Dawn Revealed

Lance thought the better of shoving his foot any deeper down his throat than he already had. Cramming his hands deep in his pockets and zipping his lips, he followed Angel into the woods. He had no idea of how to help her survive her past. He'd rescue her, if he could. But, she'd never willingly accept his or anybody else's help. She was too proud and self-determined for that. Maybe, eventually, she would reach out. Or somehow manage to come to terms with her past in her own way. Maybe, not.

Even if Roark were dead and Angel had his head stuffed and mounted on her wall, Lance doubted it would be enough. She stumbled on the path and he reached out to catch her. Reluctantly dropping his hands as she righted her footing and marched bravely onward. She wanted to do this herself, in her own way. And as much as it hurt, sometimes, you just had to stand back and let somebody fall before you could help them up.

"Are you okay?" Bryce asked. He ran his hands over the deep purple bruises that formed on Kayla's biceps. Angry swollen welts the shape of fingers. She was a lot shook up and more than a little sore. Gritting her teeth to keep from wincing at the pain as he examined the bruises. For the most part, she was physically unharmed. Going after her Angel, which was what his instincts clamored for him to do, would only serve to hurt Kayla worse. Kayla was a forgiving soul. And already, she'd moved past the incident with Angel. She had her reasons. And he wasn't going to question them.

"I'm fine," Kayla lied. The bruises hurt like a bitch and her emotions had been stomped on. But, she'd live. "Sometimes, Angel is a bit explosive," she mumbled as she slid into her clothes.

"A bit?" Bryce scoffed. "I'll take you to the Shaman. Doc has something to fix you right up. You may not like it. But, it will work." He helped Kayla slide her t-shirt over her head. He straightened the bed and turned off the oil lamp. The broken door would have to wait till morning. How he was going to explain that to Dane, he had no idea. Dane would be furious if Bryce told him the truth. And he'd punish Angel for the damage. Angel had been through enough. Bryce didn't want Kayla interrogated for what had happened. She too, had been through enough for one night. "I'm sorry our evening got completely wrecked."

Kayla laid a gentle hand on Bryce's shoulder. The bruises were already beginning to heal from the power of his blood flowing through her veins. She didn't need medical attention. She'd had worse. "Bryce, forget it. Angel didn't know. She thought...well you know what she thought. It wasn't her fault. Tonight was the most amazing night of my life. No regrets. Not one. I love you."

Bryce reached out and snatched Kayla up in his arms. Gently holding her close to his bare chest. He couldn't suppress the stupid smile that across his face. He'd finally found his missing half. He pressed his lips to her forehead catching their mingled scents in her hair. It was her soft, feminine floral scent, mixed with his hard, masculine, woodsy scent. Combined, the scents reminded him of the sweetest summer night he'd ever had in his life.

Chapter 30

"Savages," Roark muttered to no one in particular as he stepped over the nude, very dead, female body on the floor. She would have been considered pretty in life, perhaps even beautiful. There wasn't much beauty left in her now. Her limbs askew, the neck bent at an awkward angle, she stared up at him with the blank stare of the dead. His new recruits were brutal, ruthless, and obeyed him without question. They killed for killing's sake. Exactly the type of soldiers he needed for the war he was about to rage. But, they came at a cost, as did everything.

He'd returned to the city to regroup and fish out more of the types of men he'd been looking for. And he'd found them in abundance in the city's shadowy dark corners. Twisted men with a capacity to do the work he required. He'd promised them immortality, power, and wealth beyond their imaginings. Too bad, they wouldn't live past the battle to collect. He couldn't let these things live.

It was bad enough he had to clean up after them. His immaculate townhouse was trashed. His polished wood floors were covered in footprints, filth, and blood. Curtains hung off the rods in tatters. His furniture was stained beyond cleaning. The silk upholstery shredded to rags. In disgust, Roark kicked the empty shell of the female's abused body out of his path and stormed down the dark corridor to his private rooms. The only place left his brood had yet to destroy.

Roark admired their lust for death. And it would come in handy soon enough. Numbers. Sheer numbers were what he needed to win this war. He had them. His army was growing. But, they had no skill, no finesse. And the Sons would cut through a majority of them in a matter of minutes. He didn't want to kill the brothers. He just wanted them out of the way. His soldiers would keep the brothers busy while he went after the Great Father and his pathetic brother the prophet.

