Break of Dawn (18 page)

“Jesse Shane.” His tone seemed forced.

“Yeah, he’s one of the undead movie stars, but,” she continued, going for some levity, wanting to make him smile again, “don’t be jealous. He’s only a vamp.”

Just as a grace note, Dawn ran a hand over Matt’s cheek.

That was when his gaze seemed to get even bluer, deepening and heating.

“Matt?”

His breathing quickened.

A gasp fought its way out of Dawn’s chest, but before it could escape, Matt swung her to her back, knocking the air out of her. He pushed her hands over her head, straddling her hips with more aggression than he’d ever shown, his eyes narrowed so that she couldn’t really see them.

In her mental chaos, Dawn’s body responded, her sex nudging to a hard ache. She wanted this kind of anger, wanted to take it inside and mold the heat into the tight ball that was already burning in the pit of her belly. She didn’t care if the Master was watching from behind some hole in the wall, didn’t care if anyone was.

See, Costin? Do
you
see me?

“You’re all I can think of,” Matt said, tightening his grip on her wrists. “Not being able to be around you . . . You don’t know what it’s . . .” He choked off.

His bulk made her feel as insignificant as she deserved and, as he hovered over her, she fed off of his feral longing.

“You really missed me?” she asked, breathless.

With a strangled moan, he moved back on his haunches, then leaned back his head. His posture imitated an animal ready to cry out. But when he caught sight of himself in the mirror above the bed, he stiffened, gaze locked to his reflection.

He stared, face wracked with something like devastation caused by what he was witnessing.

“Matt?” she said.

Whatever it was that’d been holding him back seemed to break loose at the sound of her saying his name. He bolted forward, buried a hand in her loose hair, and fisted it until she winced. Then he crushed his mouth to hers in a hard kiss.

That was all Dawn needed.

As they bit at each other, sucking and fighting for dominance, she imagined what they looked like in the mirrors above and surrounding the bed. Two foes fighting, meeting on a primitive field where they would draw blood.

Costin,
she thought,
just watch me.

Spurred on, she reached up to grab Matt’s shirt, hauling him down and rolling him to his back. Now she was straddling him on hands and knees, her spine arched while the ends of her loose hair scratched his face.

“You’ve made me wait for you a long time,” she said in a voice that was too raw to be her own. “You’ll pay for that.”

And for what he’d done when he tried to get her to wear that Eva-like dress.

Still on her knees, she slid down until her pussy skimmed over his arousal. She rubbed, the ridge of him skidding against her, separating her even through her jeans. She pressed harder, needing more.

He gave a small grunt, then reached up to flip her on her back again with a breath-stealing thud. She could tell she’d pushed him beyond endurance—no more gentleman Matt. He was all flesh and blood now, stripped of civility.

As he bent her legs and whisked off her boots and socks one foot at a time, she watched in the overhead mirror, her image a blur, almost unrecognizable.

Are you watching . . . ?

Dawn fumbled with her button snap and zipper, helping Matt to rip her jeans off. When they got to her panties, he hesitated, breathing raggedly.

“Damn it,” Dawn said, taking the initiative and removing those, too.

For one odd moment, he averted his gaze from her bare skin, then locked eyes with her. Even in the wildness of his irises, she could see that he wanted all of her, not just an easy lay.

Oh, God, it was the last thing she needed to know. In rebellion, she sat up and began undoing Matt’s fly.

“No,” he ground out, sliding his hands behind her thighs.

By lifting Dawn, he urged her back to the mattress, bending her legs at the same time. The air caressed her sex, hot, wet. . . . She was ready for him to tear her apart.

When he bent to kiss the inside of her leg by the knee, he seemed so tender that Dawn couldn’t watch. Pushing back from him, she flipped to her stomach.

“Do it,” she said.

Once again, Matt paused. Then his hands made contact with the backs of her thighs, upward, over her ass.

She imagined a different pair of hands there: invisible, connected to a body that was only lived in part-time. Costin . . . Jonah . . . who . . . ?

She made a low sound of thwarted yearning, opening her legs.

A pair of very solid palms coasted downward, cupping the curves of her cheeks. Then Matt’s thumbs slipped between her legs, separating her damp folds and delving in.

Dawn pushed her face into the mattress, biting, tasting the sheets. In her mind, she was in a different room, a different house.

Costin . . .

“Dawn,” said Matt’s voice.

She opened her eyes as he pressed her clit, massaging it until she gathered the sheets in her fists.

While Matt continued working her with one hand, he slipped his other palm below her hips, raising them. Then she felt him sink down between her thighs, nipping the sensitive inner flesh. His mouth was so warm and wet, so real.

