Dawn Reclaimed

The man looped a thick length of rope around the werewolf's neck and secured it into a tight noose. He'd seen the wolf. And the rope would not accommodate the beast's thick neck and ruff. If the man shifted, the wolf would strangle to death. That should be incentive enough for the man to keep his human shape. Satisfied with his handiwork, he turned his attention to the puddle on the floor. Damn, this was going to be so much fun. He soaked up the blood with a bundle of shredded clothing. He wanted to keep his prize to himself. But, he had bigger prey to bait.

The vampires were assembled in the Guardian's high rise, meeting to discuss strategy. Basically, there was little else to be done until the man made his next move. Patrols crawled the city. Unearthing nothing of value. "Has anyone seen Hunter?" Dane asked out of curiosity. The man was moody and volatile, a time bomb with a short fuse. His absence might not be unusual. Except for the fact, no matter how fucked up the wolf seemed to be, he was never late.

"No, come to think of it. He knew we were planning to rendezvous around noon. And he's so anal. I can't imagine him missing a debriefing," Patrick said.

Keene punched in a number on speed dial and put his cell phone on speaker. The phone went straight to voice mail. "No answer," Keene said and snapped the phone closed.

Toby sat on the couch consoling Anna. Calming her with his touch. She was still rattled from her encounter with the killer. "We should have fitted Hunter with a tracking device." All of the Sons and Guardians were required to have a tracking device embedded in their skin. But, Hunter was a wolf and he'd refused the extra security measures.

"Did anybody link with him?" Chance asked. His excursion to the gym had been a dead lead. Nobody recalled seeing the woman.

"No. He wouldn't have it." Will answered. A blood link would have been their best way to locate him. Like a spiritual homing beacon, the donor and recipient, could find one another from miles away.

"All right, head out in groups of two. Focus on the area around the coffee shop. Patrick, have you got his scent?" Dane scrubbed his hand through his hair in frustration. This was just another problem they didn't need. Hunter was so damn headstrong. Stubborn and independent. Who knew what kind of trouble he'd landed himself in.

"Ah, yeah. He smells like a dog. No problem. Unless he's ended up in the pound, we'll find him." Patrick hid his worry behind light humor. Choosing John Mark as his partner, they headed out.

"Maybe, he marked a few fire hydrants along the way." John Mark chimed in.

Dane grunted and paired up with Carter. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones. "Move out. And keep your asses safe."

Gina wanted to stay in the dark land of nothing. Her aching, broken body obviously preferred suffering to oblivion. She struggled to pry her eyes open, but her left lid only opened a few millimeters. Her right eye scanned the room. "Ohmigod!" She gasped as she focused on the naked man chained to the wall. Her would be rescuer was just as fucked as she was.

His waist and thighs were a tangled mess of deep wounds in various stages of healing. Coated with a trail of rusty, dried blood. He was badly hurt. A thick length of rope dug into the skin of his neck.

If he weren't in such a mess and his situation as dire as hers, she might have considered him attractive. He had high cheekbones, hair black as raven's wings, a long aquiline nose, a stark and chiseled brow, and thick, lush lips made for suckling all a girl's sweet spots. The muscles of his chest strained beneath the bulk of his weight and the pressure of his stretched arms bound in place by chains. He was completely naked. And every inch of him was visible. Powerful thighs and a lean waist, rock hard abs, and, she must be losing it because her good eye was locked onto his package. Even though his dick was limp, it was quite impressive, long and thick even at half-mast. He definitely had the goods, not that she'd ever get to find out. Nor, if it were part of this sick bastard's twisted game, did she want to.

"Hey dumb ass. Wake the hell up," she hissed. Rattling her chains against the cinderblock wall to create a racket. "Wake up shit for brains!" Just moving sent her body into spasms of agony. The cuts on her stomach burned. Her arm throbbed and was fiery hot beneath the rag tag dressing. Her face was swollen and bruised. Each word created a symphony of stinging pain as her dry lips cracked and bled. "Hey you! Damn it."

She rolled onto her side and wrapped her fingers around a water bottle. She'd been conserving the precious bottles. Sipping slowly, trying to ration the water to make it last. She didn't know if or when the son of a bitch was coming back or if he'd bring more. She reluctantly twisted off the cap and gauged her aim. She was down to two or three bottles. Not enough to last through the day. She aimed as best she could and threw the uncapped bottle at her cellmate. "Wake up!" God, she thought he was still breathing. But, maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her and he was already dead. She whimpered at the thought of being trapped with a corpse. Especially since that seemed to be the same fate awaiting her.

