The Savage Dawn Read online

  BOOKS BY MELISSA GREY

  The Girl at Midnight

  The Shadow Hour

  The Savage Dawn

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Melissa Grey

  Cover art copyright © 2017 by Jen Wang

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

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  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 9780385744690 (hc) — ISBN 9780375991813 (lib. bdg.) — ebook ISBN 9780385391016

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

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  Contents

  Cover

  Books by Melissa Grey

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  TO YOU, THE READER,

  FOR STICKING WITH ECHO UNTIL THE END

  PROLOGUE

  It had been so hungry for so long.

  Hungry and cold, wandering the abyss, alone and unmoored. A solitary shadow lost in a dark sea.

  No, It had not been hungry. Hungry was too gentle a word for what It had felt. It had been ravenous. There was a great, yawning chasm inside It that ached to be filled.

  But there was nothing with which It could soothe Its hunger, slake Its thirst. There was just the nothing in which It was suspended. Trapped. Caged. It was the only thing that existed, adrift in all that nothing. It, and the bright shining Light of Its seal. The bars of Its cage glowed with a warmth upon which It wanted to burn Itself. But try as It might, It could not reach the light. The light remained, like an end to Its long torment, out of Its grasp.

  Until one day, the Light went out.

  It did not understand where the Light had gone, but It felt a release the moment the Light disappeared. Like air rushing into a vacuum. The Light had departed and the Darkness inched forward, through the void, waiting to be burned. Waiting for the Light to reappear, casting It back into the solace of the shadows, but there was nothing.

  Nothing. Except a door, left ajar in the Light’s wake.

  It rushed through the opening left in the absence of the Light and broke free of the cage It had known for so long that It had forgotten there was anything else in the world.

  And, oh, what a world it was.

  It had forgotten what it felt like to be free, to be able to soar across the skies, as unstoppable as a storm. Like a wild beast It fed on the first thing It found, a village filled with life and love. It devoured that place, shrouding it in darkness, but the meal was a small one, which only served to whet Its appetite for more.

  There were lights and sounds and people. The people It favored so. Their screams were delicious, coating the insides of Its empty belly, easing the growling ache that had taken up permanent residence there. It had been so empty, but now…now, It could feast. It gorged Itself on the things It found, yet still, It felt a tug.

  The Light was not gone. Not truly. Not completely. The Light was there, somewhere, in the world—the great, wide world, with its sumptuous offerings and delectable woes—and It realized now what the Light had been. Not solely a cage—though it had been that—but a complement. A companion. They needed one another to exist. It had despised the Light. Hated it with every particle of Its being, and that hate had sustained It, but without the Light, there was no counterpoint to Its existence. No balance.

  And so It sought out the Light. Sniffed out where its presence was strongest. Through this world It floated, drawn to places where that other thing burned brightest. There, It planted Its seeds of sorrow, drank Its fill from the dead and dying. Another feast It had found, this one a familiar taste, so like the little beasts that had locked It away, all those eons ago. It took particular delight in the flavor of the suffering. The pain almost sated the hunger. Almost, but not quite. There was still something missing. Something vital.

  But try as It might, It could not tether Itself to the world. It did not belong. It was other, like the Light. But the Light had found a place to call home. A port at which to anchor. It had nothing. Nothing but a vague sense of self-awareness. Of the things that were It and not It. It wandered the world, as lost as a frightened child, until It heard her calling Its name.

  It had forgotten that It even had a name.

  Her shout was the roar of a dragon, all fire and smoke and ash. It could smell the blood in which she bathed, and It shivered with anticipation. It fed on death and woe, and that was what she brought with her. Across the unfathomable distance of the void, It felt her cry, her longing, and It strained to find her, to reach for the feast she had prepared for It.

  It answered her call with one of Its own: Who are you?

  It sensed the moment she heard Its voice, cutting through the sound of the screams of those she betrayed. She paused, her sword dripping with the blood of sacrifice.

  I am Tanith, she said. I am the Dragon Prince.

  That was not the answer It craved. Names were meaningless in the abyss, and titles even more so. Darkness desired no label. It repeated Its query, delivering it with enough force to make her stumble, despite the distance that divided them.

  Who are you?

  It needed to know. It needed to be sure.

  She seemed to understand then. I am death, she said, her voice echoing across the distance. I am destruction. I am yours and you are mine. Come to me,
kuçedra. Come to me and give me your strength.