He was quaking now.

She closed her eyes again, not wanting to picture what that meant, what emotion he might be investing while she felt empty.

Almost intuitively, she groaned in response to what he was doing to her. She’d be an actress for him. He couldn’t know that she was imagining another man between her thighs, kissing her higher, higher. . . .

She thought she heard a swishing sound. Then more kisses—these cooler, like pinches, flickers of pain—took the place of Matt’s mouth.

He traveled over her thigh, her ass, her waist, her back, up to her neck, and she pressed her face into the mattress even harder.

His breath came cool and heavy against her ear, and she remembered how he used to love to play with the blood-moon earring there. Her mind swam as she fought to imagine Matt—this was Matt, not anyone else—making her skin raise with goose bumps.

“Dawn . . .” he breathed, tickling her neck until her jugular pounded in time with her sex.

Then she felt it—a scratch like a razor, like—

She heaved in a gasp, pushing herself up and catching a hint of . . . another man besides Matt? . . . in a mirror next to the head of the bed. Her mind pushed out a bolt of confused shock, and the mirror cracked, fragmenting the image.

Whipping around, she heard the same strange sound, like the one the Elites made when they changed form, and just as it ended, she found Matt. He looked just as shocked as she was, except maybe he was thinking about the shattered mirror . . . or her sudden withdrawal.

Even though her body was one connected, brutal heartbeat, she closed her legs and covered herself. Then something shifted in her memories, creeping to the front of her skull like a thick, viscous flood. Something that’d been bothering her about the night Cassie had killed Breisi.

“You found the Vampire Killer?”
Matt had said when she’d come to ask him if he would help her hunt down Eva.
“I saw what was on TV.”

Dawn’s forehead throbbed. On the sly, Eva had told her that Cassie’s attempted broadcast of Breisi’s killing had
not
gone public.

No one
could’ve said that they’d seen the Vampire Killer on TV. No one but an uninformed member of the Underground who didn’t know that Eva had told Dawn the truth about the transmission plans.

Oh, God.

Dawn armed herself, forcing a casual smile that almost split her face in half. Meanwhile, she sought her clothing, trying not to fumble as adrenaline screeched at her to run. “I got carried away. We’re Underground, maybe being watched. What a time to forget.”
Acting!

But her pulse was screeching.

Matt took a look at the mirror Dawn had mind broken, his breath coming fast and heavy. “I’d think that you, out of anyone, would . . .” He planted his hands on his hips as he remained kneeling.

She got dressed. “I don’t want to be vamp entertainment. That’s all.”

“Okay.” Matt knitted his eyebrows. “I can understand. Another time, another place . . . ?”

Her skin was crawling over her bones. “Right. Maybe when things are more settled.”

He started to tremble again.

Fear struck a vibrating chord, resonating through her own limbs. “Don’t be angry,” she said.

“There doesn’t seem to be any pleasing you.” His voice had changed, warped by embarrassment or rejection or whatever he was feeling.

“Matt . . .”

Out of the blue, his body faded gracefully into another form. It happened so quickly and effortlessly that Dawn’s brain didn’t catch up to real time until it was too late.

Sitting on his knees before her was the form of Benedikte.
This
was what she’d caught in the mirror—

She gaped, jumped back, away from him, far, far away.

And her horror only grew when she took a better look at him. Only now, with his hair falling free and such a primal expression haunting his features, did she know where she’d seen this being before.

In the seer’s dagger vision.

Benedikte was Costin’s fierce soldier companion, minus the dirt, facial hair, and leather. He’d been there when Costin was bitten and made a vampire. They’d been friends, these two. They were the same. Very real monsters.

The creature held out his arms to Dawn, as Eva often did when she was pleading. “What do you want? Tell me. I can be whatever you desire.”

As Dawn’s skin dissolved into shivers, Benedikte’s body warped into that of Jesse Shane’s.

“This?” he asked.

Dawn choked on air.

“Or,” he interjected, “this?”

He changed into Frank.

“Oh, God,” she said, nausea coating her throat. “You sick fuck!”

“Show me an image of Jonah Limpet then,” Benedikte said, crawling closer as he shifted back into Matt’s form. “Give me an idea of what he looks like in a picture where he’s not covering his face. I haven’t found any, and he’s such a recluse. . . .”

She couldn’t think of how to get out of this—

If you need any help, just call my name,
her mother had said.

“Eva,” Dawn whispered.

But then she recalled the sting of her mother’s slap.

Damn it, what else was there to do? What were her alternatives—

Picture, Benedikte had said. Jonah.

