After Dawn, What Came Next

Fallon didn’t have Janine’s flare for color. How many shades of eye shadow did a woman need anyway? She went for simple and uncomplicated, highlighting her best features with a swipe of blush and powder, the pass of a tube of lipstick over her lips, and the light feathering of soft brown mascara to bring out the blue in her eyes. She opted to leave her hair loose and curling instead of capturing the wayward locks in a clip or ponytail holder.

The pack couldn’t stand perfume. The sweet musky smell of it confused their sensitive noses. And when you relied on your sense of smell as much as a wolf did, perfume muddied the waters of identification and a person’s natural scent. Their noses told them a great deal about the world and about a person. The pack could smell emotions. Interpreting them much in the same way, perhaps more than they did the spoken or written word. Words could lie. Scents never did. She chose a bottle from her dresser and applied liberal sprays at her pulse points. She wasn’t masking her scent from the pack. She wasn’t lying about her emotional state or making any attempt at deceit. She simply wanted to embrace the part of herself that wasn’t only a female, but also very human.

It was past two in the afternoon and she hadn’t eaten a bite all day. Fallon didn’t suppose anyone would let her starve to death, but Nash had very strict rules about meals. Unless you were dying or mortally wounded, you got your own food or you didn’t eat. Fair enough. The pack wouldn’t balk at her state of undress. Nudity was a fact of life for the pack and they were rather used to seeing each other in nothing more than what their mamas gave them. Practicality had its place though and walking naked through the house to find some food, well, it just wasn’t practical. Stripping down to your all together before a shift in order to save your clothes. Now that was as practical as it got.

She riffled through her closet and declared today a no t-shirt day, a holiday from the mundane nature of her usual wardrobe. Perhaps, it was the memory of the day she had fallen off Jack or quite possibly in honor of the old, bay gelding that she chose snug fitting leggings and soft, supple calf high riding boots. The afternoon had turned gray and dismal. The air was cold and damp, filled with the promise of rain. In hopes of warding off a chill, she pulled a knit tunic off the hanger and careful of her hair and makeup, eased it over her head.

The vibrant green color of the yarn suited her. Fallon smiled and ran her hands over the knit. Her Aunt Leigh had made the tunic for her. She hadn’t worn it in over a year. Her aunt would have given her hell for that. Aunt Leigh was a pragmatic soul and she didn’t believe in saving things back instead of making good use of them. Fallon had been so terrified of damaging the knit, of dribbling something down the front, or accidentally ripping a hole in the yarn. Feeling rather nostalgic and the need to be close to the comforting memory of her aunt, she forced herself to shut the closet door instead of yanking the tunic over her head and hanging it back in its place of honor in the closet.

In truth, she felt a little silly dressed in her best bra and panty set and wearing her good clothes instead of her slouchy t-shirts and jeans. Dressing up and wearing not only makeup but perfume was a bit overkill for venturing downstairs for a ham and cheese sandwich or whatever she managed to find to eat in the fridge. She wasn’t dressed to impress anybody. She dressed for no one, except for herself. She had to admit, she felt pretty and damn it, she enjoyed the rare opportunity to be a girl instead of a doctor, a daughter, one of the pack, or whatever label somebody might put on her.

































Chapter 37

Christian ate with the zeal of a condemned man eagerly gobbling up his last meal. Not that pizza from the local delivery joint would have necessarily his first choice of a last meal, but hey, the vampire paid. Stuffed to the gills, Christian finished his fifth piece and licked the grease from his fingers. He supposed it could have been worse. He could have been feeding the vampire instead of the vampire feeding him.

Maybe, the verdict was still out on that and the vampire simply wasn’t hungry yet. Christian silently hoped the vampire wouldn’t develop a sudden craving for type O negative blood. Maybe, the fanged fiend from hell preferred a bit of spice in his meals. Type O negative had to be bland compared to AB positive or some more exotic blood type. He sat on the floor since the vampire in question currently occupied the only chair in the place. The apartment was dim with the ancient blinds closed tightly over the windows. The vampire had rolled the decrepit computer desk chair out of the reach of any stray sunlight that might dare to creep through the blinds and sat there silently glaring at him. Contemplating, in between distasteful wrinkles of his nose as if he smelled something bad, exactly what he was going to do with him.

