Dawn Revealed

"Well, you can't expect me to divulge all my secrets now can you?" Roark answered coyly.

"I should kill you where you stand," Dane gritted. He hissed and balled his hands into fists. His predator wanted the satisfaction of sinking his fangs into Roark. Tearing him apart with his bare hands and bathing in his blood. "I'm pretty sure your rogues wouldn't mind. I don't think they like you."

"But, you can't, can you?" Roark glowered venomously. Without him at the reigns, the rogues would go on an unstoppable rampage and they definitely outnumbered the Sons. The war between the brotherhood and Kore's pathetic minions would look like a tea party in comparison. It would be an outright slaughter. Innocents would die. Not that he cared about that. But, the humans would. And there'd be no way of hiding it from them. A great many of his children were centuries old. Seasoned and experienced with a blade. They had respect but no fear of the brotherhood. They no longer feared death. Some might even welcome it.

"Not yet." Dane met Roark's cold, steely stare. It was only fair to warn him about his plans. "I'm setting up a perimeter. Any rogue who crosses will be cut down. See to it that your...family, is properly advised." Dane seethed with rage at Roark's posturing. Essentially, Dane could threaten all he wanted. But until the evil was contained he needed Roark alive. Roark had summoned the Windigo and he was the only one who could send them back.

Roark chucked as he watched Dane slice his wrist with a dagger. Blood dribbled onto the ground in a thin line of deep crimson. The scent would carry for weeks and was the proverbial line drawn in the sand, and death to any rogue that crossed.

Chapter 42

Dane sat in the sweat lodge alone. After dealing with Roark he needed a few minutes to clear his thoughts from all the potential outcomes swirling through his mind. This was not going to end well. No matter which outcome he sought to ponder. They all ended in blood and in death. His. Roark's. Humanity's. Always somebody died.

He prayed fervently to his ancestors and to the goddess for guidance. More and more rogues were pouring into the area every second. And his men, as capable as they were, had been stretched too thin. Even his peace-loving, passive, gentle wife was out in the field on patrol. Dane didn't like it. But, he couldn't afford to let his personal feelings get in the way. Chris could handle herself in a fight. He repeated it over and over in his mind like a mantra till he almost believed it. It pained him to send her out into danger. But, he needed every hand he could get.

The only one not in the field was Anna. Her gift was too unpredictable. If she became too upset or nervous, she might inadvertently disintegrate the forest around them to ash. How she came to possess such a rare talent was inexplicable. But, she had it. A destructive force she could barely contain rested in the palms of her dainty hands. She was trying to learn to use it. But, most days, the best she could do was cope. The Shaman was helping her. And little by little she had mustered some measure of control. Anna's gift terrified her. How could he ask her to use it against the enemy when he wasn't sure what would happen to her afterwards?

Anna was stressed about her inability to do something to help. The entire compound smelled of cinnamon, vanilla, and sugar as she baked furiously to give her mind something to do. However, he still might be able to use her. Roark hadn't forgotten. He'd personally tasted her abilities and he was terrified of her power. Anna had just as many reasons to want him dead as anyone else did.

Roark had done terrible things to her. Violated her mind. And she'd almost killed him with nothing more than a wave of her hand. As strange as it sounded, replaying the scene in his mind, Patrick had been the one to stop her. He'd thrown himself in the line of fire and taken the brunt of her ability. Saved Roark's miserable hide. He'd known what killing Roark would do to the woman Anna thought herself to be. And that she'd never be able to live with what she'd done.

An elemental part of Dane wanted Roark dead. But, Roark served his purposes. He kept the rogues in check. And as strange as it sounded, the city was safer with him in it. Roark was insane...dangerous. But, there were worse fiends out there. Power hungry masters that wouldn't stop at anything to get what they wanted. For the most part, they kept a low profile. Waiting for the right opportunity to present itself. The city was ripe for the picking. And with Roark out of the way, it was just a matter of time before another master vied for control. Roark had to be taken out of the picture. He was too dangerous to live. But, the threat of him still might accomplish the brotherhood's goals until Dane could figure something out.

Kokumthena crouched down on the smoothed and worn teak bench and rested her chin in her palm. She never ignored the call of her children. She didn't always respond the way they thought she ought to. But, she always listened. When they had the power of an immortal, omniscient, omnipotent being; then they could question her ways. But, until that time, the brotherhood had no right to complain. Her sons couldn't see it. Not even their founder could envision, yet, why things had to transpire the way they had to. But, things were going according to plan. As long as her children had open hearts and minds, things would always go exactly as she'd intended.