The option banged through her, knocking at her head. Picture . . .
pictures
. . . Friends . . .

“Breisi?” Dawn blurted out in a whisper. She would help—Breisi, the woman who’d always meant more to Dawn than Eva. “If the locator showed you where I might be, and you’re looking for me nearby, I’m here. You can find me Underground here.
Find me.
”

“Matt” was cocking his head at her, as if trying to understand what she was saying and why she wouldn’t accept him.

Then terror struck just as soon as she realized what kind of danger she’d put Breisi in by summoning her. Panicking, Dawn started to reverse the selfish request.

But then the door to the room flew open, and Dawn was cocooned in a warm, forgetful mist—Eva?
Eva?
—that clogged her mind, her body, until she found herself spat out into the night air, a minute, an eternity, later, landing on the concrete of a place she didn’t recognize.

Until she looked up from her huddled position and found the Limpet house coming into focus above her.

Dawn pushed up from the cold ground, other details phasing into view. An empty swimming pool under moonlight, the pit strewn with leaves. Palm trees swaying in a fading night sky and crying in the wind.

“Eva?” she asked, just now realizing what had happened. Her mother had come to her, just as she’d promised.

But why? Why would she change her mind about leaving Dawn to the Master now . . . ?

Dawn turned to find Eva still in Danger Form, bobbing above the pool like a restless fog, her graceful arms reaching out.

An angel, Dawn thought. A guardian. And she’d dropped her daughter off in the same spot where she’d deposited Breisi after retrieving her dead body for proper burial.

“Remember this,” her mother said. “Remember how much I love you.”

As she lifted away, Dawn reached out, her throat contracting too much for her to get a word out.

All she wanted to finally say was that she’d always loved Eva, too.

NINETEEN

BELOW, TAKE FOUR

EVA’S
vampire body was a part of the howling wind, a part of whatever made the night a fearful thing. She rode the air, telling herself that she could get back Underground before Benedikte realized what had happened.

But she knew she was living on fool’s time.

The Master had seen her barge in and then encapsulate her daughter, as if cuddling Dawn back into the womb. He would have no doubts whatsoever this time that Eva had turned on him.

But she’d been aware of the possible consequences when she’d told Dawn to call her if Benedikte crossed any lines. She’d been prepared ever since slapping Dawn when her daughter had pointed out the harsh truth about why Eva had remained faithful to Benedikte.

Youth, beauty . . .

In the near distance, the Hollywood sign burned bright from the husk of a hillside. It shimmered in Eva’s heightened vision as she flew closer. But upon a better look, she could tell it was composed of steel, dirtied and lifeless.

She put off going into the Underground, loitering around the sign and looking into the wavering lights of the city. Think, she needed to think. How was she going to explain everything to the Master
this
time?

How could she explain it to herself? One second, she was opening up the Underground for attack by setting Frank free to go back to Limpet, or showing Dawn an old quarry exit and then delivering her Above anyway. The next she was worried that her actions would end up bringing about her master’s demise—and her own forgotten humanity. What was she
doing
?

Eva skimmed the edges of the sign, wishing it would cut into her, wishing something would jar her into a more certain reality. Was she the type of brave mother who would give up everything for her family? Or was she really the woman who’d sold her soul to stay beautiful?

She didn’t know. She just didn’t know, and she was going to pay for the indecision. And, no matter what Dawn said about her mother loving to be in control, Eva knew it was a facade.

But . . . Eva paused on top of the sign. She needed to get back. A show of unity with the Master would help, especially if she could persuade him that she was on his side after all. . . .

Go, she thought. Just
go
.

Before she could hesitate anymore, she shot toward an Underground old quarry entrance, the most remote opening she could think of, though it hadn’t been so out of the way earlier when Sorin had caught her there with Dawn. Eva should’ve expected the second-in-command to be watching her like a gargoyle, but getting caught was nothing next to her need to know that Frank was secure, that he regretted leaving her and wanted to come back.

Had he gone to Limpet? Eva hadn’t been lying to Dawn when she’d said that she truly didn’t know much about the Underground’s foe. She’d really been hoping her husband wouldn’t return to the agency, too. Surely he’d have enough sense to just go back to being a vampire version of the Frank she used to be married to and forget about being this new hunter.

Right before the entrance, Eva stopped, building herself up for whatever the Master had in store for her. She would take his punishments; it would be worth her pains because, when the Master had contacted her that second time via Awareness near the quarry entrance, she’d sensed a real desperation in him.

I’ll give Dawn what she wants this time,
he’d said, nearly giddy with this fresh plan to win her daughter over.

And what’s that?
Eva had asked, warning bells going off at his tone, even though she couldn’t pinpoint the reason yet.