Take that you fanged fucker, Christian thought. The vampire had allowed him to have his choice of toppings on the pizza and if Christian knew anything about vampires it was their hatred of garlic. Debating on eating a sixth piece just to keep the vampire at bay, Christian guzzled his pop and belched rudely. At this point, there wasn’t any reason to mind his manners, now was there? He had been given free run of his ramshackle apartment, but of course, he wasn’t going anywhere, was he.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, keeping the pizza box reeking of garlic handy and adjusting the pillow propped behind his back. With his stomach full to the point of bursting and being up all night, the adrenaline of finding one of the minions of the damned waiting for him in his apartment having finally worn off, his eyelids grew heavy. Could be a vampire mind trick. Get him while his defenses were down. Somehow convince him removing the silver cross around his neck was a good idea and drain him dry as a California raisin.

He shook himself awake and stared at the vampire staring at him with such disdain. My GOD! He couldn’t believe it. Having photographic evidence, a snapshot taken with his cell phone from afar, and sitting here in the same room with the charter member of the legions of the damned was two different things. JESUS! The guy looked like he walked straight out of 2014. Cole Zimmerman should be a middle aged, pot bellied, income tax paying, God fearing blue-collar worker with two kids in college, a wife, and a dog named Shep.

Despite his fear of being sucked dry, Christian found himself curious about the vampire. How did it happen? What was it like? What was the deal with the black leather? Did he really sleep in a coffin? What about holy water, crosses, stakes through the heart, and all the other stuff Christian had read about in books and seen in movies. Could he read his mind? Holy SHIT! CAT!

Christian quickly tamped down on his thoughts about her. They were supposed to meet tonight, her and her friends. His cell phone had been taken away. He had no way to call her. No way to warn her and her friends. If the damned vampire could read his mind, the thoughts in his head might be leading her straight into a trap. It made sense now. Why would the vampire settle for a snack when he could have a whole buffet? What if the vampire had friends?

Crap! What was he going to do? Agitated and trying to think of anything but Cat, Christian tugged at the ends of his hair. He had told her to meet him at sundown at the cemetery gates. Why hadn’t he arranged to meet her and her friends someplace public and in the middle of the day? He had chosen the cemetery at dark for the sheer effect of it. Truth was. He wasn’t sure she would believe him. Vampires, werewolves, and things that went bump in the night were a little more believable in the dark.

He had one or two choices. Try to kill the fanged mother-fucker or make a run for it. The vampire had frisked him and taken his only weapons. The squirt gun filled with holy water and the wooden stake hidden in his jacket pocket. Cole had found them and had the gall to laugh right in his face. Christian still had his cross though. Slyly he gauged the distance between him, the vampire, and the door. If he could make it, he might be able to shout for help. Not that it would be likely that anyone would help him though. Maybe, the windows were the better option. The blinds were old, dusty, and worn though with dry rot. He could easily rip them down and fry the undead bastard. Might leave a hell of a stain on the carpet and he probably wouldn’t get his deposit back, but what the hell.

The thought occurred to him that the pile of ash would give him the proof he needed. Cole was about six-feet four inches tall and weighed probably two hundred pounds, all of it pure muscle. That would be a hell of a pile of ash. He could sell little bottles of vampire ashes for the sheer novelty of it, once he was famous, of course. Christian Taylor, vampire slayer. He could host lectures and seminars on the fine art of vampire killing. He would have to write a book about his experiences with the legions of the undead. Celebrity signings, guest appearances, movie rights, the possibilities were endless. He would be a hero and his grandfather…the family would finally believe him after all this time. Christian could imagine their guilty faces and weakly mumbled apologies for doubting his grandpa.

It would be better if he could present the scientific community with a live specimen. But, he supposed, dead would work just as well. Pretending to stretch, he flexed his shoulders. He would have about two seconds to carry out his plan. Fumbling with the cross around his neck, he rose up on his haunches, body tight as a spring and ready to leap into action.

