As we near, we get a genuine surprise: men, women, and children. They walk along boarded paths, talk to others in front of their homes. People are working: patching walls, gathering water from a well beneath the windmill, sorting a myriad of boxes. I see smiles. I hear the din of laughter and conversation.
We must look pretty sorry when we arrive at the edge of the town. Michael’s bleeding has worsened, our clothes are torn and dirty, and our poor horse is panting like it’s spent a year in the desert alone in desperate search of a cool lake.
A burly man with salt and pepper hair that matches his beard approaches. He must be a guard. A rifle is slung over his shoulder, and a sturdy stake-filled bandolier wraps around his barrel-shaped chest. With steel in his light blue eyes and his mouth set in a firm line, he gives us a measuring look before shouting, “Get Doc Jameson!”
A young barefoot girl with braids races off.
The man helps me slide off the horse, softening my landing. I nearly collapse when my feet hit the ground, my legs unsteady after the long ride. Michael tries to dismount, but his weakness is apparent as he begins to fall, and the man quickly catches him.
“Easy now,” he says. “No shame in asking for help.”
Michael leans on the man and we all walk into the center of town. People stop what they’re doing to watch us. They’re probably wondering what sort of trouble we’ve brought. I’m just as wary. How have they managed to exist in this isolated place?
A woman with red hair pulled back into a ponytail runs up to us.
“He’s in rough shape, Doc,” the man says.
“I’d say so.” Her face sports a constellation of freckles. She’s wearing a beaten and frayed lab coat. Maybe it was once white, but it’s now the color of the dust. She doesn’t look very old, and her movements are quick and efficient, her green eyes sharp as she surveys the damage.
“Get him inside,” she says before turning her attention to me.
“I’m fine,” I say, barely able to get the words past my moisture-stripped throat.
“Don’t be brave just for your friend,” she says, examining my neck, and I know she’s searching for bite marks. “I can take care of you both. Follow George. I’ll meet you in the clinic.”
I would’ve followed George no matter what. Michael’s hold on the guard loosens with each step, his strength sapped. I slip under his free arm, determined to get him where he needs to be, even if it kills me.
The outside of the building is crude and simple, like all the others, but the inside is clean and tidy. On one side of a living area is an open office with a large desk. On the other, strings of beads serve as a doorway to a shadowed room. George walks straight through an opening that leads into what must serve as their infirmary. No tile or white sheets greet us, but care has been taken to ensure the dust and sand from outside don’t creep in. George lifts Michael onto an examination table that looks to be salvaged from some ancient scrap yard and hastily repaired.
When George leaves, I step forward, take Michael’s hand, and squeeze it reassuringly. The gashes on his cheek look angry, swollen, and painful. I can only imagine how much worse the ones across his chest are.
Dr. Jameson marches through the door, followed by a girl who looks to be about my age. Her blond hair is pulled back into a long braid. There is purpose in her movements as she sets a bowl of water on the counter. The doctor begins washing her hands while the girl arranges towels and instruments on a small table near where Michael is resting.
A dark-haired girl enters carrying two glasses with clear liquid in them. She gives me one. “I’m Amy.”
“Dawn,” I croak, before drinking the water. It’s cool as it travels down my parched throat.
“Drink slowly,” the doctor orders.
But it’s difficult. I never expected anything that didn’t have a flavor could taste so good.
With a shy smile, Amy puts an arm beneath Michael’s shoulders and lifts him gently, taking the glass to his lips. He finishes it off quickly. She settles him back down, takes my empty glass, and leaves the room. I realize the other girl is gone as well. But I’m not leaving. Maybe Dr. Jameson recognizes my determination to stay because she simply ignores me and steps over to the table. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
Scissors in hand, she proceeds to cut away Michael’s shirt to reveal the crimson furrows. I cling to his hand, more for my sake than his. I can’t believe he was able to help us get away. He must have been—still must be—in agony.
“Nasty gouges,” Dr. Jameson says. “On your face and chest. What happened?”
“Got into it with a cat.”
She shoots him a warning glare. “Now isn’t the time for jokes.”
Michael looks at me, hoping maybe I’ll crack a smile, but I’m too worried.
“Someone swiped at him with steel-tipped claws.” The weapon, so frightening, seemed like a natural extension of Sin’s demented persona.
“You’re lucky,” Dr. Jameson says. “If not for your ribs, these wounds could have gone a lot deeper, sliced into your organs. You wouldn’t be here now.”
Dr. Jameson dabs alcohol over the torn flesh. I feel helpless while Michael takes in a sharp breath and cringes. He tightens his hold on my hand. He’s nearly died for me so many times that I’m losing count. I wish I could do more for him.
“I’d love to offer you some anesthetic,” she says. “But all I have is this.”
She hands him a piece of wood, about the size of my forefinger, wrapped in rope. Michael places it in his mouth and bites down.
As she works a needle and thread through the wounds, she tugs tautly to close the openings. With every puncture, Michael grunts and tightens his jaw as he transfers the pain onto the piece of bark between his teeth. With my free hand, I brush my fingers through his short hair.
I lean over so he can hear me easily. “Remember when we were kids and we played on the swings? Go there, in your mind. Go to a place where there’s no pain, no Sin.”
He grows silent, and the doctor continues her work. I still feel the tension from his hand holding mine, but I can tell that my talking is distracting him. So I carry on, reminding him of all the good moments we’ve shared. He’s been my best friend for so long. For a while he was more than that.
When Dr. Jameson is finished with his chest, she closes up the gashes on his cheek. “All right, all done,” she says when she’s completed her work.
I help Michael sit up.
“How do I look, Dawn?” he mumbles, trying to talk without reopening the wounds. “Am I still as handsome as ever?”
Fighting back tears for all he’s suffered, I smile. He’s made another little joke, but right now it’s just a relief to know he’s going to be okay.
“Chicks dig scars,” I say.
Which he’ll have. Forever. Four deep strikes across his cheek, nearly cutting to the teeth, sealed up by a railroad of stitches. In a few weeks they’ll become small mountain chains of scar tissue. Then there are those along his chest, which the doctor is now covering with strips of gauze.
When she’s secured the ends so the bandage won’t unravel, she studies me intently. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Just bruised a little.”
She sits in a chair and sighs heavily, maybe slipping out of doctor-emergency mode finally. “So, who are you two?”
“Dawn Montgomery,” I say. “Former delegate for the city of Denver.”
“Impressive. And you?”
“Michael Colt. Bodyguard.” Even away from Denver he’s careful not to reveal that he’s a Night Watchman. They’re a clandestine group, their identities always held secret so their families don’t become the target of the vampires they hunt.
“Well, you two are certainly far from home. What brings you here? And is there trouble following you?”
A lot, but while I want to reassure her, I’m too tired and can’t think of how to be diplomatic. “I’m afraid we’re a magnet for vampires.”
“Who isn’t these days? But don’t worry,” she says, holding up her hand. “They never bother us here. I’ll have