He'd need skilled men to enforce his new regime. Men used to discipline. And the brothers would either get on board or he'd send them to their goddess in pieces. Roark gritted his teeth at the bloody handprint on the wall outside of his rooms and vowed that what few soldiers left the Sons didn't manage to destroy, he would. "Beasts," he growled.

"Clean up this mess," Roark barked to a group of overindulgent rogues. Bastards turned his stomach. The rogues he'd created were taking turns suckling the flesh of a dying woman. She had only minutes left before they drained her dry. Her green eyes met his. Glazed with pain, she stared up at him in a silent plea. He was going to kill every last one of his recruits. One did not torture food. Suffering was for fun, for pleasure. And he'd killed plenty in his pursuits of the finer things in life before he learned to prolong the game. A little pain seasoned the dish. But, senseless, mindless torture without a purpose...never "Finish this," he hissed.

Slamming the door behind him, he moved to the wide bank of windows forming the wall of his suite and stared out into the city below. He was losing his hold on his city. The strays were restless. The rogues under his command had grown sloppy and lazy. Weak. His soldiers destroyed everything they touched. And the swirling vortex of darkness he'd unleashed was growing more and more powerful. Threatening to suck him down into its black heart. Roark thought he knew what hell was. Living for an eternity was its own special brand of torment. More than what the mind could endure. He was losing, not the city, not the men his to command, he was losing whatever existed of his true self.

How did one kill a being that existed of spirit? Of nothing but darkness and vapor? Perhaps, he hadn't thought out his plan in entirety. The promise of power had been too alluring to ignore. Maybe, there was no way to contain Lamia and Samael now that he'd unleashed them. Maybe, he couldn't bring them to heel. They had their limits though. Confined to an ethereal plane without physical body they taunted and teased him. But, only through him could they unleash the fullness of their power. They needed hands to touch. Feet in which to walk. They were nothing. Air.

Roark stopped believing long ago in God or the Devil. There was nothing. Only the gods and devils man created for themselves. Good and evil were only measured in the degrees in which they were committed. He was only as bad as he perceived himself to be. His deeds only as good as he perceived them to be. The darkness was just a tool. No different than a hammer or a nail. And he could feel it building and building inside of him. Tempting him. Calling to him. Begging to be used. And he would. When the time was right.

"I'm bored," Lamia sighed. She was so close. Her release so near she could taste it. Roark was a puppet. His lack of faith served her well. He'd called her out of the black pit of her exile and unleashed her on the shadowy world of spirit. The barrier between the land of the living and the dead was so thin. Thin as tissue paper and as her power grew, she could almost breach the fragile boundary.

She expected that her release would be filled with violence and bloodshed. Not sitting around cooling her heels while the dimwit Roark plotted and schemed. She hadn't expected her dear little sister to have guardians at the gates. Spirit warriors. But, even they could be dealt with. She couldn't kill their physical hosts. Not with her limitations and confinement to this awful place of sunshine and light. She could however, kill their symbolic wolf forms. Send the soul packing straight back to where it'd come from. To their sister.

The wolves spoiled her fun. There wasn't as much difference between this plane and the physical plane down below. Although it wasn't real, this place was of her sister's making. Lamia felt the grass beneath her feet. The smell of fresh air and pine turned her stomach. And the daylight stung her eyes. Such a pretty place. Not. She couldn't affect the real world. Not by touch or any other sense. But, she could affect this one. And what happened here. Happened there.

The wolves guarding the borders were as real as every rock and tree her dear sister had created to comfort the dead passing through to the next plane of existence. The human dead, their spirits or whatever spark inside of them animated their flesh, were of no interest to Lamia. She wanted blood. Or the life it contained. The wolves, however, her sister's beloved pets, were very interesting. Especially, their deaths were of particular interest and just might precipitate the little family reunion she hoped for.

To kill a spirit warrior, a wolf, in this plane meant to kill its host in the 'real world' down below. Easy enough. After all, her brother was death. And he knew how to party.

