Dawn Reclaimed

Keene prowled through the empty streets. Dane was a couple of blocks over, doing the same. They had decided to split up to cover more ground. The damned rain and the unseasonably cold bits of ice plinking a staccato rhythm against his leathers weren't helping. Any scent he might have been able to lock onto had already been washed down the sewers. They were wasting time, hunting a phantom. The bastard was out here somewhere. Holed up someplace warm and dry, and safe from them.

Downtown was no place for religion. The church nestled amongst the skyscrapers, tributes to mankind's independence from God, was a forgotten relic from a forgotten time. No longer used as a place of worship, the church sat forlorn and empty. The architecture was as archaic as the notion of God to this modern age. The living lived as if they were never going to die. As if what happened afterwards was too long off to think about. Humans didn't get how short their lives truly were, or how precarious their hold on this earth was. How temporary. How odd it was, that the dead, fiends like him with immortality at their disposal, were the faithful.

Keene was a believer. Irish Catholic, first generation born on the foreign soil of America. He had always been a believer. He just hadn't always had faith that God had had grace enough to spare for the likes of him. His hands were stained with more blood than he cared to admit. Too deeply stained for to be in the shadow of such a holy place. Under the cover of darkness, he walked up the wide, crumbling stairs to the door. The wood was smooth and cool against his palm. From the depths of the church time forgot, he could smell the lingering essence of incense and hear the echoing whispers of desperate prayers falling from faithful lips.

He had no trouble easing the doors open and stepping inside. The whole vampires could not be in the presence of the cross was bullshit. He did not burst into flames. The decaying building did not topple down on him. There was no holy water in the font. Yet, Keene paused and crossed himself anyway. His boots echoed against the worn marble floors as he walked to approach the altar. Holiness and the peace that accompanied it surrounded him in a wash of purity and calm. He knelt at the bank of votives, his knees pressing into the tattered moldering padding on the rail. The votives were dark and had been for a very long time.

Keene knelt, thinking of something to say to God. He had one prayer. The same prayer he'd been praying over and over again since his baptism of blood and pain. He'd rather God send him straight to Hell than become a madman like the one he hunted on this night. If God had any mercy, and love for him, and His grace could be extended to a creature such as he. It was for that grace, God's love and His forgiveness, that Keene prayed. From the depths of his pocket, Keene produced a book of matches. He picked up a votive and lit the singed wick. Carefully, gently, placing the glass holder back in the stand, he believed in the light of a single flame, burning so brightly in the darkness.

Dane gave Keene his moment. He'd patrolled his section of the city and circled back around to the church. He stood in the shadow of the cross cast onto the sidewalk and waited. He'd grown up safe in the knowledge of what he'd become. He knew who he was born to be. Maybe, not all of what he'd become. He'd never envisioned himself a leader of men. But, enough that when the hunter inside of him roared with such fierceness, he could control the beast. Enough that when he felt his grip slipping, he hung on to live and to fight another day.

He gave Keene a silent nod as Keene emerged from the depths of the church. The single candle Keene had lit barely managed to pierce the darkness. But, for Keene it was enough. Without a word, they headed into the heart of the city. Determined to catch a killer and to protect a world that had no place for them.

Sam stuck close to Marcus. He knew the city well. For him this was home. To her, the city reeked. Talk about false advertising. From a far, the city glittered like a rare gem. But, up close and personal the city was nothing but a cheap impersonation. Sam saw decay gnawing away at the city's black heart. Deceptively hidden behind the pretty lights and empty promises of progress.

The dead haunted Sam. Every time she closed her eyes; she saw the women. Guilt swam in Sam's mind. A few minutes would have made all the difference. If she'd been faster, the dead would be alive, asleep in their beds, instead of rotting in their coffins.

Different parts of her mind argued back and forth. It wasn't her fault that the women were murdered. How could she have known where the killer would strike? Who he stalked as prey? Should have gotten there sooner. Could have saved them. Had to stop someone else from dying. The arguments were enough to make Sam want to scream. But there was one point all her voices agreed upon. If she got the chance, there'd be no trial. No jury. The man would be brought to justice and the dead avenged. He'd get exactly what he deserved, an execution.

Marcus grabbed his wife's hand and threaded his fingers through hers. Dark thoughts swarmed in her mind. And he wondered if hunting a killer and the deaths were bearing too heavily on her tender heart. "Sam, you ok?" He wasn't reassured by the trace of a bitter smile that crossed her lips.