Matt Lonigan.
The Master’s voice had risen.
She’ll fall at his . . .
my
feet now. She’ll do anything for me if I’m Matt.

It was here that Eva had known that if this last-ditch effort to be accepted by Dawn wasn’t successful, Benedikte would break. And, seeing as he had some pretty bipolar tendencies, she didn’t want her daughter around him when that happened.

She’d seen his monstrous side before.

So she’d impulsively promised Dawn protection. Sure, she knew her daughter could handle a lot—look at what she’d done up until now—but this required more than chutzpah and fighting skills. This required a mother who knew better, a vampire who had retained an echo of humanity, even though it wasn’t the real thing at all.

She hovered, her misty shape weaving in and out of itself, as if smoothing down a dress that she would wear in human form.

You’re down here because of what
you
need,
Dawn had told her,
and that’s why you’ll always serve your master, first and foremost.

Her baby was right.

Trembling at the reminder—at the truth—Eva ran an outstretched limb along the wall, undoing the hidden lock.

She would earn the title of “mother.” Taking Dawn away from the Master had been only a start, and she didn’t regret it, even though she was probably going to suffer now.

But that was part of being a parent. A real one.

Inside, Eva whirled back into human form, then calmly walked the tunnel while opening her senses to Benedikte so she could go to him.

What I purchased with my soul isn’t worth losing Dawn and Frank over,
she told herself. And when she arrived at the Master’s hidden quarters, she fortified herself with the mantra, arming herself with its abstract, rhythmic comfort.

Even though it was something she would never be able to see in a mirror.

 
ONE of the Master’s corked soul vials fell from its box on the shelves and hit the rug as he fumbled amongst his collection, searching out a panacea.

But which of his prizes could take the place of Dawn?

Of Eva?

He sobbed, and his form blackened to almost nothing in its nobody-nebulous shape. His outline fizzed with the color of a graying corpse, but inside, he was dark. Closed.

“Master,” Sorin said for at least the hundredth time. “You must concentrate on the positives.”

Positives?

Ah, yes. An Elite had reported within the last few minutes that they’d caught a curious Limpet spirit Underground and had captivated it in a container much like one of the Master’s vials and stowed it in a closet with the others. And, according to Sorin, Eva had played her final hand and exposed herself as a traitor.
Positive
news all around.

“Be rational,” Sorin added.

There was fear in his second’s voice, but Benedikte took no interest in that. He continued knocking over vials, partly because he couldn’t see well enough to know what he was doing. Instead, his vision was consumed with images of Eva breaking into Dawn’s room and stealing his lover away from him. He kept replaying the numbness of watching his one-time favorite zoom Dawn out of the room, out of the Underground, out of his life.

He hadn’t even conjured the will to assume his most dangerous form and go after Eva. She had betrayed him and he’d seen it with his own gaze. Nothing else mattered.

No, wait. The disgust on Dawn’s face when he’d revealed his identity to her . . . ?
That
mattered.

Losing his strength, the Master grabbed at the boxes that housed the vials, grabbed at the shelving. The structure collapsed on his way down, spilling his collection, the vials rolling over the rug.

As he lay there staring at the ceiling, he felt just like that night in London, decades and decades ago, when he’d lost his first Underground.

Gone, he told himself. There’s nothing left.

“Master.” It was Sorin again—the one shining light during that first catastrophe. “Please do not sink into your melancholy. You cannot be in this state when Limpet comes.”

Limpet. Coming. So what. The Underground had become a means to an end for Benedikte: a way to hold on to Eva. Dawn.

But now it was irrelevant.

“Master,” Sorin repeated.

The outline around Benedikte’s form fizzled, lacking animation.

His son came to stand over him. “I knew we should have reached into Dawn Madison’s mind—rape or not—when she first came down here. Now we have no access to her again.”

“I . . .” Benedikte sighed. “I wanted her to give willingly, and she
would
have, if . . .”

“Oh, Master.” His son came to his knees beside Benedikte. “Ignoring the truth is not going to aid this situation.”

“Don’t try to rouse me with anger.”

“I would give my soul for that to work. It would mean you have not lost the fire for battle.”

He knew Sorin was right, but . . .

Benedikte reached for a vial. Next to him, he sensed his son growing excited, even in spite of his stalwart focus.

“You long for this?” The Master offered it to Sorin.

“No, I—” He cut himself off, rising to his feet and turning his back on his maker.

