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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. George lifts Michael onto an examination table that looks to be salvaged from some ancient scrap yard and hastily repaired. The gashes on his cheek look angry, swollen, and painful. I can only imagine how much worse the ones across his chest are.

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. 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.

Maybe Dr. Jameson recognizes my determination to stay because she simply ignores me and steps over to the table. I cling to his hand, more for my sake than his. He must have been—still must be—in agony. Jameson says. What happened?

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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. I wish I could do more for him. 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. Go there, in your mind.

I still feel the tension from his hand holding mine, but I can tell that my talking is distracting him. For a while he was more than that. When Dr. Jameson is finished with his chest, she closes up the gashes on his cheek. I help Michael sit up. Four deep strikes across his cheek, nearly cutting to the teeth, sealed up by a railroad of stitches. Then there are those along his chest, which the doctor is now covering with strips of gauze. And you? What brings you here?

And is there trouble following you? We stay together. Come on, then. I imagine this place is in a delicate balance, teetering on the edge of oblivion. The harsh landscape can dry out societies, dry out souls. How many towns have tried to be Crimson Sands and failed? How long has this illegal town survived, and how much longer can it?

How long have you been living like this? Into bed now. Crimson Sands has flourished, relatively, on the kindness we offer each other. Now please, no more talk. You need your rest. Just make yourselves comfortable and sleep as long as you like. With a deep sigh, Michael sits on one of the cots. You could get to Denver faster without me. Amy sets a large bowl on a small table. I wash my hands, face, neck, and chest.

Exhaustion threatens to claim me. I can only imagine how difficult it is for Michael to remain upright. The clouds begin to change, lightening in shade, and then the moon fades.

The sun rises, but it brings little comfort. Michael brings the horse to a slow canter, giving it a chance to catch its breath. Michael shakes his head.

One of us has to return to Denver, to let the others know so they can prepare to meet the new threat. Time passes. The sun beats down on us. My mouth is dry; my lips feel as though they might crack if I talk again. We have to find food and water, but where?

The horse slows to a plodding walk.

Michael is drooping in the saddle. How much blood has he lost? How much longer can he ride? Michael directs the horse to a steep hill and, kicking his heels against its sides, urges it up. We arrive at the top of the rise and look out over the vast expanse spreading before us. Thirty years of war decimated it.

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Ten years later, nature is still struggling to reclaim what it once owned—much as we humans are. Michael raises a hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun.

The Vampire Human Treaty, or VampHu, outlaws the establishment of any town other than the twenty walled cities agreed to in the settlement that ended the war. I mean, would we both be seeing it if it were? Without the walls that surround the major cities to protect them, the humans in that town would be easy prey.

He needs medical attention. But we make it safely to level ground and the horse trudges forward. The town, so small it seems threatened by the enormity of the surrounding desert, grows steadily larger. I spot a windmill, hear the clacking of the blades echoing over the plain as the slight breeze turns them.

The tiny buildings begin to take shape, their odd placement showing no evidence of planning, their even stranger form indicating a lack of craftsmanship. The only impressive things are the thick, clay roofs, which seem to be attached to the unstable walls by some miracle of architecture.

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.

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. The man helps me slide off the horse, softening my landing. Reviews 0 Specifications Please sign in to review this product. After Daybreak: Copy From Text:. Other books by J. Blood-Kissed Sky J. HarperCollins, December List Price: Darkness Before Dawn J.

After Daybreak

HarperTeen, May Recently Viewed Products.The horse slows to a plodding walk. Dedication For all our wonderful readers who embraced the characters and the world we created. They walk along boarded paths, talk to others in front of their homes.

With a deep sigh, Michael sits on one of the cots. With my free hand, I brush my fingers through his short hair.


Many in Hong Kong fear the extradition bill would undermine freedoms enjoyed here but not elsewhere in China. I help Michael sit up. Jameson is finished with his chest, she closes up the gashes on his cheek. The protesters are demanding that Lam scrap the proposal for good and that she step down.

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