Dawn Reclaimed

"I could think of a lot worse things to call you than woman." Doc batted her index finger away with his palm. "I'm thinking of a few of them right now." Her indignant huff at that signaled he had her full attention and probably the extent of her fury. "Are you going to listen or not?"

"You said I couldn't go out to visit him. Therefore, I can't see him. He's busy saving lives. He can't spend hours down here with me. He needs me, out there, to take care of him." Barbara rammed her index finger against Doc's sternum, knowing how much he hated it and how it provoked him. Getting some emotion out of him was better than the cold indifference he usually showed her.

"Your son is a grown man. He has his own life and you have yours." Doc, not so gently this time, swatted at her finger. "Thomas can take care of himself." He grated his molars in disdain as Barbara glared at him. She wielded that index finger like a weapon. Waving her dragon red, artificial press on nails in his face. Poking him in the chest. Thank God, she didn't have a stake handy. Otherwise, she might have impaled him straight through the heart. And that hurt, like a bitch.

"I don't have a life. I'm dead. Remember." Barbara glowered at Doc and shook the sting of his none too gentle swat out of her finger. Doc was a piece of work. She had to give him that. Did he even really know what decade he was living in? Somehow, she doubted it. He wore battered moccasins, wrinkled beige chino pants, a wide black leather belt, and the most ridiculous striped oxford button down shirt complete with a pocket protector crammed with pens and pencils, that she'd ever seen. Today, he had his sliver-gray hair slicked back tightly against his scalp and held in place with a bright green scrunchie. For God's sake, he still had a swatch watch with a hot pink strap. She wanted to shake him into this century. If it weren't for the preposterousness of him, of the absolute contradiction he represented between ancient, old, and new, she just might.

And Barbara was so terrified that in a century or two she'd turn out just like him that she went way too far to the opposite extreme. She had stacks of fashion magazines. Surrounded herself with contemporary things. Texted till her thumbs fell off. She wore her hair in a trendy style. Taking Janine's word of caution not to cut it because it might be decades before it grew back. And that was a damn long time to live with a dated style. As far as makeup went, the girls had learned to improvise, sharpie pens for eyeliner and industrial strength glue for the acrylic nails, worked just fine.

"Yes, you are." Doc had spent the last couple of months trying to drill that point home. He thought he was finally starting to make some headway. And stupidly, he'd let her stay with Thomas after he'd cast his wards on the house. What an idiot. Barbara still didn't get it. "And you have to stay that way. Someone saw you the other night."

"Who?"

"Claire. But, what does it matter who saw you? What matters is that no one can see you again. I thought you said you were starting your life over."

"I am."

Now they were getting to the crux of her problem. She felt useless and had nothing to do. In life, she was a busy and industrious person. Focused. The only thing that filled her endless days in the compound was idle chatter with the females. A Barbara Sterling without a purpose was a very dangerous and unhappy woman. "How? By living it through Thomas?"

"That was my plan," Barbara answered weakly. The truth was. She hadn't been as ready to let go of her human ties as she'd thought. It should have been simple to play dead. It wasn't. Thomas was her only remaining tie to the living world.

"Why. Why did you choose this life?" The Shaman asked clinching his fist to his side. He struggled to understand her. Grasp what made her tick so that he could refocus her energies onto something... anything else. He wasn't a damned activity planner or babysitter. What the hell was he supposed to do with this annoying, noisy, woman who grated him to his core?

"Because Thomas wanted me to. I was ready to die. Accepted it. I wasn't afraid of death. Only of leaving him behind."

"And that scares you, doesn't it. That one day, you won't leave him. But, he'll leave you. He will die, Barbara."

"And I'll have nothing." Barbara blinked back a tear. Already feeling the pain of loss acutely although it was decades from now. There already was something that separated her from her son. A simple fact that both of them chose to ignore, she wasn't human anymore. All the simple things in life Barbara and her son had enjoyed before were gone. They couldn't eat a meal together, unless he was the main course. They couldn't sit on the back porch, sipping on iced tea, and watching a sunset. Because everyone thought she was dead. Barbara felt like the ghost that Claire thought she saw. And she hovered. Haunting the land of the living. Refusing to cross over into the land of the dead.