Hunter heard a woman's voice and something metallic banging against a wall. What the hell? Something hard thumped against his chest and splashed him with something cold and wet. Groaning, he came around. His arms were numb. He struggled to move his legs. His right thigh throbbed in agony as his muscles strained to support his weight. But, the pain was nothing compared to the stabbing and tearing line in his side. His mouth was dry as a desert and his head spun dizzily. "What...?"

He sucked in a breath as his brain reprised the situation. The man. The woman. The blade. Blackness. His wolf. More blackness. He lifted his head, trying to focus. She sat hunched over on the cot. The left side of her face pulverized. Hands and wrists bloodied, raw and bruised from the chains. Her right arm bandaged with a dirty, stained wrapping. He could smell the festering infection beneath the bandage from across the room. Her t-shirt cut had been cut and torn to ribbons. Her hair was dirty and plastered with dried sweat and streaks of blood to her scalp. But her eye, at least the one that opened all the way, shone with a spirit no captivity could extinguish. At least the killer hadn't broken her yet. Green, her eyes were green, the color of a sun drenched meadow on a summer day. "Gina? Gina Klein?" he rasped.

"You know my name! You really did come to save me!" Gina pulled her aching body into an upright position. Didn't matter that he was chained to a wall and was as hopeless as she. Someone knew she was missing. She mattered. And that was more than enough to rekindle the fire of hope in her heart. But, the smoldering embers quickly burned out. Watching as he fruitlessly pulled against his bindings, she stated the obvious, "We're fucked. You know that don't you."

Hunter wanted to laugh at her need to state what he so painfully knew. The truth wouldn't help this woman. She was probably better off believing he could save her. "We're in a bit of a mess, true. But, we are not fucked. My friends are probably looking for us right now."

"Yeah, I thought that yesterday, or was it the day before. But, here I am. And I am still just as fucked as I was then," Gina spat in retort at the man. Mr. Mary Sunshine had better wake up and smell the fucking cappuccino. He was bleeding, chained naked to a wall. How much more of a reality check did he need than that?

"And your friends did find you. Here I am." Gina was close to giving up. Hunter could hear the wavering despair in her voice. Her spark was fading and it would burn out if he didn't think of something she could cling to. "Gina, we're going to get out of this. I promise."

"Yeah, fat lot of good that's doing me. Hell, you're worse off than I am. I figure I've only got a couple of days left before he gets tired of keeping me alive. But you, you're fresh meat. He'll play with you for a long time. Carve you up like a Thanksgiving Day turkey. Look, don't blow smoke up my ass. What's the point? I don't know your name. And more to the point, I don't care. But, whoever you are, face it. We're as good as dead." Gina turned her back to the mystery man and faced the wall.

"Hunter. My name is Hunter. And we're not dead, yet. As long as there's breath in our lungs, there's still hope." Hunter mustered his strength and tugged at his bindings. The metal bit mercilessly into his skin. The rope rubbed his throat raw. He couldn't shift or he'd strangle himself. Unless the vampires got to him in time, he was as she'd so callously pointed out, fucked.

"Whatever," Gina huffed. She curled up on the cot. Ignoring the heavy metallic clank of chains rattling, she stared blankly at the gray, cinderblock wall. The sounds of his struggles were for nothing. Unless he was Superman he wasn't going to break those chains. She was feverish and so thirsty. But, she didn't have the urge to drink. She hadn't eaten a bite since she got here. And her stomach no longer rumbled with hunger. She was empty on the inside. Dying slowly, minute by minute. And her hero was as useless as she was, chained to a fucking wall.



Chapter 53

Claire should have called her mom and put off lunch. Till, like the next decade or so. The woman hated to be kept waiting. And there she was, dear, sweet mother, all decked out in a dove gray pinstriped skit and customary high necked cream colored silk blouse, tapping the toe of her mandatory designer pumps in impatience. Her blonde hair, platinum number five, if Claire remembered correctly, was expertly pinned up in a severe French twist. The woman had the nerve to scowl at her and check the time on her watch as Grant all but dragged her into the dining area of the bar. Swilling down a martini, as if it were the last one on the planet, her mother's shrewd blue eyes focused on her from behind stylish wire rimmed glasses. Scowling at her even harder, as if that were possible, as Grant pulled out a chair.