  Her want was so fierce. It knew, with stunning clarity, what she yearned for: power for herself, for her people, enough to remake the world in her image, to destroy everything that wasn’t what she wanted. The magnitude of her hunger matched Its own. Her desire was a beacon, and It followed that beacon to shore.

  Kuçedra. That was Its name. It was a fine name, a name to be feared. It was this name she called out, allowing herself to find It, for It to find her. Perhaps there was power in names after all.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Agora had, in Echo’s modest lifetime, never been this empty. On an average day, it was packed to the rafters with a wild assortment of characters selling everything from mismatched tea sets to magic potions of varying efficacy. The majority of the shops were owned and operated by Avicen, most of whom had evacuated when their safe haven—the Nest—proved to be less safe than they’d thought.

  Echo walked past shuttered storefronts, gravel crunching beneath her boots. Beside her, Rowan kept a watchful eye on the stragglers who had refused to abandon the once-bustling market in the wake of the Nest’s fall. His hands were thrust into his pockets; he would have looked like he was out for a casual stroll if not for the tension threaded through his back and the tightness of his jaw. The Agora was not the same as it had once been, but then, Echo thought, none of them were.

  The gaslights that illuminated the Agora’s cavernous interior cast a greasy yellow glow over the bare tabletops and darkened windows. Gone was the plum-feathered Avicen woman named Crystal who had peddled a bizarre collection of knickknacks culled from all over the globe. If you were looking for buttons to adorn a Victorian-era waistcoat, she was your girl. If you were in the market for a shrunken head—cursed, naturally—pilfered from an obscure cultist tribe in the depths of the Amazon rain forest, she was also your girl. But now her little kiosk stood empty, bare of its eccentricities and strangely morose in the Agora’s gloom. Also gone were the blacksmith—an Avicen by the name of Othello who had a deep and abiding obsession with speaking in iambic pentameter—and the cobbler and the baker. The cobbler had repaired more than one pair of Echo’s boots over the years, and the baker would sneak her treats when his wife wasn’t looking in exchange for the latest issue of Spider-Man. She’d spotted the cobbler in one of the overcrowded rooms in Avalon Castle, where those who’d survived the attack on the Nest had sought refuge, but the baker was listed among the missing. A wall in the castle’s foyer had been requisitioned as a board for people to post notices of loved ones unaccounted for, though Echo had let her gaze wander to it only once, and only for a few seconds. It made her feel as though icicles were sprouting inside her stomach, spearing her tender organs with their sharp chill. There were too many names on that board she recognized, too many faces she knew. There was nothing she could do for the lost and the dead. At least, that was what she told herself.

  She wondered if Crystal had survived the attack on the Nest. Echo hadn’t seen her photo on the board, but she hadn’t pored over every single one. She’d spent a few days raking her eyes over the haunted faces of the refugees at Avalon, but doing so had threatened to drive her mad. It was easier, Echo found, to wonder about the people whose faces she didn’t see. She couldn’t bear to think of them as dead, and if by some miracle they weren’t, she couldn’t bear to see the accusation she feared would be in their eyes. Not all of the Avicen blamed Echo for the tragedy that had befallen them, but enough of them did to stoke the embers of guilt in Echo’s heart to a roaring fire.

  Echo and Rowan stuck to the edges of the Agora to avoid the few vendors who had bothered to stay—warlocks, every last one of them, probably selling mummified kittens in jars or something equally horrific. Their pale gazes burned holes in her back. They watched, but they didn’t approach. A small part of Echo hoped they were afraid of her. Warlocks were bad—the kind of bad that should exist only in fairy tales where tricksters spirited away firstborns or made princesses spin gold until their fingers fell off. They were as monstrous as humans could make themselves, and if monsters were afraid of Echo, then maybe she stood a chance in the messed-up fairy tale her own life had become.

  Her footsteps slowed as she approached her destination: Perrin’s Enchanting Essentials.

  “Wait outside?” she asked Rowan. She didn’t like the look of those warlocks, even if she was newly fearsome. Judging by his terse nod, Rowan didn’t like the look of them either.

  “Hurry back.” He took up a position by the door, looking every inch the strapping Warhawk recruit, despite his civilian clothes. He had changed too, just as much as Echo had. With a small huff, Echo steeled herself to enter the shop.