"You hurt so badly," Doc said softly. His mind ran back to his beginning when he thought he could have it all. Resume his 'before' life. But, he hadn't been able to. The people who mattered to him the most rejected him. Hunting parties, the men he'd trained, the men he'd hunted with, hunted him instead. Trying to return to his human life had been the biggest, most painful, mistake he'd ever made. "I'm am sorry. But, there is no going back for any of us. What is done is done. And you have to let go."

"How? Isolate myself from everyone and everything like you did?" Barbara's shoulders shook from the force of her sobs. She knew Doc was trying to help. And more than that, she knew he was right. She couldn't take Thomas's life away from him. Sentence him to the purgatory she had sentenced herself to live. And that gave her only one choice. Eventually, she had to let Thomas go. She could see him. Love him. But she had to find something to fill the empty spaces he'd always filled.

"You think I'm isolated?" The Shaman frowned down at Barbara, almost offended by her pseudo insight. He wasn't isolated. He was busy. Tending to the spiritual needs of the Sons was a full time job. He had friends. He was complete. Happy. But. her inference struck a chord deep within him. Leaving him wondering, what was missing from his life? Every aspect was covered except for one.

"When's the last time you felt. Really felt, Doc? Anything?" Barbara watched his eyes go from a shimmering brown to a fathomless black. They looked like onyx stones surrounded by flesh and bone. She had pushed him too far. Made him realize what he so blissfully ignored. He wasn't alone. But, he was lonely. His dark eyes focused on her mouth. Telling her the truth his lips stubbornly refused to admit. The last time either of them had felt alive. The last time their frozen hearts had truly beat. Was in that moment of bliss found in a stolen kiss.

Oh sure, Doc had dismissed the kiss. Muttering phrases about how the kiss was nothing more than a momentary lapse of reason. Excusing it as a response to the blood bond that had been forged between them. Nothing really. Fervently, he assured her that the exchange would never happen again. He was her mentor. Blah, blah, blah, he prattled on about the whole thing so nonchalantly that she'd began to believe that the kiss was nothing and he was unaffected.

The look in his eyes didn't seem so distant and unaffected. Flickering with desire and interest, fueled by the challenge she issued. He was a liar. He'd lied to everyone including himself. Barbara couldn't let him get away with it. Deceiving her was one thing, but himself? It was time for the cold, removed exterior of the Shaman to get warmed up a bit.

With the speed that only a vampire could manage she pressed her mouth to his. The initial reaction was one of shock. His parted lips made the perfect entryway for her tongue. Holding back nothing, she smoothed the tip along a row of white teeth. The sharp edge of his fang grazed her lower lip, drawing a drop of blood. His hard mouth softened, molding to hers in response. His hands skimmed along the curve of her spine, guiding her tightly against him. His fingers wound through her belt loops, trapping her there.

Barbara brushed her hip against the rising bulge beneath the zipper of his wrinkled Chinos. At least one part of him liked what she was doing. Definitely and undoubtedly, the Shaman had warmed up a bit. Her fingers released their grip on his belt loops and traveled up back of his neck in hopes of prolonging the exploration of their mouths and tongues. She smoothed her fingertips down his chest, planting her palm over his wildly beating heart. Their tongues battled for position in an out and out war in their joined mouths. Twisting and twining around each other in a dance that neither one of them had danced in far too long.

The Shaman felt the slick fabric of Barbara's blouse beneath his palms. Her body was a sequence of soft, lush curves. Her mouth was a hidden paradise of delights. He could drown in the musky, sweet scent of her desire and die a very happy man. He battled with his common sense and lost. He was too wound up in the woman in his arms and in the deliciousness of the moment to retreat.

He probed her mouth with his tongue. Suckling the tips of her fangs and running the tip of his tongue along their sleek, lethal surface. He flicked the erogenous zones with swift movements. And was rewarded by gasping breaths and shuddering limbs. Her arms stretched around him and her fingers grappled at his shoulders to guide him closer. A low moan of delight escaped her throat, echoing in his ears. He had not heard such a melodious chorus from a woman's gentle sighs for a very long time. And the sound made his blood boil and his groin pulse tight and hot.

