Black Dawn

“Come on,” Michael said, more urgently. “Let’s go, guys, now. We’re in neutral territory, but it’s too close to them for comfort. Move.”

Claire led Shane across the gravel and into the shed, where Michael clicked a light switch that threw a bright, industrial glow over the contents. It smelled of chemicals and rust and oil in here, and there were industrial-sized drums, boxes, cans, all kinds of things that looked like they might be used by janitorial or groundskeeping staff.

“Claire, you’re not going to be of any help with this,” Myrnin said. “Get shotguns from the trunk, please. One each for you and Shane, I think. I assume Michael and I will be lifting and carrying. And what exactly is it we are to be carrying, if you would be so kind …?”

Shane looked around, and pointed to a big industrial drum painted shiny black. It was covered with labels, but Claire didn’t recognize any of them; none seemed to have to do with flammability or toxicity, at least. She wasn’t actually sure what it was, other than big and very bulky.

She ducked out and ran to the car. The trunk was mostly empty, but there were three shotguns stored in the wheel well area; she grabbed two, then added a third, because … well, because. Besides, they were going to need the space, it seemed.

She heard a grinding metallic noise, then a hollow boom—the drum tipping over on its side, she guessed. In another second or two, she saw Shane leading the way out as Michael and Myrnin rolled it over the gravel to the open trunk of the car, and then each grabbed an end, lifted, and dumped it into the space.

Vampire sedans had incredibly large trunks. They doubled, Claire guessed, as sunlight protection for the younger vamps who might be caught outside in the sun. This one could have fit four or five, at least.

Of course, there were other, less generous interpretations that she didn’t really want to consider.

The drum settled the car down on the back tires, and slightly lifted the front. Myrnin slammed the trunk lid. He was carrying his boom box in one hand, and now he zipped around to the driver’s side, loaded it into the car, and said, “Quickly now. I think we’re safe enough, but there’s no reason to—”

He didn’t have time to finish, because the sprinkler system went off. It happened with a click, as the metal heads pushed up through the grass, and then a cough and hiss as water started spraying out in all directions. A lot of water. Much more, and more pressurized, than a normal sort of system. Fat drops hit the windshield of the car, and Claire felt them slap against her skin as well—not water, or not completely, because it had a different, thicker consistency.

And it burned.

Shane reacted fast. He grabbed a shotgun from her and pushed her toward the car; she dived in, and he got in after, rolled down the window and put the barrel out as he tried to pick out targets through the artificial rain. It was the draug; it had to be. Michael took the third shotgun and mirrored him on the other side of the car. The downpour of sprinklers—mixed with actual rain now— sounded like hail as it hit the roof and hood of the car, and Myrnin cranked up a dial on the boom box. Claire heard it as a thick mist of static.

“Get us out of here,” Myrnin said grimly. “Quickly.”

Michael tried. He put the shotgun in his lap, rolled up the window, and started the car.

It caught, roared, sputtered, and died with a rattle of broken metal.

There was a second of silence, with only the static and rain to fill it, and then Myrnin said, with soft viciousness, “Damn.”

“So? What are we doing?” Shane asked, without taking his eyes off the constant artificial rain pouring down outside the car, running in rivulets, dripping down the paint. It was splashing in on him, and when he wiped the drops off, Claire could see the red welts that were left. “This is not the time to freeze, man. I’ll take any kind of plan.”

Myrnin hesitated, then … grabbed at Claire. He was fumbling at her, and she was so stunned that she started hitting him—with no result, of course—as he patted down her pockets and shirt, quick light touches as he muttered, “Sorry, sorry, beg pardon, sorry …” And then he pulled back with her cell phone in his hand. He squinted at the screen, awkward still with the technology.

There was a shadow forming in the rain outside, dark and ominous. A human-shaped shadow that took on form and substance.

It smiled at them.

“Yeah, happy to see you too,” Shane said, as he aimed. The stunning smash of the shotgun’s roar whited out Claire’s hearing for a moment, and she missed what Myrnin was doing until the keening noise in her ears began to subside again.

“—School,” he was saying, or at least she thought he was. “What? Yes, Shane is target shooting, and we are going to die. I just thought you should know.” He listened for a moment, then said, “That is not comforting, you know.” Then he hung up the call and handed the phone back to her.

Shane, and now Michael, were still focused on the shapes forming outside. More than one this time. Shane had exploded the first one, but they’d responded by making more.

“Why are the sprinklers on?” she asked. “We shut off the water! The cutoff valves!”

“Except one,” Shane pointed out. “That’s right, isn’t it? We left one open.”

“You what?” Myrnin whipped around in the seat to look at him with a wide-eyed stare.

“Partly open,” Shane clarified. “At least, I think—” He looked uncertainly at Claire. She nodded. “Yeah. Partly open.” Why didn’t he remember that clearly? She saw growing panic in his eyes. “There’s no pool in the building, is there?”

Michael exchanged a long, significant look with Claire. Something’s wrong, it said. No kidding. “No, bro,” he said gently. “No pool.”

“Because they could be coming out of the pool.”

“Shane. There’s no pool.”

Shane huffed in a deep breath, and nodded, visibly getting a grip. “Right. They filled it in. I know. It just seems—doesn’t that seem convenient for us right now? That they filled it in?”

He wasn’t making any sense, and this was the worst possible time. Claire swallowed and switched her focus to Myrnin. “Who were you calling?” she asked.

“Oliver,” Myrnin said. “He’s sent some of his forces out to attack the draug in the heavily infected area. No rescue will be forthcoming from Founder’s Square at the moment. We’re quite on our own.”

Claire watched as other figures appeared beyond the heavy drops slamming down on their car and smearing the windshield.

All Magnus. All not Magnus. She could tell the difference. He’d sent his creatures, but he hadn’t come himself.

Yet.

“What are we going to do?” she asked. Shane had no answer for her. Neither did Myrnin, or Michael. “Guys, we need something!”

Shane pulled his shotgun back in and rolled up the window, sealing out most of the sound of the pounding drops hitting glass, metal, ground. “We’re going to have to run for the shed, or stay here sealed up.”

“They will find a way inside here,” Myrnin said. “Look.” He pointed to the air-conditioning vents, and Claire saw there was now a thin, silvery stream of liquid pouring down from each of them. Not a lot, but enough. It was starting to pool on the floor mats.

She pulled her feet up with a sound of raw disgust.

“So we run,” Michael said. “The shed must be built watertight, because of the chemicals stored inside. We should be okay there for a while.”

A while. Not permanently. But there was no such thing as safe now, only … not yet caught. This cat-and-mouse game could end only one way: the cat’s way.

But the mice had a trick or two left yet, and even a cat could get hurt if the mice bit hard enough.

“Did you bring the iron hydroxide?” Claire asked Myrnin; he nodded, gaze fixed outside the car windows. His face looked still, pale and empty, but his eyes were full of shadows. And fear. “Don’t use it until you have to. They adapt.”

“I know,” he said. “But we have another secret weapon we should use first.” Michael looked pleased with