"Would you like to play with our sister's doggie?" Samael asked. Unlike his sister, he was fascinated with this shadowy world in between the living and the dead. He watched the souls passing through with great interest. Their deaths, the how, and when, the tragic and the expected were endearing. The lost gravitated to him. He stole the peace that might have been theirs and fed on the terror left in its place like a fine wine. Trapped in this realm as he was; Kokumthena's pets were as close to real death as he could get.

He missed 'real death'. The cloying sweetness of it. Roark was nothing but a means to an end. His sister and he had played the 'rogue master' like an instrument. Roark didn't know. He didn't need to know. Soon enough, Roark would find out exactly what he'd unleashed on a world that had forgotten true fear.

Samael could hardly wait for the feast to begin. Without bindings, he and his sister were free to travel anywhere they wanted. Look down at the earth and all the lives in it. But, they could not touch. They could not taste. And he could not do what he did best. Bring about the death he craved. Not yet, anyway. But soon. As his power grew, so did his influence on the humans below.

A war here. A murder there. Small stuff hardly worth the effort. But, death was death. Killing was killing. And as it always had, the violence kept him fed. He wanted to gorge, revel in the death the way his sister craved to drink down life.

In her boredom Lamia had redecorated their small corner of their sister's shadowy world. Brought some darkness into this place of never ending light and goodness. Her efforts were merely a tryst to pass the time. Kokumthena's wolves stood between them and what they wanted most. Out.

The first step was to breach the barrier. Bend the laws of physics to their will and have what they had not had in over five millennia, physical bodies. Oh, this world was real enough. Perhaps it was simply a trick of the mind that he could feel the firmness of the soil against the soles of his feet and hungered so unbearably. Better than the endless void of nothing Roark had freed them from. And Roark would receive payment for releasing them. In time.

But, this world wasn't enough. He wanted to be real. For now, his desires would have to wait. He'd have to touch through Roark's hands. Taste the death Roark delivered. Samael supposed he could appeal to his father. Beg for his forgiveness. Not that his father would give it. Or that Samael had any intention of delivering on any promise that might fall from his lips in desperation. Kokumthena had always been the Creator's favorite. She'd never suffered. And it was time she did. That she knew true loss. And he had an idea of how to do it. He would have his death. And her wolves would feed him well.

"Oh could we?" Lamia exclaimed gleefully. Finally, something to do. Hopefully something to kill. A life to consume.

"Come sister, let's play," Samael said.

Smelling danger on the air, Psaiwiwuhkernekah Ptweowa, Great White Wolf, sped his pace. He was tired. Worn to the bone. For too long he'd patrolled the borders of the spirit world. His kin gave him a small measure of comfort. And for them alone, he lived when all he really wanted to do was rest.

The being he shared space with was weary as well. Exhausted from living. From the burdens no man should have to endure. Eternity wasn't for everyone. He lived, not for his kin or for the promise of a good woman by his side, but for his brother. Sleep wouldn't cure what ailed the Prophet. Only one thing could bring he craved. Death.

The Prophet was afraid. Not of death. The two of them knew it was coming for him. His physical body would not survive this battle. He wasn't meant to. Death was the goddess's gift to her faithful seer. But, not for him. Never for him. He was spirit. The wolf guardian. Psaiwiwuhkernekah Ptweowa. He could not die. He would not rest. Ever. There was much work to be done. Always so much work. Even now, with death on the Prophet's heels, he patrolled, guarded, and waited for the new body he would soon share. What the Prophet no longer wanted, his brother needed.

He had to die to free the Prophet. And when he died, the Prophet would live. The body they shared would wither and turn to dust. And the Prophet would be free. It was a small sacrifice to make on his part. The guardian wolf understood. Pain was nothing. Suffering was nothing. His death was his gift to the Prophet and the catalyst for the things that had yet and must come to pass.

His paws made light whispering sounds as he trotted over the soft, surreal ground. This place was not real, not as humanity knew reality anyway. But, what happened here, unlike Vegas, had a tendency to trickle in between planes. And what was about to come would hit the Great Father and his ilk with the bruit force of a tsunami. There was a darkness surrounding his familiar woods. A tangible evil so thick in the air he could taste it. The very presence of it made his silvery-white, almost translucent fur stand on edge and his hackles rise. What would pass would pass. And he would die, today, only temporarily. Defending his mistress and the humans she oversaw in the world down below.