Barbara closed her eyes and relaxed into Doc's body. Her curves fit so right against the hard muscled contours of his chest. She felt weak and dizzy, yet her body hummed with excitement and deep longing. His mouth was hot on hers, demanding. His lips burned like fire and tongue lapped like a flame, consuming her. His fingertips traveled a cautious path along the curve of her waist, tracing over her ribs to find her breast. He circled the ripe bud of her nipple with the pad of his thumb, teasingly tender and agonizingly slowly bringing her desire to a constant ache.

The Shaman ran his fingers through Barbara's pale blonde hair, locking around the strands. The pin used to trap her curls in place fell to the floor with a soft ping. Demanding and giving her no recourse or pardon, he tightened his grip and pulled her head back, exposing her throat. The bending of her spine thrust her breasts up and pulled the neckline of her couture blouse low. Her skin was softer than any silk blouse. He traced the low cut neckline with the tips of his fingers, brushing slowly and gently over the lacy bra and the hardened peak trapped beneath. He swallowed her whimper of desire, stealing it from her parted lips with a kiss.

She grappled with his belt loops, trying to hold onto some measure of equilibrium. Doc was having none of that. She could accuse him of many things. But, she'd never accuse him being cold or indifferent again. He lowered his face to the hilly cleft of her breasts and inhaled the lush feminine scent of her. Kissing a path up from those soft pillows, he grazed his fangs over her exposed throat. His grip on her hair was relentless. He'd learned far too long ago how to immobilize the prey. And she would not escape his grasp until he allowed her to.

Laving her neck with the tip of his tongue, he felt the bounding pulse beneath her skin. Instead of fighting, she arched her back, pressing her breasts into him. He nipped her neck gently, careful not to break the skin to still her and stop the wonderful, heady, dizzying friction of her body pressed against his. He retreated, releasing her hair. Holding her around the waist, he steadied her on her feet until she could hold her balance without his help. He cupped her cheeks in his palms, his fingers guiding her face to his and their lips hovering, inches from touching. His voice was gravely, husky, filled with want. "Barbara, I feel. As much as I don't want to, I feel."

Chapter 24

The girl was just too punctual for words. The man could kill her and be home in time to watch the late night news cast. Who knew? Maybe a special report about him would interrupt the regularly dry, dull, broadcast. He was news, after all. Death was good for ratings. And he was about to give the news the story of the century. Sprawled out on his belly behind the front tires, he watched the bookstore's neon sign flicker off. Shortly afterwards, the lights in the depths of the bookstore went off and he heard the metal grate meant to deter robbers clatter shut. He was patient. He didn't ruin the game by giving it away prematurely.

He clutched the blade in his left hand. His right hand was for business, the choking and strangling end of things. And his left hand, his blade hand, got the messy end of the fun. Not that occasionally, choking and strangling didn't get messy too. But, blood was a bit more entertaining than puke. The steady clack, clack of the heels of her shoes broke the silence of the empty parking lot. His mouth went dry with anticipation. And his muscles grot tense as the sound of her footsteps got closer.

Usually, he liked to play around a bit before he got down to business. But, practicality dictated that he hold his wad and get this done fast. Tonight, there was no fooling around aloud. But, he had to think logically. If she saw him, she'd scream. And he really didn't have time for that unnecessary complication. She'd try to run. But, in those ridiculous shoes, she wasn't running anywhere. He'd have to play this by a more traditional game. Hamstring her first, and then straight for the throat.

He needed blood, lots and lots of blood. But, he couldn't leave a trail. No solving the puzzle until it was time. He planned to toss her in the back and hide. Wait for the vampire to find her.

The truck wobbled and groaned as she tugged on the rusty door. Blade poised, he struck. At first his blade met resistance before gliding silently through flesh and tendon, cutting clear down to the bone. A breath of disbelief escaped her lips as she toppled to the ground. She was too shocked to muster a decent scream. She kicked, spraying blood in an arc across the pavement. He couldn't have done a better job if he'd tried. He clamped his hand over her nose and mouth. Subduing her as he reveled in her wide, terrified stare. She hadn't quite caught on yet. But, she did. He slashed the curved blade across her throat. And that light of disbelief in her eyes dulled to realization and then to surrender as it faded out completely.

