Break of Dawn (10 page)

The Master smiled, wishing the manufactured creature could share its emotions. How much humanity could it feel?

And, more importantly, why was a lowly Guard, of all vampires, lucky enough to experience this pleasure from blood drinking? For any Underground citizen, the sustenance provided physical nourishment, and it could also feed a more profound emptiness, as well, bringing a semblance of temporary joy. But the Guards seemed to be getting more out of their blood. Was it because they’d been taken
unwillingly
and they were still holding on to what they’d been robbed of?

Sorin was gauging his parent. “In spite of how amazing this is, you do not look as concerned as you should be.”

“Concern?” Benedikte shrugged. “Tell me—does this Guard still obey your every order?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Then why should I worry? When Jonah Limpet and company pay a visit, we’ll have every advantage. I don’t think they realize how greatly we outnumber them. We’ve gathered a real community during this half century.”

Sorin was still watching him carefully. Benedikte bristled. It wasn’t a son’s place to tell a father what to do.

His second-in-command spoke. “There are times that I worry, Master. I feel as if you are focused more on how to bring Dawn Madison Below than on how to secure our home. Do you recall what happened with Andre—”

“Of course I remember, you fool.” How could he forget when their first Underground in London had been attacked by a brother? It’d almost buried him in depression. “But we didn’t have Guards with Andre, did we? And we didn’t have a fraction of the citizens we have now. Oh, and should I mention that they’re all trained and far more powerful than the first set of children?”

“Yes, but—”

“Trust me,” he said, shifting into Benedikte’s body, just to emphasize his status over Sorin. “Don’t question me.”

His son looked like he was going to say something—like so many times in the recent years—but he cut himself off. Thank the day for that, because Benedikte was getting sick of Sorin’s constant second-guessing.

“It’s a wonder I’ve survived this long,” the Master added sarcastically, “considering how many missteps I make.”

“I am sorry, Master. . . .”

A wail of agony from the Guard interrupted Sorin. The creature was crying, “Hooome! Hooome!”

Benedikte made an irritated face, and Sorin took the hint, reprimanding the Guard in a firm tone. The centurion stopped. As it slumped in its bindings, the Master’s head filled with a voice he’d been longing to hear all night.

Eva, coming to him via their Awareness. It reminded him that he was late to meet her.

Benedikte?

He couldn’t help the glow emanating from his chest.
Eva?

I’m afraid I have some really bad news. It’s Frank. . . .

After the first alarming moments of her explanation, the Underground went on alert, searching for Eva’s husband, yet finding only clues of his escape. He’d eased Above, undetected by the distracted vampires—after all, they were looking for intruders, not escapees. Even Eva had been unaware of Frank’s betrayal until she’d finished “looking pretty” for Benedikte.

But why worry? the Master thought, still riding high on confidence as he floated to her chambers. If Frank Madison told Limpet where the Underground was located, it would only speed up the enemy’s attack. Let them come. Benedikte had never been all that excited about having Frank here anyway.

A mortified Eva begged to be allowed Above to find her husband, along with the Servants assigned to the task. Since Frank had been under her watch, she thought she should be the one to bring him back. But Benedikte’s instincts told him not to allow it, even though denying her bothered him.

Yet long after sunrise consumed the earth outside and the Underground vampires settled into their beds to rest, something glorious happened. Something that persuaded Benedikte to allow Eva Above.

That something was a frantic phone call from Dawn.

TEN

THE BELLY OF THE WHALE

DAWN
had snoozed like a baby through sunrise and into late morning. Being with Jonah satiated her, making her feel even more mentally and physically limber now than when the Friends had sung her to sleep. And that was saying something.

As she climbed out of bed, she blushed—actually
blushed
—when her nightgown’s torn bodice gaped open to reveal her breasts. But what was so embarrassing? She’d been buck naked before, too many times to mention in polite conversation, so what was different about this?