  The door swung open with a weak squeal. The hinges were rusty, something that happened to metal with ease down in the Agora, yet Perrin had been fastidious about maintaining his shop; he’d taken such pride in it. But he wasn’t here anymore, not to oil the hinges, nor to wipe down the glass countertops, nor to refill the small bowls of fragrant flowers placed strategically around the room. The flower petals had long since wilted, and the display cases had collected a heavy layer of dust. Handprints cut through the grime in spots, evidence that someone had tampered with the protective charms Perrin had placed on the cases to guard their contents. Those cases stood mostly empty now, ransacked of anything of even moderate value. Shame flooded Echo at the sight. It hadn’t occurred to her that no one would be around to tend Perrin’s shop after…well, after.

  If she was completely honest with herself—and she avoided that more often than she cared to admit—she had deliberately skirted memories of Perrin. She hadn’t wanted to remember him. Not his life. Not his death. Memory was a burden borne by the survivors. Dying, Echo knew now, was easy. It could be painful or frightening or any number of things, but when it was done, it was done. She had died once before. She knew, better than most. It was living that was hard. Moving forward when memory wanted nothing more than to pull you back…that was the real challenge. Like Sisyphus pushing his boulder uphill for all eternity, it was a battle that could not be won. But the living kept trying because that was what it meant to be alive. To keep going lest the boulder crush you under its weight. That would be giving up, and giving up was not an option. It hadn’t ever been, not for Echo, not since stabbing herself in the heart and tying her life inextricably to the fates of thousands.

  Echo walked toward the back room of Perrin’s shop, where she knew he kept the stuff too expensive or rare or downright dangerous to display. The skin between her shoulder blades prickled as if she weren’t alone. A glance around showed that she was, but the feeling lingered. Ghosts, then. Or guilt. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. Even if she didn’t want to remember Perrin, it was only a matter of time before memory—fickle, cruel thing it was—caught up with her. She didn’t want to remember the first time she’d entered this very shop, hand clutching the Ala’s, eyes as wide as saucers, as she took in the utterly disorganized assortment of glittering wares. Didn’t want to remember the cookie he’d given her when he caught her eyeing the open box of macarons on the countertop—it had been raspberry-flavored, and the cloyingly sweet filling had stuck to the roof of her mouth. She didn’t want to remember the first time she’d accepted a job from him; for some reason, he’d wanted a 1961 Mickey Mantle baseball card—“Mint condition or don’t bother darkening my doorstep, please”—and so Echo had tracked down a collector, slunk into his office, and swiped the card from his album when he was out to lunch. Perrin had given Echo a six-month supply of shadow dust in exchange, teaching her the ways of the Avicen’s barter economy.

  And that was how she’d decided she ought to be a thief instead of a mere pickpocket. She’d discovered something about herself: she was good at stealing other people’s things, really good. The knowledge that she’d developed such a talent filled her with a confidence she’d never had before. She didn’t want to remember how much the person she was now had been shaped by Perrin’s re
quest for a baseball card. And she did not want to remember the last time she had seen him, eerily motionless, either dead or dying, reduced to nothing more than a pile of rags huddled in the corner of a damp dungeon in the belly of Wyvern’s Keep. She hadn’t said goodbye; she’d been angry at him. He’d told the Drakharin about her—what she did, where to find her—and it hadn’t mattered to her then that the information had been tortured out of him or that he’d died scared and alone and in pain.

  Regret clawed at Echo’s insides like a beast fighting to break free. Her vision blurred as she rifled through the back room, messier than it had been even when Perrin was alive. His records were less of a system and more of a loose constellation of papers strewn about his desk, crammed into drawers, and spilling over densely packed bookshelves. What she was searching for would be hidden, most likely. Perrin had managed to track her for the Drakharin using a bracelet he’d fashioned from braided leather, shiny beads, and his own feathers. Echo had left the bracelet in her cell in Wyvern’s Keep, but she knew a tracker was no good without a way to track it. He’d probably used a scrying bowl or a mirror or something like that to locate the bracelet, which he knew had been attached to Echo. The same bracelet Caius and his Drakharin agents had used to find her when she’d been hunting down the objects Rose had scattered around the globe, a scavenger hunt that led straight to the firebird. The feathers were what made locating it possible. A little biological material, a clever enchantment, and a reflective surface to tie a charm to, et voilà: a tracking spell so easy even a modest shopkeeper could use it. If Perrin had been around for Echo to ask why he’d done it, he probably would have said it was to keep an eye on her. But he wasn’t around, so she couldn’t ask. She shoved a pile of books off a box, flinching when the noise reverberated through the abandoned shop. The counterpart to the bracelet had to be here somewhere. If it wasn’t, then their only lead to find Caius was dead. Dead, dead, dead.