With the Dawn (Faith of the Fallen) Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2016

  A Kindle Scout selection

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  For the love of my life.

  You are my superpower.

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  She couldn’t open her eyes.

  No, they were open, but the room was pitch-black. A wave of panicked disorientation passed over her. Was she drugged? How had she gotten here? Where the hell was here? She couldn’t remember the last thing that had happened . . . or anything else, for that matter. A steady ache at the base of her skull made it almost impossible to focus.

  She reached up to rub her face. Her hand hit something solid. Something close. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart started to pound as she pressed both palms against a smooth, heavy surface only inches overhead. She was in a box.

  Oh, god. I’ve been buried alive.

  She swallowed a mouthful of stale air, thick and heavy, and tried to pound against the top of the box. She couldn’t summon enough strength to make any noise.

  A sound reached through the walls of her enclosure, and she froze. Her heartbeat drowned out almost everything else, but—there. Someone crying. Whimpering. Begging.

  Goose bumps spread across her arms and back.

  “Shh,” came a muffled voice. “Lie still, sweetheart.”

  More words, but she couldn’t make them out.

  “No, please—” the woman cried out. Then she screamed.

  The sound was raw and desperate. A scream of pure fear and hysteria. It washed over her and threatened to unhinge her.

  Something splashed. “Ugh. What a mess,” said the other voice. “On to the next one.”

  The next one. Oh, god. They were talking about her. She reached up and covered her mouth with one hand, trying not to hear the woman’s scream in her head. She forced her hand down to her side as the door to her box swished open. Fresh air rushed in. The surface she lay on rolled out, and light assaulted her eyes through closed lids, turning everything red.

  She struggled to lie still as rough hands pulled back the thin sheet covering her body. Only then did she feel the tight underwear and bra that clung to her. Were they hers?

  “Damn waste,” a man’s voice said, very close.

  “Back to work,” another commanded.

  Wet fingertips traced over her face, as though they were painting something on her. They went down her neck, across her chest, and finally onto her belly.

  One of the voices began muttering something, but the sounds didn’t make any sense. Some other language, nothing she recognized. An odd pressure began to build inside her head. Every instinct screamed at her to run.

  Run!

  She seized the edge of the surface and curled her knees to her chest, unfurling in one sudden movement. Someone shouted as she tumbled off the tray, her hands and feet slapping the cold tile floor. She was in a kitchen, surrounded by banks of small refrigerator doors. Not a kitchen, a morgue. Bodies lay on trays, headless, dripping. She spun around and leaped back from the two men who stood in the room. One was a tall fellow with a shaved head and goatee who was dressed like a priest. He held both hands out in front of him, as though he were trying to calm her. His companion made that all but impossible, as he was holding a large, bloodied blade in his hands.

  She looked down to her chest, it wasn’t paint. It was blood, scrawled in squiggly, illegible symbols. Her stomach clenched as she resisted the urge to vomit.

  There. A door to her right. The man with the sword saw her eyes dart in that direction. He moved to block the way, and she ran and dove beneath the table between her and the exit. Her knees hit the floor painfully, and she slid across the bloodied tiles. She heard the whistle of a blade cutting through the air just above her.

  She crashed through the door and sprang to her feet. The door swung both ways on hinges, with no handle or lock—nothing to jam it closed. Tile stairs led upward, and she scrambled to climb them, leaving bloody marks on the rubber grip strips. The door behind her crashed open as she reached the next floor. Tile gave way to cheap red carpet. Wooden doors, spaced evenly, lined both sides of the hallway. Gold numbers were perfectly centered on each one. The doors had no handles, only push plates. There was noplace to hide where they couldn’t come right in after her.

  Where the hell am I? The place looked like a hotel, but what kind of hotel had a morgue in the basement?

  The carpet on the floor crunched beneath her toes. She flexed her fingers marveling at the strength she felt in them. A set of double doors stood at the end of the corridor. Each door had a small window in it. Another stairwell was visible on the other side.

  “Stop!” someone behind her shouted as she pushed through the double doors. The men pursuing her were just behind her. She wouldn’t have time to make it to the next floor. The stairwell was empty, and there was nowhere to hide. Next to the door, in the corner, a glass box holding a fire extinguisher hung on the wall. After smashing her elbow through the box, she backed into the corner with the extinguisher raised over her head.

  The door burst open. The man with the sword started up the stairs, gesturing for the priest to head down the other flight. She gripped the extinguisher tight. The priest stepped through the door, and she brought it down with all of her strength. The crunch was sickening. Blood sprayed across the wall, and the man’s body dropped to the ground. The man with the sword turned at the sound and looked down at the rapidly spreading pool of blood with wide eyes.