"Never better."

Her voice was taught and strained. Marcus knew she'd never give up the search. There was no way he'd convince her otherwise. She was too invested. The deaths too close to her heart. Even if Dane ordered her back to the compound, even if the Great Father himself did, she wouldn't go. Sam was treading on dangerous ground. Teetering on the brink between self-flagellation and obsession. She wouldn't stop, no matter how long it took, until the killer was taken down.

Patrick leaned against a building, seeking a few minutes of refuge from the cold rain. He looked up and frowned at the cloud cover. The rain fell from the slate colored sky in dizzying sheets. Each fat drop landed with a frigid, icy splat against the pavement. Darkness never really spread its cloak over the city. Night was measured in hours here. Looking for the man was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Patrick had searched the streets dozens of times. Each search was just like the one before. He had nothing. How was he ever going to find a man that could pass for anybody and blend in so perfectly with everybody?

Carter scoured the dregs of club life too stubborn or too drunk to call it a night. He had nothing concrete to go by, a mental image from Patrick and a hint of a scent from the wolf. Nothing. He turned up the collar of his jacket against the cold as he made his way to another bar. Frustrated by his lack of progress, he cursed under his breath. He was an expert at hiding and knew how easy it could be to become invisible. He'd underestimated the human. Not a mistake he'd make again anytime soon.

His Guardians were out there, patrolling their city. Carter was hungry and cold. But, not even the warmth of human blood was tempting enough to keep him from the hunt. That fucker was out here. Somewhere. And eventually, everyone's luck ran out. Carter's had. And O'Sullivan had shown him no pity. Even now, with the blood of his maker coursing through his veins. Carter didn't have the strength or the heart to do what needed to be done. Loyalty bound him to the city, bound him to his Guardians, and it bound him, through some perverse twist of self-imposed morality, to his bastard father.

Grant could not stand being cooked up in this apartment for another second. No matter how warm and plush his surroundings, he'd rather be out on the streets hunting a killer than cooling his heels. "Want to take a walk?"

John Mark grinned widely. "Sure. Think you can keep up with me?"

Grant didn't acknowledge John Mark's ribbing. He had some residual effects from sharing a body with his wolf. He had better endurance, sharper senses. He was faster and stronger than an average human, but no match for a vampire. "My wolf can."

John Mark snickered, "Do I need a leash and a choker chain? How 'bout dog tags? I'd hate for you to end up in the pound." He howled in a sudden fit of laughter, "You might get yourself neutered."

"Funny, ass wipe." Grant huffed as he pulled on a borrowed jacket. This time, he was planning ahead. He might wake up naked, but he didn't plan to stay that way long. He slung an empty backpack over one shoulder. John Mark would make a fine butler. He could carry the backpack while Grant was on all fours. "Come on."

"Got an idea of where we're going?" John Mark locked up and set the alarm. The building was secure, one hundred percent vampire owned and operated. But, he never took chances.

"Out," Grant said as he smashed the elevator button impatiently.

"You anxious to find a fire hydrant or a tree?" John Mark thought he was hilarious. He just couldn't contain his creative juices. And Grant was just too easy.

"Jackass."

The cold air bit through the fabric of Grant's jacket. But, he didn't mind. He sat in the passenger side with the window rolled all the way down. The streets were deserted. He had about two or three hours before the city around him began to open its sleepy eyes. No one would see him. And nobody would believe anyone who did. Wolves didn't prowl through dark suburban neighborhoods or exclusive downtown high rises. "Park over there."

"You onto something?"

"No. I don't want anyone to see me when I shift." The spot Grant had picked out was well away from any prying eyes that might hazard a glance. There was no glare from streetlights, just an abandoned parking lot, with a shabby, decomposing, squatty, brick building for cover.

"Oh. Like Superman minus the phone booth," John Mark chuckled. He'd seen Grant and others like him shift. The sight was amazing if not a little nauseating. He pulled behind the building and put the SUV in park, killing the headlights.

Grant slid out of the passenger side and glared at John Mark. "You know. One of these days, my wolf is going to piss in your shoe." Grant stripped, wincing against the biting cold and freezing rain. He stuffed his clothes into the backpack and tossed it at John Mark. "Won't mind toting that around for me would you."