In the gloom of Benedikte’s thoughts, one emerged forcefully. His son was growing into a Soul Taker, just like Benedikte. Could it be that Sorin’s new yearning for this sustenance had inflamed the Guards’ recent link with humanity, their cries for “hooome”? When Sorin maintained the sentries with his magic, did that transfer a desire for souls . . .
humanity?
. . . to the lower vampires who’d been unwillingly separated from it?

Although Sorin wasn’t a parent to the Guards—Groupies were the ones who donated their bite—he kept the troops in line with his powers, and he had a connection with them. . . .

Sorin’s voice came out strong now, as if he were fighting off the soul thirst. “I will allow you a moment to wallow in your grief, Master, but then we must face reality.”

He would
allow
his maker a moment. Impudence. Benedikte wanted to get angry but couldn’t.

“Eva’s betrayal could not have been more obvious in the coming,” Sorin continued. “Besides all my other suspicions, I found her with her daughter in an old quarry passage. She had opened the entrance, revealing it to Dawn. What if she were planning to gift Limpet with secret access for his attack, Master? Did it ever cross your mind that Dawn and Eva might be siding with the enemy?”

Benedikte dropped the vial. If he could become one with the ground, sinking into it and losing himself there, he would do it. Being a part of the soil sounded so natural right now. . . .

“Eva and that daughter of hers are your downfall,” Sorin continued, turning around so that his words could prod at Benedikte’s side like a spearhead seeking blood.

But then the Master sensed Eva nearby. She called to him through Awareness.

Master,
she said, as if bowing before him in shame.

Normally, he would’ve melted at her tone, her very presence. But now . . . ? Nothing. There was nothing.

Enter,
he thought.

Yet when she did, he couldn’t lie to himself any longer. The smell of her hair lured him from the floor to his feet, and when she came to stand before him, his form wavered.

Eva, his love. His heartbreak.

Again, the mental vision of her whisking Dawn away from him stabbed, mutilated all the deep feelings he’d nursed. A spark lit within him, then died. But it left some heat.

She folded her hands in front of her, a knowing martyr. Sorin circled her like an inquisitor of old.

“Are you here to explain,” his son said, “or to offer yet another excuse?”

“I’m here to talk to Benedikte and Benedikte only.”

Sorin gave the Master a challenging look.
Will you permit this to continue?

Another spark gasped to life within Benedikte, burning a little longer before extinguishing.
Do not say another word if you wish to remain in one piece, Sorin.

Then he turned his attention to Eva. Even though he knew that his nobody form didn’t show the details of a face, he bet that she could read him just as well. She lifted her chin, as if unwilling to apologize for what she’d done.

A third spark flared, eating Benedikte whole.

Before he knew it, he was inside her head, ripping through everything she’d been hiding from him. Colors of life, bleeding together, images screeching as they crashed together . . .

He saw Eva’s duplicity the night Cassie Tomlinson had killed Breisi Montoya. Saw how she’d allowed Frank to escape. Saw how she’d been sharing information with Dawn and exposing the Underground for attack. Every lie. Every betrayal.

With a cutting jolt, he fell out of her thoughts, hitting the floor. It brought him to a quaking, smoldering rage.

“Eva,” he cried. “Oh, Eva.”

In the aftermath of his invasion, she dropped to her knees, her eyes taking on what they called the Ten-Mile Stare. He’d ravished her . . . the woman he loved. He’d done what he’d promised never to do—taken her against her will, and that destroyed him almost as much as seeing what she’d done.

“It was . . . worth it,” she whispered, tears falling down her face. Her lips remained agape, as if she’d been stripped of everything: dignity, privacy, trust.

“Worth it?” the Master repeated.

Then something even more powerful switched on inside of him.
“No!”
Sorin yelled, clearly anticipating what would happen next.

But Benedikte’s rage had already exploded into a deeper danger: hatred. Hatred for himself, hatred for the world. He felt himself gathering every evil intention that laced the air, felt his form weigh with the nightmares of every child—adult or not—that haunted a night’s bloodcurdling attempt to sleep. Expanding, turning,
becoming
, he was the monster under the bed, in the closet, in the cave.

In everyone.

Rising, rising, fangs elongating like curved blades, the abyss took to his very body.

He was terror. He was fear itself.

Benedikte reared back his head, then let out a screech that would shatter heaven if he were anywhere near it.

Then he sped to Eva, stopping just short of blasting against her. She’d gained power during her last infusion, but she would be no match for him. Or maybe she was only accepting what she deserved.

She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look into the thing above her and see all her worst thoughts. Then she bowed her head, opening her arms to welcome her reckoning.

Perversely pleased, the Master turned to Sorin, who was already looking away, eyes squeezed tightly shut against all the terrors he was seeing in the form of his father.