Blood-Kissed Sky (Darkness Before Dawn) (3 page)

“You were seeing him, weren’t you?”

“Not like you mean. Our paths crossed from time to time—”

“And you fell for him. How could you be so stupid?”

Knowing he has a right to be angry, I struggle to stand. “Michael, I’m so sorry. I was going to tell—”

“Save it for someone else, Dawn. I’m done listening to you.”

The door opens and the nurse strides in, pushing a wheelchair. She comes up short as she notices Michael. “Young man—”

“I’m already on my way out.” Michael takes two steps, then stops and turns back to me. “I’m glad you woke up. And no matter what I just said, no matter what I might say, that’ll never change.”

Before I can even respond, he’s brushing past the nurse and slamming the door behind him. Watching him go, I know that everything has changed.

I
want to leave the hospital so badly. I know I’m still weak, but it feels like there is so much I need to do: make sure Tegan is really okay, straighten things out with Michael if that’s even possible, and see how the Agency has held up without me. And, most importantly, talk to Victor.

Unfortunately, the nurse who came into my room isn’t carrying my discharge papers. Instead, she gently guides me into the wheelchair and leads me down a hallway, saying that the doctor wants to “run some tests.” I expect those tests to involve having some blood drawn, maybe getting an X-ray or two. Instead I find myself wheeled to a psychiatrist’s office.

The lighting is dim, just enough to reveal the wooden walls, potted plant, and old furniture. A man, who I can only assume is the psychiatrist, spins around from his place at the window, like we’ve surprised him. Small but incredibly thick glasses make his gray eyes bulge, giving them an all-seeing, all-knowing glare that betrays a cold, calculating intelligence. He’s unnaturally thin, as though he spends all his time lost in books and journals, nourishing his mind but forgetting the needs of his body. His black hair and mustache are perfectly trimmed.

“I’m Dr. Schwartz,” he says after the nurse leaves. “Don’t worry, Miss Montgomery. Your being brought to me is nothing to be concerned about. We just need to verify that you’re firing on all cylinders.”

“You need to make sure I’m not crazy,” I say.

“We don’t like to use those kinds of terms. But you have been through a very stressful experience, which can create certain anxieties. Compound that with a week in a light comatose state, and, well … we just want to make sure you’re as healthy as possible before leaving our care.”

And before I return to work. I can feel Clive’s influence in this room. He cares about me, maybe too much. I’ve been through more than most seventeen-year-olds and he has to be questioning how much more I can take before I break. Or if I’m already broken.

Can’t have a schizo delegate negotiating to protect Denver’s citizens. But I know I’m fine, and I need to get out of here. So I sit down on a couch across from the doctor and he runs through the basic questions with me. I know exactly what he wants to hear, so at times, I fudge the truth just enough.

No, I’ve had no thoughts of self-harm.

No, I haven’t felt “the blues.”

Yes, I’m eating fine—or as fine as one can when dining on hospital food.

Yes, my grades were good before the incident.

Yes, my relationships are steady. Steadily falling apart, but I keep the last to myself. I’ve lost Michael and I’m not sure where things stand with Victor.

“Before all of this,” I say, “everything was great. And my friends came to see me as soon as I woke up, and it was like nothing changed. I’m looking forward to getting back out there.”

“Good. Good,” Dr. Schwartz says. “I know you’re lying to me, but good.”

Uh-oh. I swallow hard and want to backpedal through my answers, but he just raises his hand.

“I have no plans to put you in a straitjacket,” he says. “You’re a teenager; you’ve been through a lot; you have a very stressful job. A certain amount of leniency must be given in light of all that. In fact, if anything, you’re too sane. Most people in your position would’ve cracked by now under that much responsibility. But not you. I’m worried that you might be repressing things. Does that sound reasonable to you?”

“Yes. I’ve always thought that if I bury my feelings now, I can dig them up later when I have time to deal with them.” Good answer, but the truth is that I don’t ever want to dig them up. They’re too painful, make me feel weak. I have to be strong, make my parents proud of me. Finish the work they started.

“That can create a very shaky foundation,” he says.

A silence falls and I try to psychoanalyze
him
. What’s he thinking? Have I sealed my own fate? So what if I keep certain emotions from getting out of control? It’s worked, hasn’t it? What’s the alternative? Cry my heart out in a darkened corner every night? No thanks.

“I’d like to try something with you, Dawn,” he says. “Dr. Icarus told me you had a dream that seemed very real.”

“It was nothing. It was just …”

“Most dreams are nothing, just little neurons in your brain still firing while you’re trying to sleep. But what interests me is what was going on inside your mind while you were in that coma. Your psyche may have taken the time to … rearrange things. To catch up. To unbury all those repressed feelings.”

“Fine. I’m up for anything that will get me out of here. What do you want me to do?”

“Draw.”

He brings out a pad of paper and pencil, then hands them to me.

“I’m not a very good artist,” I say.

“All the better.”

Dr. Schwartz goes around the room and dims several of the lights further until my eyes have to adjust. I struggle just to see the sketch pad on my lap.

“Okay, now lean back and relax.” His voice has shifted to something soothing, mesmerizing.

Tilting my head back, I close my eyes.

“Think about that dream,” he says softly. “Where were you?”

“A mountain,” I say.

“Draw it.”

This is really stupid and I open my eyes in protest.

“No,” he says. “Keep your eyes closed. Just let your hand do the work. And think. What else was there?”

Fine. Let’s get this over with.

“The moon,” I say, eyes shut, pencil on paper.

And the stars, of course. A lot of them. It was a clear night. I was in the middle of nowhere, far away from a city.