  She yanked the pin out of the extinguisher and plunged the lever, shooting a stream of carbon dioxide at the swordsman. The small stairway filled with a freezing, blinding cloud of gas. After scrambling over the fallen priest’s body, she hurled the extinguisher over the railing. It clanged against the stairs as it bounced from one railing to the next. She flattened herself against the wall, not even daring to breathe as the swordsman rushed down the stairs. She scrambled back up as quietly as possible.

  The stairs terminated at another set of double metal doors. Sound vibrated through the walls in a frantic beat booming from massive speakers on the other side. She pushed through the doors and parted the blackout curtains just beyond them. She entered a massive room filled with dancers. An immense bank of TV screens covered the far wall, each framing a different dancer on the floor. Cages dangled from the vaulted ceiling, each containing a man or woman—or both—as scantily clad as herself.

  Someone grabbed her hand. Her heart caught in her throat as
she spun to confront her attacker. But it wasn’t the swordsman. It was a dancer who was almost too drunk to stay on his feet. Instead of pulling away, she tucked in close to him and slipped her arms around his torso.

  “Baby, yeah!” Her partner grabbed her butt as she rose up on her toes to look over his shoulder. There. The swordsman stood on the edge of the stage, scanning the crowd. He didn’t have his sword, but she would never forget that face.

  Time to move. If I stay here, even concealed by the crowd, they will eventually find me. Who that was, she had no idea. Her mind focused past the fear, the unknown, and her own lack of memories. A plan formed in the absence of that fear—disguise herself, find the exit and run as fast as she can.

  She curled her arms up behind her partner’s shoulder and under his jacket. “Sorry about this,” she muttered.

  She brought her knee up hard. The drunk crumpled like tissue. His bulk collapsed against her as he fell. She pushed him to the side, pulling his coat off as he rolled to the ground. His hands clutched his groin, and he moaned from the pain. She shrugged the coat on and pulled it closed.

  She forced herself to move calmly and deliberately as not to draw attention to herself. On the other side of the bar were stairs and a bright neon sign that proclaimed “EXIT.” Only a handful of people remained between her and freedom.

  Something tickled the back of her neck moments before a hand closed on her shoulder with enough strength to jerk her back and elicit a gasp from her. She didn’t have to look to know who it was. On instinct, she dropped to the floor. He didn’t let go of her shoulder as she fell. Her foot shot out behind her. Hard bone and soft flesh collided. He screamed as his shin broke. She pivoted her hips as he fell on top of her, then she sent him flying over her shoulder to land flat on his back.

  She didn’t have time to stop and think. She grabbed his mop of brown hair and banged his head against the floor. Twice. His eyes crossed. She stomped her foot against his stomach as she passed him. No need for him to recover anytime soon.

  No one stopped her as she jogged up the stairs to the exit. They curved up and behind the lounge into an alcove. Two large men with shirts that read “Security” guarded the inside of the club. Her face fell. They weren’t guarding the exit; they were waiting for her. Beyond them, the night sky called to her. Through the large double doors that led to the outside she could see people lined up outside the front door, waiting for their turn to enter. Two more bouncers outside kept everyone from crowding the place.

  They read her hesitance and moved. They’ll expect me to turn and run or scream, something defensive . . .

  She smiled at them and put one hand against the wall to feign a dizzy spell. Not everyone could be in on the plan to decapitate women in the basement.

  The first one, a broad black man with a pencil-thin mustache, reached for her arm. She fell toward him. Instead of him grabbing her, she planted a foot on his knee and kicked off. His knee bent with a crack of cartilage that sent him screaming to the floor. Her other foot landed on the railing. She shoved off with her leg, muscles aching under the strain. She sailed over the second bouncer’s head.

  With a thump, she landed in a crouch at the door. The two guards outside would catch her before she got three feet.

  “Look out. He’s got a gun!” she screamed, pointing at a man in the crowd. The guards turned to where she pointed, and that was enough to sell the crowd. The bustle of people outside went berserk. Some tried to barge in, others ran away. She slipped past the overwhelmed security to disappear into the rapidly thinning crowd.

  She didn’t stop to make sure she wasn’t being followed. She ran. Her legs ached from the strain. Her heart pounded. Sweat poured off her. Her calm facade had vanished under the onslaught of decapitated women and crazy sword-wielding maniacs.

  Her foot slipped on something wet. She crashed to the sidewalk and then into a garbage can. Bits of trash settled around her. She could barely breathe as she tried to heave in huge gulps of air.

  No man with a sword appeared. No security guards rushed her. She had gotten away. She let herself rest for a moment. She didn’t recognize anything. A huge city spread out vastly before her. Towering buildings with thousands of lights blocked out the moon.

  Adrenaline faded. Her limbs grew heavy and stiff. Her stomach growled at her. She tried to sit up, but her body wouldn’t obey.

  A hand clasped her forearm. Fear jolted her. It wasn’t the swordsman. It was a girl, barely old enough to be called a woman. Pale eyes twinkled from beneath a mess of black, tangled hair.