He was careful to avoid the thickening pool of blood growing underneath her. Tilting her to the side to make sure she was bled out before he lifted her off the pavement. Theresa weighed more than he thought. Her arms hung limply at skewed odd angles. He wasn't out of shape he rationalized, soothing his ego. The dead were always heavier as if the absence of a soul weighted them down. With a loud, crash, he dumped her body into the bed of the truck.

There wasn't time for creativity or to make his particular brand of art. Abandoning her amongst the empty bottles, cans, and fast food wrappers littering the bed of the truck, he ran like hell for his van, idling at the far end of the parking lot. Stripping his clothes, he ran wet wipes over his body to clean away any trace of her blood. Practice made perfect and usually, he didn't have to worry about what a mess he made. He worked his art in private at a leisurely pace. The cloying 'baby fresh' scent of the cloths and the stickiness they left on his skin made him want to gag. But, they did the trick. He tossed the clothes and the wipes into a thick plastic garbage bag and dressed in pull on shorts and a t-shirt. Pulling his familiar ball cap low over his eyes as he gunned the engine and made a U turn for the gas station across the street.

He was still careful though. He dumped the clothes in a dumpster around the block from the mall before doubling back to the gas station. Close enough that a vampire would smell the slightest trace of blood on the clothes. But, far enough away that the police wouldn't think of scrounging through the dumpster in hopes of finding evidence. He might be a bit messy. But, he was not sloppy. Nor was he stupid.

The case would quickly be closed as unsolved and just as quickly forgotten about. In the police's mind, two dead blonde girls did not a serial killer make. They'd chalk it up as random killings, probably gang related. But, and he was counting on this, the vampires would know the difference. Only one fiend could recognize the handiwork of another for what it truly was.

Marcus felt at home amongst the debris and squalor of the bad part of the city. He'd chosen this particular sector to patrol on purpose. He knew it like the back of his hand and he never wanted for a second to forget where he came from. It was all here, contained in a sixteen-block radius, his entire damn history, from his birth to his death and then his rebirth into this life.

Samantha, Sam for short, his wife, patrolled by his side, fascinated by the variety of lives contained in one small area of the city. She was smart and savvy, and she loved him far more than he deserved. But, she just didn't get it or simply refused to. She turned a blind eye to the darker parts of him and focused only the good. She was the kind of woman that saw a dandelion growing through the cracks in the filthy sidewalk and called it a flower.

She smiled up at him as if they were on a stroll through the park instead of walking the beat on patrol. Gingerly, reaching out to take his hand in hers as they walked. God, he really didn't deserve her. It truly was a shame to beauty such as hers married by the dingy, worn out, grimy backdrop of the city. Black ringlets, cropped close to her chin, cupped her angelic face. She had a smile that wouldn't quit. And she was as adept at disarming the enemy with it as he was with his sword. Dark, big, round, trusting doe eyes, too pure for the city, searched the expression on his face.

He knew what she saw. And it wasn't anything good. He wore the same damn expression in death as he'd worn in life. His jaw squared. His facial features hard, a mask of unforgiving impartiality, his eyes constantly scanning for danger, and his senses on high alert. He could play any part Dane cast him into. He was as forgettable and plainly indescribable as white rice in a Chinese restaurant. His brown hair was simply that, brown. His height and build were neither too tall or too big nor too slight or too small. He was the round peg in the round hole. And he could blend in anywhere. And why Sam chose to stick it out with him, other than the obvious entertainment value, he could only guess.

He should have made her stay home tonight. Warrior or not, there were things out here she didn't need to see. His nerves were raw and on edge. And his guts told him shit was about to get uglier than ugly, down right fugly, before the night was through. Marcus wrinkled his nose at the scent of fresh, spilled blood and cloying reek of death, drifting in on the currents of an eastern breeze. He glanced at Sam, raising his brows in question. Her face grim as she nodded in agreement, confirming what he'd smelled. She'd caught the scent too. Someone was dead, close by, very recent, and very, very dead.

Sam was ready for action. Marcus never saw it that way though. If he had his way, he'd leave her at home wrapped in bubble wrap. Luckily though, Dane overruled him. And he'd partnered her up with her husband. To say the least, Marcus was less than thrilled. Manpower was a little skimpy. And the brotherhood could not afford to dispatch more warriors to the city. Not when they were on the heels of forging an alliance with the Guardians. War and peace were fragile things. And sometimes, one led to the other and not in a good way.