Mental Wite-Out coated her thoughts while she ignored the vulnerability. She knew she ought to be opening up and facing her emotions—she’d been taught that particular lesson good and well—but she didn’t have the mental energy to do it.

Instead, she took a leisurely shower, unable to help a smile as she replayed what Jonah had done to her. Luckily she didn’t have anything more pressing to do than wander around the house again, because she’d be useless in a fight or something where she’d actually have to use any nature-given smarts.

It was only when her fingers started to look like raisins that she finally got out of the water and performed the rest of her no-fuss routine. Then she trooped back to the main bedroom, surprised to find her suitcase propped by the door.

Huh. She hadn’t been to Kiko’s apartment recently, where she’d been crashing and keeping her personal stuff since returning to town. Had Jonah used one of his many outside contacts to bring the luggage here?

Didn’t matter much, but her attention to detail was on fire these days. Especially when it came to Jonah, who required sharp watching on every level.

She opened her suitcase, taking out socks, a black sports bra, a pair of clean jeans—or clean enough, at least—and another of Frank’s tank tops, even though she knew it might be fruitless to wear it. But she wasn’t about to give up hope by leaving the only option for contacting him in her luggage.

While she was plucking out a pair of undies, too, she heard a tiny jangle as something dropped back down into the clothing. Dawn inspected what it was, then stared at the item for a minute. She’d hidden it away on the night of her first kill.

It was her earring—one that fit into the second hole in her right lobe.

Strands of cheap silver, glimmering with faux rubies, hung down from a moon pendant. A souvenir from one of her movie stunt gigs,
Blood Moon
. The earring had been a part of the old Dawn, a girl who was a pro at pulling punches and making it look real, not a hunter who knew what it felt like to sink a machete into a neck. Or a slayer who knew how to fire silver bullets into a red-eyed vampire’s heart and watch it suck into nothing.

Almost longingly, she touched the jewelry, missing the old her, wishing life were as simple as
that
girl’s again.

But old Dawn hadn’t realized what her mom really was. Old Dawn had thought the world was an entirely different place.

Wasn’t it better to know the truth?

She shoved clothes over the blood moon and grabbed a little bag teeming with the other earring studs she usually wore. Then she slammed the suitcase shut, standing and turning her back on it while tossing everything but her undies onto the floor.

Just white it out, she thought, dropping her towel and yanking her panties on. Move on.

With rote efficiency, she finished dressing, leaving off the crucifix she usually wore outside. It seemed silly to don the minor-vamp protection here. Then she filled the empty holes in her lobes with tiny, round silver studs—one on her left side, two on her right. Somehow, she felt unbalanced, as if her blood moon had always evened her out and this was the first time she was understanding that.

Soon she was ready to go outside her bedroom, and she flung open the door with purpose. But when she realized that she wasn’t terribly sure what her purpose really was, she slowed her pace.What was she supposed to do with herself now?

She puttered down a long hallway that curved toward the front of the house, passing more empty portraits and hesitating at each one. She debated about commanding a Friend to take her into each picture, where yesterday’s snooping could continue. But Dawn kept chickening out. Well, maybe not
chickening
out, because it had nothing to do with bravery. She just didn’t want to get any Friends in trouble, like she’d done to Breisi with Kalin. Far be it from Dawn to be responsible for epically screwing up the social dynamics of the agency and maybe even affecting everyone’s powers. Besides, she was curious, not stupid, and she didn’t want a bunch of ghosties down her throat.

But there was another reason she didn’t do it, too. What Jonah had said about Dawn’s own privacy-invasion issues kept bugging her. She didn’t like when others went into
her
head, so she was being a hypocrite by going into everyone else’s. The truth was one big ouch.

So . . . okay. Weren’t there other ways she could get to the bottom of Jonah without violating Friend sensibilities? This house had a lot of areas she could explore for information about him. . . .

Ah—just a sec. Where was the one place that had always been accessible to her and had always seemed rich with possibilities? Where, oh, where could she find secret doors built into the walls? And where was a big old desk just asking to be opened?

