buildings are drab, but I can see the sweat that was poured into each brick laid. Store windows display merchandise and signs written by hand. There’s an authenticity to it and evidence of creativity. Michael eases up from the back.
“I didn’t think anything would ever look so welcoming,” he says.
“I’ll be glad to be home.”
“Words I never thought I’d agree with. I wanted to leave so bad.” He thought things would be better away from Denver.
“We always think life will have more to offer somewhere else,” Jeff says. “Sometimes leaving is the only way to appreciate what we have.”
We pass by the massive Works, a series of buildings and generators that provide lights to the city but also give it a dark foreboding feel as the smoke from the burning coal coats everything in soot. Then I see the Agency building with its glass and steel. It’s the tallest and most pristine element in the city.
Victor enters the underground parking garage and pulls quickly into a vacant spot. The Agency has cars, but few others do. Gas is scarce. And there are no longer automobile factories. We just have to keep repairing what we have—which is the way of a lot of things these days.
We step out of the car into the well-lit concrete structure. We all walk to the elevator and ride it straight to the top. When the doors open, we’re quickly whisked past the single receptionist and into the director’s office. The large window that encompasses an entire wall, normally providing a perfect view of the city, is covered by thick blinds. No sunlight peeks through—in preparation for our arrival.
A few dim lights on the walls allow me to see the director. Clive looks as if he’s aged ten years since I last saw him. He has less hair, his wrinkles have deepened, his tweed jacket drapes over his torso as though he’s lost weight. He’s always looked like a man who shouldered responsibility until it bent him physically, but now it looks like his back is broken.
“I’m so glad you’re safe,” he says. “You have no idea—”
“I do,” I say. “It looks like you haven’t slept since I left.”
“Not a lot, no. I started second guessing my decision to send you, but when the others got back last night and told me what was going on in Los Angeles . . .” He shakes his head. “I fought alongside Matheson during the war, comrades in arms. I can’t believe he’d allow himself to be turned by Sin.”
Matheson was the Agency director in Los Angeles.
“I don’t know if I can blame him,” I tell Clive. “The alternative wasn’t very pretty. The humans along the outer wall live a miserable existence.”
“Given the choice between a miserable existence as a human or becoming a vampire, which would you choose?” he asks.
I don’t say anything. The choice may no longer be mine. I may already be a vampire.
“That’s what I thought,” Clive says, misreading my silence. “Nothing would cause you to be turned. So I can blame him.” He clears his throat, and I can tell that while he might not understand Matheson’s choice, he still mourns his friend. “Although losing the Night Train in Los Angeles has been a blow, I have to admit I’m grateful that Ian is in Denver to offer his unique perspective on things.”
The Night Train is the only mass mode of transportation allowed by VampHu. One train that services all the cities.
I glance over as Ian Hightower approaches. A legendary vampire hunter, he guards the Night Train. Or at least he did before everything except its engine got left in Los Angeles. Much like Clive, he seems to have aged years overnight. He’s wearing different clothes, his others surely covered in ash from the furnace of the engine as it howled across the lonely stretches of isolated desert. But his eyes hold the same scars of a hunter’s life, maybe even a few more after what happened in Los Angeles.
“I thought you were a goner,” he says.
“Me too.”
“I would’ve stopped the
“I didn’t think anything would ever look so welcoming,” he says.
“I’ll be glad to be home.”
“Words I never thought I’d agree with. I wanted to leave so bad.” He thought things would be better away from Denver.
“We always think life will have more to offer somewhere else,” Jeff says. “Sometimes leaving is the only way to appreciate what we have.”
We pass by the massive Works, a series of buildings and generators that provide lights to the city but also give it a dark foreboding feel as the smoke from the burning coal coats everything in soot. Then I see the Agency building with its glass and steel. It’s the tallest and most pristine element in the city.
Victor enters the underground parking garage and pulls quickly into a vacant spot. The Agency has cars, but few others do. Gas is scarce. And there are no longer automobile factories. We just have to keep repairing what we have—which is the way of a lot of things these days.
We step out of the car into the well-lit concrete structure. We all walk to the elevator and ride it straight to the top. When the doors open, we’re quickly whisked past the single receptionist and into the director’s office. The large window that encompasses an entire wall, normally providing a perfect view of the city, is covered by thick blinds. No sunlight peeks through—in preparation for our arrival.
A few dim lights on the walls allow me to see the director. Clive looks as if he’s aged ten years since I last saw him. He has less hair, his wrinkles have deepened, his tweed jacket drapes over his torso as though he’s lost weight. He’s always looked like a man who shouldered responsibility until it bent him physically, but now it looks like his back is broken.
“I’m so glad you’re safe,” he says. “You have no idea—”
“I do,” I say. “It looks like you haven’t slept since I left.”
“Not a lot, no. I started second guessing my decision to send you, but when the others got back last night and told me what was going on in Los Angeles . . .” He shakes his head. “I fought alongside Matheson during the war, comrades in arms. I can’t believe he’d allow himself to be turned by Sin.”
Matheson was the Agency director in Los Angeles.
“I don’t know if I can blame him,” I tell Clive. “The alternative wasn’t very pretty. The humans along the outer wall live a miserable existence.”
“Given the choice between a miserable existence as a human or becoming a vampire, which would you choose?” he asks.
I don’t say anything. The choice may no longer be mine. I may already be a vampire.
“That’s what I thought,” Clive says, misreading my silence. “Nothing would cause you to be turned. So I can blame him.” He clears his throat, and I can tell that while he might not understand Matheson’s choice, he still mourns his friend. “Although losing the Night Train in Los Angeles has been a blow, I have to admit I’m grateful that Ian is in Denver to offer his unique perspective on things.”
The Night Train is the only mass mode of transportation allowed by VampHu. One train that services all the cities.
I glance over as Ian Hightower approaches. A legendary vampire hunter, he guards the Night Train. Or at least he did before everything except its engine got left in Los Angeles. Much like Clive, he seems to have aged years overnight. He’s wearing different clothes, his others surely covered in ash from the furnace of the engine as it howled across the lonely stretches of isolated desert. But his eyes hold the same scars of a hunter’s life, maybe even a few more after what happened in Los Angeles.
“I thought you were a goner,” he says.
“Me too.”
“I would’ve stopped the
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