"Goddess," Dane whispered. He bowed his head reverently and moved to cover his nudity. Yes, she was a goddess and his nakedness probably didn't affect her as much as it did him. But, it was unnerving to be sitting in front of his beloved deity stark naked.

Kokumthena giggled at Dane's show of modesty. In the time of the beginning, none of her children were clothed. They ran about in harmony with their environment and with themselves. Innocent. Pure. "So silly," she teased. If she stared at him, it was nothing sexual. Dane was perfect in his bare flesh. And without his clothing to hide behind, it was just the two of them with nothing in the way.

Spirit knew no boundaries. Only man put such limitations as clothing on himself. It was for their sakes that she wore the skin of flesh and bone and put wrappings on it. Not even the Great Father could comprehend her true form. To see her as she really was, a being of light and spirit would defy their capacity to define. And man needed definitions. "Your assumptions are right. You cannot defeat the Windigo. Don't try."

"What will we do? How will they be contained?" Wasn't this a fine piece of news? Kokumthena was telling him that they were screwed. So why was he bothering to think of a plan when there wasn't one? Why was she here? His goddess was so beautiful in form he could hardly stand to look at her. His instinct was to crawl into her lap and bathe in her purity. He'd never understood why she bothered with them. What held her to them? Maybe, there wasn't anything. And the brothers were just a source of amusement for her. If there was nothing that could be done, why mess with it?

"We need them, for the moment." Kokumthena watched the display of emotions play over Dane's expression. Man...always so linear in his thinking. Never really seeing the bigger picture. Her twin brother and sister had plagued humanity since the beginning of time. Whispering suggestions into the hearts of humanity. Deceiving and corrupting the purity their father had sought to preserve. He'd made his creation perfect. Given them freewill. And this was the price for his gift. Evil. Death. Destruction.

Lamia and Samael had never loved her father. They weren't capable of it. Still, her father loved them. They were the balance. Necessary. Freewill meant nothing if there were no decisions to make, no sacrifices, and no standards to uphold. Humanity couldn't make a choice between good and evil. The twins were as He'd intended them to be. Just as she was as He'd intended her to be. It wasn't sibling rivalry that placed a gulf between them. It wasn't a matter of whom He loved best. It was all about balance. And as much as it hurt Him, He endured the spite of his children with patient understanding.

Kokumthena played idly with a length of her long, silvery hair. Stroking the strands with her fingertips in contemplation of how much to tell Dane. He didn't understand. The Windigo could not be killed only contained.

"Goddess?" Still shield his nudity with his cupped hands; embarrassed that she hadn't even conjured up a fig leaf for him to cover himself with. He waited for her to impart some great wisdom.

"Roark holds the key to returning the Windigo to their prison. But, they won't go without a fight. So, ready yourself and the others. Do not be afraid to use the gifts of your brothers and your sisters. Great victories must be fought with great power. Only in trusting them and yourselves can you win."

On a wispy cloud of fragrant, white smoke, Kokumthena vanished. Dane hated her cryptic answers. But, that was the way it always was with her. She never told anybody what to do. Only pointed them in a direction and let them figure it out for themselves. Just once, he wished she'd just say what she had to say outright and leave the mystery out of it. Feeling way to vulnerable, he crawled out of the lodge's narrow opening and scrabbled for a towel.

Lamia walked amongst the rogues inspecting her legion. Not much to work with. Dismal really. Beings capable of delivering so much death the promise of it made her hungry. They were killers by design. But, few had the stomach for it. They were weak and pathetic. She fed on the vibrations of their thoughts, so bloody, so raw, and so hungry. She knew what her sister's children were trying to do. Their feeble attempts to contain them. But, a little blood smeared on a tree trunk wouldn't stop them. These reluctant killers were as eager for blood as she was. Whispering lightly on the gentle late summer breeze, she released a suggestion. "Chaos."

Samael was ready to get to work. His appetites were raging and they demanded feeding. He could wait no longer. He drifted along side Roark, surveying the rogues, making a mental list of the weak. They would meet their demise first, while the stronger were spared, saved for later. Once his goodie two shoes sister's children got a clue, he'd have need of their brutality and strength. "It's time to thin the herd." He drew power into himself. The force of it gathered and built, becoming stronger and stronger. Teasing him and taunting him with the promise of death.

Roark hid his dread. Locked it up deep in his mind. He had seen plenty of battles and blood in his long life, and he'd taken the life of more than one of his followers, ones created by his own hand. But, what Samael wanted was a massacre. Roark himself had taken personal inventory of his followers and found many of them lacking. But, they'd done nothing worthy of death. There were so many more now than before, upwards of two hundred at this point. And Dane was right. They would turn on him. He nodded to Samael in resignation.