His office.

Wasn’t the same as anyone’s head or portrait home, right?

Taking a surreptitious glance around the hallway, Dawn embarked upon this new option. And, indeed, when she rounded her way into the main upstairs hallway, she found his door cracked open. As a matter of fact, there was a light on, as if in diabolical invitation. Gee, who was she to refuse?

When she walked to the door, then pushed it open the rest of the way, there was no sound. She paused, sticking her head inside. “Hello?”

Her voice bounced off the tall bookshelves, unanswered. She took a few more steps into the room, greeted by that huge TV, the portraits. But one picture caught her eye first.

The field of fire, which was empty except for the flames.

Like a kid sneaking into the adults-only section of a video store, she crept over to the painting. Then, after looking around again, she faced it, arms barred over her chest.

Should she call a Friend, like she had with Kalin’s portrait downstairs? The temptation was awful.

Dawn had to have stood there for a while, because when Kiko entered the room, she was deep in a trance of self-debate.

“What’s up?” he asked.

Uncrossing her arms, she looked over her shoulder to find Kiko’s body language stilted because of his back brace. But she smiled because there was no sign of the cold-turkey shivers on him. Excellent.

“You look good today,” she said.

“Thanks to the Friends.” He nodded at the fire-field picture. “Tell me you’re not gonna do what I think you’re gonna do.”

He must’ve heard about yesterday’s Nancy Drew shenanigans from Breisi or another Friend. “And what if I do do what you think I’m gonna do—are you gonna do me in?”

The psychic rolled his eyes, establishing two things at once: that she was a dork and that he thought she
would
do it.

“Oh, chillax,” she said, disappointed that he’d think so little of her will power. “I’m not going to cause a civil war between the Friends by making one of them transport me into a portrait again.” At least not right now.

“Glad to hear it.” He wandered over and touched the hem of Frank’s T-shirt. Pure habit.

But when he shook his head, Dawn didn’t pursue it. Kiko hadn’t gotten a vibe, a connection. Nothing more to say.

Yet her coworker did bust out with this gem: “I’m bored. Want to play paper football?”

Visions of sixth grade, triangular “footballs” made out of scrap paper, and field-goal posts constructed of thumbs and index fingers assaulted Dawn. She laughed.

“Sure, I guess.” It’s not like they had any agendas, even though she’d probably be working out and training later, just to whittle off some energy.

Kiko gave an excited hop and made a beeline for Jonah’s desk. He motioned for her to grab one of the anorexic wooden chairs situated nearby and to make it face Jonah’s huge leather seat. Then he opened up a desk drawer, grabbed a piece of creamy stationery paper, and plopped down in the quasi throne, where the king of geekdom belonged.

While he tore and folded the paper accordingly, he said, “You’ve been on some big adventures lately. Who would’ve known you’d be getting into that kind of trouble during a lockdown?”

“I think anyone could manage in this Bedlam.”

“Not me. I’m sick of tooting around here doing nothing. After I woke up this morning, I started feeling real stir-crazy, like I couldn’t stand it for another hour. I wish we could go out and bust some vamp heads together, even just for the exercise.”

He gestured for her to make a field goal out of her fingers. She sat, rested her elbows on the desk, and connected the tips of her thumbs while pointing her index fingers and folding down the rest of her digits.

Before she was really ready, Kiko flicked the triangle across the desk, scoring an impressive field goal. It was only a bonus that he hit Dawn square in the nose.

“Gooooooaaaaal!” he said, raising his hands as high as he could.

“Wrong game, Wonderlic.”

“I meant
field
goal, anal-retentive sports nazi. Now your turn. You’re gonna miss, though.”

Competitive Kiko was in the building.

Dawn took a shot and made it, even managing to nail his forehead.

“Right back at you,” she said.

Kiko set up for his try, but he’d slowed down the enthusiasm now, going serious on her.

“So . . . about Kalin’s picture,” he said.