"Mom, I'm so sorry we're late." Claire slid into the chair Grant pulled out for her. She bit her lip, waiting until Grant was seated, wondering how to start. Casually, in a show of support, Grant wrapped his leg around hers beneath the table. "Mom, I'd like for you to meet Grant. Grant, this is my mother, Aldena."

"Dena," she said, extending her hand across the table. Grant had a nice handshake, firm but not too firm, and definitely not soft and lacking in character. "A pleasure to meet you," she said, pulling her hand from his warm grasp. Thankfully, her daughter had better taste in men the she had at her age. The man, Grant, was tall, dark, and handsome, and definitely not from around here. That fact alone scored serious points in her book. Finally, her daughter, despite her disheveled appearance, had landed herself a decent man. "I went ahead and ordered my lunch. I have a busy schedule today and not much time. Tuesdays are always murder in my line of work."

"Mom is a real estate agent," Claire said, politely filling in the gap. Burying her nose in the menu, she studied her choices as if the burgers and fries were the most fascinating piece of literature she'd ever read. Ignoring her mother's curious stare and damn grateful for the waitress popping by to take their order, she ducked Grant's amused expression. He didn't know her mom. He didn't have enough sense to be terrified of her. Claire knew better. Her mom was simply playing with him. Saving him for the main menu instead of an appetizer.

"So, tell me Grant, what is your line of work?" Dena asked. She sucked an olive off the toothpick and waited for him to elaborate. Claire squirmed in her seat in obvious discomfort with the subject. Dena wasn't really that hard on her daughter. Not nearly as hard as Claire liked to pretend that she was. Claire should have had her mother for a mother. Now, that woman was the walking definition of terror. She was a pussycat in comparison to the evil hag that had birthed her.

Dena rarely spoke to her mother, mainly because the wrinkled old prune was living it up Florida style with all the other dried up prunes and was too busy to talk to her only daughter. The two of them were oil and water. They didn't, never had, and never would mix. And even as awful as it had been growing up in a house with that woman as head hen of the roost, Dena didn't begrudge her mom anything. She'd been hard on her sure, but her persistence had paid off. Dena had a great career. Plenty of money stashed back in a 401K. And a beautiful daughter she was determined to keep on the straight and narrow. Claire had done ok for herself. But, there was so much unharnessed potential in her. Or there would be, if she didn't have so much of her father in her.

"Self-employed. Security mainly." Grant smoothed the toe of his shoe up Claire's pant leg. Playfully, trying to put her at ease. Claire was tense and squirming in her seat. And Grant understood why. Her mother was well...overwhelming. Determined. Shrewd. Demanding. Opinionated. And relentless on her daughter. But, he liked her, despite of her less than desirable traits. He could see how very much Dena loved Claire. And while he'd never, ever mention it, he saw quite a bit of Dena in Claire.

These were intense women. And without his love to soften her around the edges, he could very much guess that in the future Claire would have turned into a younger version of Dena. For whatever reason, Dena was not one of those people capable of taking the lemons life dealt and turning them into lemonade. She preferred to suck the juice straight from the lemon and let it pucker her. No sugar required. All in all though, Claire's mother wasn't so bad. Not as bad as Claire had described her. He'd met worse people. Dena was ok. Just wound a little too tightly.

"Ah," Dena said with a knowing nod. Self-employed was another way to say, broke and unemployed. Oh well, at least Grant was easy on the eyes. Claire had a good head on her shoulders and surely wasn't considering anything too serious with this man. She'd spent years, since Claire was old enough to take her efforts to heart, teaching her daughter that she didn't need a man to make a way in the world for her. But, rather, that she was responsible for making her own way in the world. Nothing was free. And love, well...wasn't that a disappointing fiasco. Claire wasn't that stupid to believe the lie love conquered all. She'd raised her daughter better than that. Love was for fools. And her ex-husband was the biggest fool of them all. Dena drained the contents of her martini and flagged down the waitress for a second round.

Claire placed her order and flinched from her mother's disapproving glare. Her mother struggled with a slow metabolism, side effect of being on the downward slope of middle age, and never ate anything but salads. Claire was eating for two and she was nervous as hell, sitting here across from the shrew. She was an emotional eater and today she decided to go for broke. She ordered a platter of chicken tenders with fries.