“Don’t even think about it, kid,” Cole grumbled. Christian Taylor was about as impetuous, foolish, impulsive, and down right stupid as he had been at that age. At twenty-two Cole had been breaking in his fangs, at the age of forty-four he had finally learned the most important lesson of all, never to let his mouth override his ass. John Mark had worked hard to educate him in that very important lesson and he was about to impart his wisdom on this kid.

It was strange looking at the pictures of him then and seeing himself as he did now. The Cole Zimmerman he had been was nothing but a snot nosed punk. Time had mellowed him a bit, not all that much though. He looked exactly the same now, as he had back then, tall and a little on the skinny side, gangly and not quite grown into his clumsy oversized feet. He had thought at nineteen he was master of the known universe. He relied on his good looks to get him the things he wanted in life. Blessed with soft brown hair and a hazel, green-blue, golden tint to his eyes, he had been nice to look at. He had a face people trusted and he had drawn the girls to him like flies to sugar. He talked a good game, back in the day, but his mouth and his smart assed attitude had never landed him anywhere except for in trouble.

He had been quick on his game and quite the con man. And he had been exactly where this kid was now. David had been the one to introduce him into this life. David and Rachael. He never would have known. Well, he probably would have eventually when the bill came due and he had no means to pay it. Eager for the lure of easy money he had resorted to dealing pink as a means to an end. The drug was easy to unload and with his natural charm and the zeal of a true salesman, he had peddled the poison in mass quantities.

David had given him quite the education, a crash course in vampire 101. Sometimes, Cole could still feel the press David’s fangs into his carotid artery. Vampire blood, damn if he had known what he was selling and whom he was selling it for. He just got lucky the cost hadn’t been higher than his mortality. Eric O’Sullivan was a bastard and it was his blood, dehydrated into pink crystals and mixed with food grade glitter that he had been selling. Eric didn’t suffer fools and Cole had just gotten lucky, very lucky, David had gotten to him first. Rachael hadn’t been nearly as fortunate.

Cole could see the spark of an idea light up in Christian’s blue eyes, the eyes so much like Rachael’s. Born twenty-three years apart, the brother and sister who had never met one another were practically carbon copies of each other, not only in appearance but in mannerisms as well. Cole supposed Christian and Rachael’s similarities were nothing more than consequence, traits they had learned from their parents. Sitting back in the uncomfortable computer desk chair, Cole wondered which it would be. Would Christian try for the door, the blinds covering the windows, or his faith in the cross around his neck?

Perhaps, Christian hadn’t quite figured it out yet. Cole wore a cross around his neck. Not necessarily a symbol of his faith in God, but as a reminder of a promise he had made on a cold December evening to a girl, dying in his arms. He would not lose Christian they way he had lost Rachael. Christian might not get it, but Cole was trying to save his life.

The Guardians were hot after Christian. Oh, on the surface they played by the brotherhood’s rules. No victim, no crime, right? Carter was a man of principle and one Cole had found to be true to his word down to the very syllables he spoke. But, there were plenty of things Carter wisely didn’t say. Nobody, especially not the Guardians, would let this poor schmuck live if they thought there was even the slightest possibility he could expose them to the general public. Given the evidence Cole had seen, the little bastard could at least raise a reasonable doubt and that in itself was enough to get him killed.

The death of one for the lives of the few, now that was a rather lofty conundrum, wasn’t it? The brotherhood didn’t kill and as a general rule, neither did the Guardians. But, they couldn’t let this little shit wander around raising suspicion and causing trouble either. How Christian had managed to trace the evidence so far back, he didn’t know. The most damning proof Christian had unearthed was there, tacked to the wall in the form of Carter’s signature.

It wasn’t just Carter’s neat penmanship that had Cole so concerned. Torn from a book a page fluttered in the air stirred up from the heating ducts. Vampires and photography of any kind did not mix. At some point along the way they had gotten careless. Toby hadn’t erased all proof. In this day and age, that was impossible. There were yearbook photos and snapshots. Pictures of him, and David, Nora, and the brothers covertly taken and pieced together with scraps of this and that scrounged up from who knew where.

