? Above, she was royalty. In fact, the press had been in a dither about the story her Servant PR manager had whipped up to cover her absence from a big promotional tour for her new movie. As far as her fans knew, she’d checked in to an ultrasecretive clinic for exhaustion and wouldn’t be back in circulation for a while.

It was a shame, really, the Master thought. Due to the Underground emergency, Amanda had been forced to halt the momentum of her third career just as it was gaining speed. Her second career had ended when the public started commenting on “Delia Wright” ’s chronic youthfulness, so she’d come back Underground for another chance.

And she was going to have it, the Master thought as he and Sorin headed for the grand hallway leading to the Elites’ private chambers. She would have it.

Near the hallway entrance, Sorin stopped to accept the salutes of the lower-level Groupies, who had halted in their flashing hand-to-hand combat exercises to acknowledge the vampire they believed to be their master.

The Groupies were looking good: ready and nimble. Benedikte made a mental note to ask about the Guards—soldier vampires—and how ready
they
were to face Jonah Limpet and his team. The lowly creatures had just finished training and Sorin, their keeper, would have them resting now.

As the Master and his son moved on, Benedikte caught a glimpse of the Servant station, where volunteer, vow-bound humans had come Below to offer blood as meals so the Groupies wouldn’t have to travel Above.

Everything was in place—now they just needed Mr. Limpet to show himself. And the Master needed Dawn, too.

The moment the door to the Elites’ palace was closed, Benedikte shifted back into his original form. Benedikte’s body. He wanted to be himself when he saw Eva Claremont. He wanted her to see what she’d rejected when he’d so often tried to win her over in the other, less attractive, featureless form he’d worn during his years of not caring about anything
but
Eva. Was it any wonder she’d turned him down, though? He’d resembled nothing more than a shadow with a colored outline, anonymous and almost lifeless.

Since meeting Dawn, that had changed. He was back.

They arrived at Ms. Claremont’s colossal door.

Eva,
the Master thought, using his Awareness instead of a more common knock.

A few seconds passed before she answered.
Yes, Benedikte?

He wouldn’t ask permission to enter this time. Instead, he pushed her door open. It revealed quarters that smacked of old Hollywood charm: jazz-age pictures on the first-floor walls, a Greta Garbo-type bed located upstairs. When Eva had been released Above for her comeback as a starlet named “Jacqueline Ashley,” she’d decided to decorate her retro-Tinseltown home just like her Underground chambers.

They moved to the stairs, climbed them. The soft perfume of Eva beckoned as they approached the guest room where he knew she was located. As always, Benedikte was overtaken with a craving for her. He was transported back to the moment he’d first seen her on the screen: larger than life, daisy beautiful.

After falling for her, he’d set a Servant, a manager in her employ, the task of winning her over. The man had skillfully introduced the idea of long-lasting beauty and unending fame to Eva and, soon, she’d faced the fear of losing her youth, her career, her paycheck, which sustained an overspending husband and their little baby girl. Eva had panicked. Not knowing how else to preserve what she had, she’d gone along with staging her own legendary murder, making her an instant superstar, eternally loved. But she hadn’t died. No, Dr. Eternity—the Master’s “professional name”—had ushered her Underground at the cost of her soul. In exchange, he gave her a monthly infusion of his blood, which kept all Elites young and coveted.

But that was not where Eva’s treatment ended. For years, she’d stayed Underground, waiting for her legend to grow. Then, when the world was ready for her comeback, Dr. Eternity performed his final feat of transformation, using surgery to alter Eva’s appearance enough to make the public think she was someone different, all while remaining the same star underneath. It was this star who drew the adoring masses, both on the red carpet and on the silver screen. While they believed she was the “new Eva Claremont,” she was nothing more than the old, made better by a touch of vampire Allure and ambition.

An unending career that could last eons with enough returns to the Underground . . .

Sorin’s Awareness shook Benedikte.
Master?

His son stood at the guest room door, waiting to open it, a concerned expression on his face. He’d always thought Eva would be his father’s downfall, but that wasn’t true. Dawn had taken Eva’s place in Benedikte’s affections, so Eva didn’t have the power to hurt him anymore.

At least, that was what he kept telling himself.

Resolutely, Benedikte opened the door, then walked inside. Eva appeared from behind a silk dressing screen. A light blue robe flowed around her, the hem kissing the floor. It brought out the glimmer of her long, blond hair, the swirl of colors in her Elite eyes, the high flush on her cheeks that her last infusion had caused. He’d overfed her—an impulsive mistake—and he wondered if she’d become stronger because of it.

She came to stand by the four-poster bed where some
thing
was chained to the posts with enough silver in the bindings to restrain a lower vampire.