Aha. This had been no random football challenge. Dawn should’ve known that in a house full of detectives, basic interrogation was as common as having to wait for a vapid older sister to get out of the bathroom.

“What about Kalin?” she asked.

Kiko’s eyes gleamed, as if he were just as curious as she was and couldn’t help admitting it now. “What did you see?”

“Wait—let me just . . . You didn’t know who Kalin was before, right?” She wanted to set a few things straight.

“No. Jeez, no. All this Friend stuff was never much of an issue before everything started heating up with the vamps. Sure, before you got back to L.A. and joined us, I generally knew of our spirits and the portraits and that they were gonna come into play at some point. But Friends didn’t start interacting with us much until Robby Pennybaker came around.”

That’s right, Dawn thought. Kiko was a male, so Jonah wouldn’t have approached him about the choice to become a Friend or to rest in peace, as he’d done with Breisi sometime before she’d died.

“You didn’t know you could order the Friends around?” Dawn asked.

“I wish.” His face fell.

“Breisi knew, though?”

“Yeah. Something tells me she did. I’m sure she knew a lot more than I ever did.”

Wow. Did this mean Jonah had taken only Breisi into his confidences and not Kiko? And had the psychic just been acting like he knew more than he did in reality? Poor Kik.

Satisfied that her coworker was telling the truth, she went ahead and gave him the rundown about almost everything, revealing the vision with Kalin, Rose, and Will, then talking about how many female Friends tended to stick around the agency afterward.

She didn’t really go into
why
they lingered. She didn’t want to hash out all the “feeding” issues between Jonah and Kalin . . . and between Jonah and herself.

After they finished, they went back to football, but Kiko’s heart obviously wasn’t in it. Just as she was about to comment on that, a breeze whipped between them.

Air-conditioning? Dawn crossed her arms over her chest again. The minty scent she always detected in this office had gotten stronger, or maybe she was just noticing it for the first time today. And that meant something besides air-conditioning might be in the room.

Finally, Kiko said something that he’d clearly been mulling over. “Now I think I understand why all the portraits are of girls. Boy, the boss is a stallion.”

Now it was Dawn’s turn to roll her eyes. He’d figured out the feeding part all on his own.

“Then basically,” he continued, “the woman over the downstairs fireplace, Kalin, was one of the first of us? And then came . . .” He motioned toward the Elizabethan painting, then repeated the gesture portrait by portrait. “Her, then her, then her. And—”

When he came to the field of fire, he stopped. Dawn’s heartbeat seemed to do the same.

Because the painting wasn’t empty anymore.

Nope—the anonymous cape-veiled shape was back, the subject’s long, dark hair covering any sign of a face.

“Hmm,” Kiko said, returning to the football game.

Dawn hadn’t set her fingers up yet, but it didn’t matter. The paper triangle went wide.

She didn’t get up to grab it. “What, ‘hmm’?”

As Kiko focused on a spot behind her, he seemed to be thinking of the right way to word whatever he had to say. Then his eyes went wide. Very, very wide.

She heard a sliding-wood sound from the bookcase at the rear. Footsteps moving across the rug to the other side of the big room. Someone sitting down.

Fingers of frost played her spine.

Not really wanting to look, Dawn did anyway, turning around and knowing who she would find but not believing it.

There he was—Jonah, sitting on a far couch just as normally as can be. Because of the distance, she couldn’t see much of him as far as details went, but the cuts on his face would’ve distracted her anyway. He must’ve come through a panel in the bookcase—one he’d probably used before, on that day he’d instructed Kalin to bind Dawn.

Dressed in an untucked white silk shirt and black pants, he was splayed in his seat, just as if Dawn had fully worn him out during their last encounter. Odd for the usually soldier-straight Jonah. He drummed his fingertips on the velvet as he rested his head on the back of the couch and fixed his gaze on her.

She shifted in her chair.

Clearly ill at ease with this weird situation, Kiko tried to break the ice. “Hey, Boss. You hanging out with us now?”