  “Alexi? I’m so sorry I’m late.”

  ***

  Dupree stood in front of a wide picture window, watching the yellow glow of the city mingle with the moonlight. The heavy tint on the glass blurred the view of his empire, but it was a price he gladly paid to avoid being killed by an errant beam of sunlight.

  My empire. Pfft. As long as I’m allowed to rule it, in any case.

  He gestured absently to his meal in the corner. Once, not so very long ago, she would have been described as beautiful. Repeated feedings left pencil-thin scars on her neck and shoulders. Her skin hung off her bones from malnutrition and lack of care. She shuffled to him with her arm out like a junkie with collapsed veins. It was all she had left.

  Dupree put his mouth to her skin, and his fangs pierced her weak veins. He sensed that she was done. He could no longer get the nourishment he needed from her withered husk. What essence she had left faded in seconds. Dupree released her arm, and she crumpled. Life fled, along with everything she was, everything she could have ever been. He pushed a hidden button under the edge of his desk, and two servants emerged to remove the body, carefully avoiding eye contact.

  There was a time, centuries before, when his kind hunted. They killed whom they pleased and fed when they wished—they were free. Before the Accord, before the Arcanum. Before humanity developed ruthlessly efficient methods of killing.

  Centuries? No, a millennium. Has it truly been so long?

  His door opened again, and a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. He wasn’t in the mood for visitors.

  “Dupree.” A cold, feminine voice interrupted his thoughts. “There’s been an incident.”

  He stared out the window for a long moment and then turned, gesturing for his visitor to continue.

  Bella was not alone. One of her pets shadowed her, a husky young man who could not be more than a few decades old. At least he had the sense to kneel in Dupree’s presence. Bella herself bowed as Dupree turned to face them. Her face was rigid, bereft of the youth and innocence that had made her seem so beautiful to him once. What was the name of that village? Manarolla? Her skin had been much darker then, lightly freckled and kissed by the sun.

  “Tell him,” Bella commanded her pet.

  “I’m sorry, milord,” the young man stammered over the unfamiliar honorific. “We tried to contain her, but she woke up too soon—it’s like she knew the way out. She killed Simms with a fire extinguisher and fled through the club.”

  Dupree snorted. After raising one graceful hand, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel the beginning of a headache pulsing between his eyes. He needed to feed.

  “Bella,” he said, turning back to face the window. “We have only two short months to prepare, yet all you bring me are reports of setbacks and failures.”

  His tone was mild, but the air in the room suddenly changed, becoming thick and heavy with tension. He could feel the fear emanating from behind him. It almost drew a smile from him. “Tell me, again, that I have not misplaced my trust in you.”

  “No, milord. I swear you haven’t,” Bella replied. Had he not known her so long and intimately, he wouldn’t have been able to detect the faint trace of desperation beneath her silken voice. Smooth, but cold. Pure ice. “Give me permission to take what we need from the streets.”

  “Humans are slow to respond, but when they do . . .” He frowned, brushing away distant memories of blood and fire.<
br />
  “We are so close, milord. Surely in a city this size, a few hundred will not be missed until it is too late.”

  Dupree frowned, considering. After a long moment, he nodded. “Do it but start with the homeless. They are the last to be noticed, even when they’re not missing. At least this way, in their death, they can serve a noble purpose.”

  “Yes, milord.” Bella cuffed her pet, and the husky young man bowed as he backed out of the room.

  “Bella?” Dupree said before the door swung shut.

  “Milord?”

  “I’m hungry. Send in something fresh.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  TWO

  Alexi cracked her eyes open and groaned, moving her head to the side to block out the light. A weight pressed down on her, pinning her to the bed.

  “You’re awake! Oh, god—I didn’t know what to do if you didn’t wake up.”

  Alexi squinted at the speaker, trying to make out a face. The voice was familiar. All at once, the events of the night before flooded back to her. Waking up, the bodies, the club, running and running until . . .

  She jerked awake. Her head slammed into the wall, sending dust and plaster into the air. Alexi pressed a hand to her forehead as she struggled to sit up. The room was tiny. She could reach out and touch the other wall. The green army cot she stretched out on looked older than dirt. A ratty blanket, with faded clouds and unicorns on it, rested over her legs. She blinked hard a few times to clear her vision. The girl sitting at the foot of the cot was the one she had met in the alley. She had light brown skin and hair so black it seemed to soak up the ugly yellow light emanating from a naked bulb overhead.

  “Why do I feel so fuzzy?”

  She tried to swallow. Her tongue was dry and rough like sandpaper.

  “Did I hit my head?”

  “You’re probably hungry.”

  The girl leaned closer, peering at her. Long, black lashes narrowed over wide, violet eyes.

  “I can feed you in a little bit. Wow, you look just like you did in my . . . but seeing you in person—” She broke off, her cheeks flushing. “Sorry, I’m gushing.”