Grant could have cut the tension between mother and daughter with a knife. He ordered, same as Claire, to offer a show of support. He stared at the older version of Claire. Trying desperately to think of something to say. No amount of charm was going to fool this woman. Claire's mother was brutally honest. It was probably what made her the top on only real estate agent left in town. She didn't broker bullshit. And nor, would she appreciate it.

After the waitress left and went to fetch her mother a second martini. Clare sat in stark and awkward silence. The waitress, a perky, but older blonde with one too many bumps in the road showing on her face, cheerfully made the drink and brought it to the table, setting the glass on a fresh napkin. She waited till her mother took a sip and nodded in haughty approval. Claire took a deep breath and prepared to drop the bomb. At least, thankfully, her mother was on her second drink, her limit at lunch. The alcohol might ease her scorn. Maybe. "Mom, Grant and I wanted to talk to you about something."

"By all means," Dena said coolly. This was bad. She hadn't seen this particular expression on her daughter's face since the time Claire got an F on her report card. The expression was a mix of dread and fear. Preparing herself, she wrapped her fingers around the long stem of the martini glass and took a deep sip.

Her eyes locked on the tiny band of gold and diamonds on her daughter's ring finger. She'd hoped her daughter would choose wiser than she had. Money wasn't everything. It didn't buy you happiness. But, it sure as hell helped. She'd hoped Claire would marry better than she had when she'd married Claire's father. Apparently, the nut didn't fall too far from the tree. And watching Claire repeat history was painful.

Money, or lack there of, was one of the primary things that had soured her marriage to Claire's father. She'd been so infatuated with him in college, head over heels in love at the time. Claire's father had turned out to be a big disappointment. The man simply had no drive or ambition. In the end, they blamed and despised each other for their shortcomings in life. Claire was the only good thing that had come out of the marriage.

"Mom. Grant and I... we're engaged." Claire took a gulp of her tea saved by the waitress as she delivered lunch.

Dena poured a bit of dressing on her salad and stabbed at the lettuce with her fork. "How exciting for you." She hadn't meant her words to come out as bitter as they had. She wanted her daughter to be happy. But, she wasn't a big fan of the institution of marriage. More failed than ever made it. And the pain of divorce was one thing she would spare her daughter from, if she could.

Dena's words were sour and bitter. Stinging with bite. Grant couldn't take seeing Claire, eyes down, playing with a French fry because she was too afraid or too nervous to rebuke her mother. "I love Claire with all my heart and I'll do everything in my power to make her happy and provide her with a good and safe home. Once I've made a promise I see it through."

Dena sat her fork down and met Grant's stare. The man meant every word that he said. But, sincerity and good intentions didn't pay the bills. "Those are all worthy statements. But, exactly how do you plan to fulfill your obligations? Good intentions don't mean much if there's no action to back them up."

"Mom, stop it," Claire begged. Her mother had her fur standing up on end and her claws out. She was winding up to go for the throat. "Marrying Grant is my choice. How we live is up to us. And none of your concern."

"Beg your pardon. But, it is most definitely my concern." Dena huffed, offended by Claire's tone. "What about your plan to go back to college and get your master's degree? Are you going to throw that away?"

"No. I'm planning to go back to school. Just not as soon as I'd intended. Maybe, next fall."

"Next fall," Dena repeated. Doubt in her voice. "Claire, by next fall, you'll be pregnant and then you'll never finish your degree. You'll be too busy working, paying bills, cleaning up after him, and raising a baby to think about school." She flung her hand in the air and gestured disdainfully at Grant. Eye candy yes, a provider for her daughter, not likely. Claire was following in her footsteps. Too much in love with love to realize the mistake she was about to make.

"Mom, I'm already pregnant. The baby is due this summer."

Dena flopped back in her chair flabbergasted. Her mouth hung open. "Pregnant." She smoothed the back of her hand over her hair. "How could you keep this from me for so long? Pregnant?" She sucked down the rest of her martini in one gulp. "How could you be so stupid and irresponsible? And how could she have missed the telltale signs? Her daughter's absence at their weekly lunches over the last several weeks, the baggy clothes, and the evasive replies to her phone calls. You're too far along for an abortion now. But, you could give the baby up for adoption. You don't have to get married just because you're pregnant. You don't have to give up your life to raise a child you didn't plan for. That would be a bigger mistake than you've already made."