"Course not." John Mark slid his arms through the pack and listened for the sickening sound of bone crunching and muscle rebuilding over altered limbs. Patrick had cautioned him against reaching out to pet the wolf. John Mark kept his hands clutched in fists at his side. But, he was curious to feel the lush pelt of chocolate brown beneath his fingers. "Lead the way."

The wolf bent his nose to the muddy ground. Sniffing. The smells it associated with humanity were everywhere. Randomly, it chose a direction. Not so much because it had something but rather because it didn't. Sometimes a lot of curiosity and a little patience could pay off big time.

John Mark followed the wolf, lending his abilities to the wolf. Stopping to sniff where the wolf sniffed. Staring out into the night. Following the wolf's steely stare. But, he drew the line at hiking up his leg and marking his territory like the wolf did whenever the urge hit.

John Mark could see so much of the wolf in Grant or visa versa. Grant and the wolf were two parts of the same whole. They walked with the same swagger in their steps, lethal grace combined with speed, agility, and strength. Grant's eyes were as intense as the wolf's, predators on the hunt.

John Mark and the wolf wandered the quiet streets of downtown. Unearthing nothing of real value. Dawn was close on the horizon. Soon, people would begin moving about. And if they spotted the wolf, panic would break the boring routine of another of endless strings of urban mornings. "Ptweowa, my brother wolf, we're out of time," John Mark whispered. Pointing down a dark and lonely alley. "I need Grant back."

Grant dressed quickly. His clothing stuck to his rain slicked skin. A scent, sweet and rich bore through the stink of rotting garbage wafting from the cans that lined the narrow alleyway. His stomach grumbled. Complaining that it had not been fed a proper meal since arriving in the city. His mouth watered in agreement.

"Where are you going? The SUV's back there." John Mark trotted after Grant.

"I'm finding some breakfast."

John Mark sniffed, the smell of fresh cinnamon rolls, coffee, sugar, and dollops of sweet cream turned his stomach. He couldn't begrudge the guy a decent meal. He couldn't stand the scent of human food. But, he remembered what it was like to be human. How something as simple as a good cup of coffee and a fresh bakery treat could make everything seem right with the world, at least until the cup was drained. "Ok."

The man had a few spare dollars at his disposal and after spending the night in the cold watching the dark windows of her apartment. He decided he deserved something special. He picked his way through the first herd of commuters for the day to his favorite spot. It was a bit of a walk, especially on a rainy morning, but well worth it. A cup of bitter espresso and a fresh blueberry sconce would certainly hit the spot. Rather impatiently, he took his place in line. The door behind him opening and closing, letting in the morning chill, as the shop filled with bleary eyed patrons.

The man rapped the ends of his fingers on the counter as he waited for the fresh, young faced girl behind the plexiglass and stainless steel counter to brew his espresso. Too bad he already had someone else in mind. She would have made perfect bait. He pushed a crumpled dollar into her tip jar and collected the wax paper bag and steaming cup from the counter. "Thanks."

The girl eyed the tip jar, which so far, was dismally low and shot him a wide, perfect, fresh out of braces smile. "Thank you and come again." She ignored the man's indifferent shrug and called the next patron forward.

The man pushed past the crowd and made his way to the door. The bell rang as it opened and jangled wildly as he bumped against the glass, finding himself face to face with his prey. No doubt about it. Something in their eyes, the way they looked through a person, always gave the vampires away. He sucked in a breath and flipped the lid off his extra large espresso, throwing it at the vampires. They knew who he was. Turning on a heel he bolted down the bustling sidewalk.

"Shit!" John Mark hissed, momentarily surprised by the steaming coffee burning his eyes and skin. Grant bobbed through the crowd, close on the man's heels. John Mark let the door slam and followed after them. "Son of a bitch!" He couldn't use all of his preternatural attributes. He couldn't run at full speed. Had to keep it slow. Appear human. But, he had the man's scent, or at least a scent that he could follow, blueberries and espresso.

"Mother Fuck!" Grant pushed past the crowd mulling at the bus stop. Having pushed to the front of the line of morning commuters, the son of a bitch was already on the bus. Grant reached for the door as the bus pulled away from the curb. Yelling and shouting after the driver. But, the driver ignored him and pulled into traffic. Grant spun, chasing after the bus. Tailing the cloud of black, sooty, fumes that belched from the tailpipe.