The kid was goddamn lucky David and he got to him first. Oh, Carter had found him, but as the kid’s fate would have it. Carter was in their corner and with nothing for the Brat Pack to do, had assigned them to keep tabs on Christian. Carter might not feel so generous if he knew exactly how much the kid had on them. If anyone, the stoic leader of the Guardians knew better than most how fickle the public could be. He never spoke of it, of the days of torches and pitchforks and of vampire hunters. But, they had happened. Witch trials and the smoke of fires with their stink of burning flesh. Cole shuddered at the very idea of it, of being burned alive. A vampire could survive much, but not that.

There were too many links between the vampires and humanity. Cole had his mom and step-dad set up nice, in a lavish house in a cozy suburb not far from here. If the kid thought the truth he planned to expose wouldn’t eventually lead back to him he was wrong.

Fear didn’t necessarily differentiate between the good guys and the bad. If shit hit the paranormal fan, there weren’t enough vampires to protect every single person even remotely linked through family ties or loose association. Entire families would be slaughtered in the push to rid the world of vampires. Cole, promise to Rachael and vow to the brotherhood or not, could not allow that to happen.

The guy twitched like he had ants in his pants. His eyes darted between the door and the windows. Belching and farting, reeking like garlic and pepperoni, he glared at Cole and used the only card he had to play. He was human and Rachael’s brother and that damned promise Cole had made to her bound the two of them together.

Christian forced his muscles to relax. The vampire had guessed what he was going to do before he even had the chance to put his plan into action. Well, there was no need to further tip his hand. As agnostic as he was, he saw no need to doubt the existence of God when the cross around his neck was the only thing probably keeping the vampire from going for his throat. “People are expecting me. When I don’t show up, they’ll come here looking for me.”

“Doubtful.” Cole rolled his eyes. Christian evidently didn’t realize his complete unimportance in the grand scheme of things. Nobody was going to come looking for him. Nobody was probably going to notice it all if Christian went missing. Cole had researched the guy’s past. The kid was pretty much on his own. His family was scattered from coast to coast and he didn’t have any close friends. Carter would handle the Brat Pack and keep them from getting in the way. He rapped his fingertips on the ratty arm of the chair and frowned in contemplation.

The vampire remained non-pulsed, glaring at him and rapping his fingers against the arm of the chair in the most irritating beat. “I know who you are,” he said. Probably wasn’t a smart move to actually admit to that, but what did he have to lose? “I know about you and your friends.”

“I know you do. If you didn’t I wouldn’t be sitting here now.”

Christian shrank back, pressing his shoulder blades into the wall behind him. “What are you going to do with me?” He swallowed past the lump in his throat as Cole flashed him a rather toothy grin. Damn, those fangs looked sharp and big, very, very big. He clutched the cross at his throat and prayed very hard not to piss himself.

Cole shrugged. Damn, he loved playing the bad-ass vampire. He flashed a hint of fang and the kid and choked back the urge to chuckle at Christian’s wide-eyed expression. Rachael had always taken up the cause of the meek and downtrodden. She wouldn’t like him picking on her little brother. With a decided huff Cole admitted the truth. “Dunno yet.”

Relieved that he wasn’t going to die in the next twenty seconds, Christian relaxed and studied his captor. There was one thing he hadn’t expected about the undead. How very human they were. Cole had riffled through the cabinets and ordered the pizza when he hadn’t found anything worthwhile in them to eat. He wore a cross at his throat, a dainty gold cross, held in place by a worn leather cord. Christian recognized the pendant from his sister’s senior picture. The accounts she had written about in her journal. Her innermost thoughts about Cole had painted him at first in a less than favorable light. But, somewhere during the events of the final weeks of her life, her view on him had changed. She had fallen in love.

Cole had been human, a few years younger than he at the time. Reckless, cocky, arrogant, and undoubtedly not the kind of guy Christian would have wanted his sister to like let alone love. Cole wasn’t human, not any more. The fangs were evidence enough of that. Why had he done it? Had the vampires forced him to? Did he have a choice? What would make a person choose such a thing? There was only one thing capable of overriding Christian’s fear of the vampire and that was his curiosity. He had been studying the final months of his sister’s life for years. Tracing her last steps and the events that happened before and after. He had nothing but blind leads and questions without answers. Cole knew what really happened. How she died and most importantly, who did it. “Would you answer a question for me?”