I groped along the walls. My fingers touched something—a deep groove, deliberately created, not something formed by erosion. I outlined it. Too many lines, too many curves. Why is it here? What does it mean?

“I turn to look at it,” I say.

It’s just a symbol. But it’s familiar. I’ve seen it before, but where? In another dream? No …

The symbol is complex, like several characters combined into one.

“I can’t really explain it.”

My heart was beating fast. My heart
is
beating fast. I can feel my pulse, the blood pumping through my veins, ending at my fingertips, controlling the pencil.

Enough of this.

I open my eyes. I’m no longer in the room, but on that mountain. Rocky cliffs surround me. And a voice calls from within the stone.

“Find me.”

I put my hand against the symbol, feeling its contours, knowing every little detail. No bigger than the palm of my hand, but I can sense that it’s significant. It’s pulsing, drawing me in.

I never woke up from the coma. The hospital, the visitors—none of it was real. I’m still trapped in my own mind.

“Find me.”

The voice is growing louder, raspier. I don’t dare answer. I don’t know who it is. I don’t know what he wants. But I’m scared, scared that I’ve become lost. I’m compelled to move toward the voice.

“Find me!”

Someone grabs me—

Help! Oh my God, help me!

“Dawn!”

I’m back in the dark room. Dr. Schwartz is across from me.

“I was there,” I say.

“You were dreaming.”

“No. No! I was there!”

“It felt very real, that’s all,” he says. “Made more powerful, perhaps, by your time spent in a comatose state. You may be having some difficulties differentiating one reality from another. Don’t worry. That’ll fade in a matter of days as your sleep cycle returns to normal.”

He turns on the lights. The world seems so hazy, a gigantic fog settling over my mind. Nothing seems real and I have to convince myself that it is.

“I heard something. A voice. It said, ‘Find me.’”

“Hmmm … interesting.”

He writes it down on my chart and I’m frightened of what else is on there. Then I look down at the drawing I made: It’s scribbled nonsense, completely blacked out. The pencil in my hand is worn down, the sharp point eroding as I dragged it across the blank paper.

But then I see it. The symbol. The one in my dreams.

Knowing that he’ll collect this drawing, possibly to record my psychosis, I flip the page and quickly copy the symbol, then quietly rip it out and place it in the folds of my hospital gown.

I hand the sketch pad back to Dr. Schwartz and give him a reassuring smile.

He smiles back.

I just hope that my smile doesn’t look as fake as his.

After the session I’m wheeled back to my room. I hate feeling like an invalid, but I take some comfort in the fact that they didn’t deliver me to a padded cell.

I wake up to find the sun has set. The blinds at the window are raised and I can see the night. The session with Dr. Schwartz must have been more tiring that I thought. He told me that getting my sleep cycle regular again was important, but that doesn’t look to be happening anytime soon. My schedule is still really off. Of course, as a delegate, I wasn’t on much of one anyway. School during the day, but dealing with Valentine and vampire problems at night. I wonder if Victor is awake.

I wonder a lot of things: mostly how soon before I go out of my mind. I have nothing to distract me from my thoughts—no newspapers, no TV.

I buzz for the nurse. She’s a different one from this morning: large and bulky. Her uncompromising expression tells me that I’d better be dying to have bothered her. Unfortunately for her, I’ve dealt firsthand with vampires. It’s going to take a lot more than a stern look to cause me to retreat.

“Can I get a TV in here?” I ask.

“No TV. Doctor’s orders.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t think it would be good for your health.”

Since the war that pitted humans against vampires, programming is limited to what we can produce in the city. For the most part, it’s awful low-budget soap operas, but as far as I know they never killed anyone. Even though sometimes they make me gag. We have local news, but we get very little communication from the other cities.

“How about a newspaper, then?”

“We don’t have any here.”

“None? It doesn’t have to be current. I want to catch up on what’s been happening since I’ve been out of it.”

“You really don’t.”

With that cryptic statement, she turns toward the door. “Be sure to eat your supper. The more quickly you regain your strength, the sooner you can leave.”

The door slams in her wake. I glance to the side and notice the tray on wheels standing nearby. Reaching over, I pull it toward me. I lift a domed lid to unveil a gelatin that wiggles, potatoes, and grilled fabricated chicken. Yuck! I’m in the mood for a hamburger. Or steak. A real steak with warm juices oozing out of it. My parents splurged and bought the real stuff to celebrate when Dad became delegate to Lord Valentine. Only it wasn’t really a celebration. We were all just trying to pretend it was good news. We knew how dangerous it would be for him to travel outside the city walls at night. We were trying to show we weren’t scared.

I place the cover back over the food. Not interested.

I notice a small white box. I open it. Inside are two pieces of chocolate. There are places for four. A note is scribbled on the inside of the top of the box.

Sorry! You should have woken up while I was here. A girl can only resist so much temptation. Figure best friends share anyway, right?

Tegan was here? Maybe I’m not as recovered as I think. Now I’m fully awake. Maybe I should call her—but I have no cell phone. I’m doomed to boredom.

But just as I think that, the door opens, and I know my next visitors will not be boring. Vampires never are.

“Where’s Victor? Is he okay?” I ask.

“Relax, my brother is fine. Almost recovered and back to full strength.” Faith is quite possibly the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. She has perfect skin, vibrant red hair, and an hourglass figure. Her eyes are the same sharp blue as Victor’s, but they look more seductive, if that were possible. Her red leather pants hug her legs all the way down to her six-inch matching heels. How does she stay upright in those things? Her scarlet blouse doesn’t leave much to the imagination and I’m tempted to point out that she has a couple of buttons that are feeling neglected. She
looks
to be nearly my age, although she’s been around for two hundred years.