The man fought his way to the back of the bus and stared out of the grimy window. He lost sight of his prey and sank into an empty seat. He added another to his mental count of vampires. Five.

Grant slowed to a trot as the bus rounded a corner and merged onto the expressway. He'd almost been close enough to touch the bastard, within a finger's reach from stopping the killer.

John Mark chattered and shouted into his cell phone. "Toby, give me a route for the number ten bus out of Midtown. Get reinforcements out. I want patrols on every stop. Now!" He snapped the phone closed and grinned at Grant, "I think we've got 'em."

Grant didn't share John Mark's optimistic view. The solution was too simple. Hang out and wait for the killer to get off the bus. Yeah, right. He followed John Mark back to the SUV and climbed into the passenger side. Exhaling a deep sigh, he rested his head against the leather seat back. He closed his eyes. Forcing his thoughts to his happy place, in Claire's arms.

The man always came prepared. He shoveled into the depths of his jacket and pulled out a ball cap and thick-rimmed glasses. The remnants of his coffee were dried and sticky on his hands. If the vampires caught his scent he was as good as dead. He unwrapped a handiwipe and scrubbed down as best he could. Until all he could smell was the nauseatingly hygienic scent of lemon and alcohol.

The occupants of the bus shifted and rocked as the bus exited the expressway, careening around the cloverleaf at breakneck speed. The brakes squealed to a halt and the doors popped open at the stop. The man shuffled down the aisle with the rest of the crowd bound for another day's work at one of the many local glorified sweatshops called factories in the rundown part of town. He kept his head low and tried to look inconspicuous as he melted into the throngs of the blue-collar working class.

Patrick arrived at the bus stop just as the bus pulled away. Workers shuffled wearily to their mundane jobs. Not embracing the thought of putting in another grueling day building the American Dream. He leaned against the bench decorated with graffiti and tacky advertisements. Scanning the crowd. Sniffing the air. He smelled nothing except for the overwhelming scent of humanity.

Dane and Keene hightailed it through the vacant lots and overgrown plots of ground. Headed for their destination. The bus stop was quite a distance away. And the bus was scheduled to arrive at the stop at six-fifteen. They had only minutes to get there and assume position. A minute one way or the other, if they were late or the bus was early, might cause them to miss their elusive killer.

Marcus and Sam pretended to casually share a newspaper as they waited at the bakery. The killer could finish the bus route and ride it back to where he'd gotten on in the first place. Who knew? Perhaps their killer had such a penchant for pastry that he'd make another attempt at those blueberry sconces.

Grant showered and flopped on the bed. Scouting the bus stops had turned up nothing, like he knew it would. He felt totally defeated. Useless. He'd had the killer in his grasp and let the bastard slip through his fingers, so close, but not close enough. Finally, his weary mind gave in to exhaustion and he fell fast asleep, dreaming of Claire.

Chapter 38

Claire opened her eyes. Meeting the stare of a wide-eyed, very awake, and excited little girl. "G'morning, Mouse," she mumbled. She was surprised that Mouse would not only be awake but dressed. Her hair neatly combed and braided into a tight braid trailing down her back. And so very, very full of excited energy at this ungodly hour of the morning she was bouncing on the edge of the bed barely able to contain it. Claire wanted nothing more at six in the morning than to roll over and go back to sleep. But, Mouse wasn't going to allow her the luxury.

Grant's bed was comfortable and warm. The linens smelling so much of him, she could almost...almost pretend he was there curled up beside her. Claire wanted very much to hold on to that dream, the illusion of him surrounding her. Pushing up onto the pillows, she fumbled for her cell phone. She'd left it on the nightstand. Mouse was a very perceptive little girl. And after glancing at the blank display indicating she'd gotten no calls, Claire hoped Mouse didn't pick up on the trail of her disappointment.

Marianne giggled excitedly and set a tray on the nightstand. "I made you breakfast!" She'd stayed in bed nuzzled beside Claire for as long as her hyperactive nature would allow. Soaking up the warmth and softness of everything that was just Claire, made her miss the mom she'd never known. Marianne didn't think about it too often. How different things would have been if her mom had lived. Or about, if she'd never been born, how her mom would still be alive. Her brothers were mean, as all older brothers were. But, they'd never be so cruel as to mention something like that to her. They didn't have to. It could have just as easily have been one of them born without a mother. And her father, although he'd never say it, sometimes she saw the accusation in his eyes.