The black forms took shape blocking his path. Bristling and showing his sharp canines, Psaiwiwuhkernekah Ptweowa growled, the warning rumbling deep in his chest. The intruders were they were not welcome here in this precious space his goddess called home. Coiling his muscles, he crouched, ready to attack. To die.

The forms separated into two shapes and solidified into mass. A male form and a female form, both strikingly beautiful, and breathtakingly evil. Their lovely silhouettes didn't fool Psaiwiwuhkernekah Ptweowa. They were pleasing to the human eye. And humans were easily deceived. But, his nose burned at the stench of the reek of their black hearts. Releasing his fury, he launched his attack.

Snapping his powerful jaws Psaiwiwuhkernekah Ptweowa sank his fangs into the male's flesh. Shaking his head he held the limb fast in his mouth, ripping flesh from bone. The man's blood flowed freely. The bitter taste tainted the tip of his tongue and bile rose in his throat at the evil it contained. Disgusting creature.

His opponents were as powerful as his beloved goddess. The counterbalance, the darkness to her brilliant light and love. The battle would be short. Well fought. But, he would lose. He didn't stand a chance against one of such power. The female circled him, licking her lips eagerly as she launched her body onto his back. The Great White Wolf chose to fight. To protect the goddess from this evil as best he could. His hold on the male loosened as the female drove her fangs into his scruff and tore at his flesh.

Inside his head, the Prophet cried out in agony. As accepting of his fate as he was, the Prophet didn't want to die like this. In pain. Tormented. The Prophet grappled for control over the body they shared. Scrabbling to transform fur into flesh. The wolf held his form with grim determination. The two of them were one, of the same flesh, the same body. But, their minds were separate, their souls destined to walk two different paths. He would die to be reborn. And the Prophet had been reborn to die at this place and time. It had to be this way. For the both of them, this death was only the beginning.

Lamia reveled in her savagery. The great beast's howls of pain and fury echoed hollowly through the woods. He was a powerful animal and defended his lands with fury. But ultimately, her brother and she bested the beast. And the Great White Wolf was overpowered. She drove her fangs deeper into his flesh, drinking of his essence, his life. The creature's blood was pure and sweet, potent and intoxicating in its power. Fusing and adding to her power the white energy swirled around her. The body in her arms stilled, the fight completely drained out of it. The Great White Wolf was no more, and in her arms lay a man cold and still as the grave she'd delivered him into.

Samael watched his lovely sister drain the beast. Hate filled eyes laced with triumph locked with his. He waited patiently for his turn to taste the beast. Death had a particular flavor, pungent and crisp, and beautifully sweet. He shuddered from the power of the death she'd delivered into his hands. So pure. So good. The death of an innocent, of a martyr dying for a cause, always tasted the best.

The soul freed from its mortal trappings swirled and took form. The Prophet marveled at his new state of being. The death had been bad. Worse than he could have ever imagined. And he was grateful it was at long last over. His life had ended. And only in death had he found the peace he so desperately needed. He stared down at his lifeless body, his physical shell, gripped in the hands of such evil. The wolf was far from here. Drifting.

The Prophet smiled a smile at the twin brother and sister that conveyed he had the upper hand. They didn't realize the events they'd set into motion in freeing him from his earthly shell. Today was a great victory. Today, he'd conquered death.

The trees snapped and groaned under the force of the hot winds ripping through their branches. Leaves blew and tumbled haphazardly in a shower to the ground. The earth trembled and rumbled with the goddess's fury. "We should be going," Samael said.

"What? Are you afraid of our sister?" Lamia asked. Drunk on stolen power she lifted her head defiantly to the darkening sky. Taunting Kokumthena to show her face. Disgusted by the empty shell she held in her arms, Lamia unceremoniously dumped the body onto the ground and rose to her feet. Let Kokumthena come for them. Let that bitch of a sister hunt them to the ends of eternity.

"Another time, sister," Samael said. Gripping her hand, he dragged her through the destruction threatening to fall on their heads. He wanted to take Kokumthena and her children down bit by bit, piece by piece. Slowly. Painfully. The death had fueled him. Given him strength. But, the time to face his sister had not yet arrived. "Soon, sister, soon."