Samael stopped Roark from motioning to his guards to begin the attack. "Please, allow me," Samael said. He released the full force of his hunger into the crowd. Moving swiftly. Consuming everything in his path. Drinking and feasting on the death he so efficiently delivered.

Roark watched in horror. His eyes widened in fascination as the dark cloud

descended over his family. They didn't stand a chance. Rogues scattered. Running for the trees in wild desperation. Trampling one another underfoot in craze to escape. It was over in the blink of an eye. Bodies littered the ground. His line severed, their numbers decreased to a fraction of what they had been. The scent of death and spilled blood spiraled a ball of nausea in the pit of his stomach.

Turning away, he walked into the woods, seeking out fresh air and a reprieve from the horror. His quest for revenge was forgotten. Even a creature such as he, had a bit of respect left for life. But, it seemed the wicked pair he'd summoned, did not. What damage could they do to humanity if left unchecked? Now that they had been unleashed, could they be stopped? "What have I done?"

He had to stop them. But, he didn't know how. Obviously, the beings were ethereal and he was their gateway to the physical world. Brute force wouldn't work. He doubted if asking nicely would have any effect. And he was not willing to die to send them back to the pit from which he'd called them out of. He needed help. Dane knew nothing. That much was obvious. The Prophet was dead. There was only one person who might have a clue as to how to contain the force he'd unleashed.

Clinching his right hand into a fist around the blade, he released a small trickle of blood. There was one, more powerful than he. An enemy he sought to vanquish. Roark had to put aside his quest for vengeance and swallow his pride. Do the unthinkable and form an alliance with the very man whose death he craved. Bleeding the ground red with his blood, he summoned the Great Father.

Chapter 43

The Great Father hadn't been back to the compound since that morning on the bluffs. The memories were just too painful. The woods were a quiet haven, a place where he could be alone with his thoughts. Something was different inside of him. Some new piece of the puzzle was falling into place.

His senses were keener, almost as if he could taste the air and all the life in it on the tip of his tongue. Instincts he didn't know he possessed roared in his head. Warning him of something. Danger, so thick and palpable, interwoven through each leaf on the trees, granule of earth, and beating in the hearts of every creature, surged through him with newfound awareness. Sunlight didn't hold him in thrall and send him scurrying for the cover of the shade. And for the first time in almost two hundred years, he was hungry.

Every vampire, especially the newly made, craved food. But, not out of real hunger but because food was the one thing they could not have. One bite would drop him to his knees. And it'd been so long, he couldn't remember the taste. The urge was so strong it was almost undeniable. Hunt, stalk his prey, sink his teeth into warm flesh, and consume. Even now, at nothing more than a thought, his stomach rumbled in eagerness.

He preferred the outdoors to the stuffiness of the underground tunnels his Sons called home. As long as the weather remained tolerable, he rarely spent any time indoors. He could endure the confines of four walls and a roof over his head, if he had to. He'd always been one with nature though. The trees had always whispered their secrets to him in the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind. The wisdom of the ancients told their stories in the rush of a cold stream over the rocks. And they warned him in their subtle way that darkness was coming.

There was something about the woods that were elemental. They called to him in a way they never had before. Coaxed the newness inside of him out of hiding. He'd followed the trail of wolf scent for miles. Wandering through the trees to track its scent when the wind shifted direction and he realized the scent had no destination because he had no destination and the scent was emanating from him.

Bewildered at the meaning, he walked throughout the day and into the night. Veering off the path his feet had traveled countless times to the north. Feeling the pull of something...of danger he could not explain. The winds howled and the trees shuddered. Leaves skittered to the ground and kicked up in swirling vortexes. Evil crept on mists low to the ground, reaching for him with white, wispy, tendril like fingers. The scent of death mingled with the mists, choking him with its pungent, sweet stink. Clinging to him. He heard his name whispered on a breath of wind: an exhale of vowels and consonants calling him forward into the darkness. And he knew immediately who had spoken his name in that dreaded whisper- from that terrifying place of night to the north-Roark.

The Great Father battled his way through the thick underbrush. Beating back spindly saplings and ducking gnarled limbs, he emerged from the dense woods and into a wide clearing. Blood oozed across the open ground in slow, thick fingers of gore and horror. Bodies, torn and dismembered, lay in scattered heaps of terror. There was not a whisper of a breeze to offer relief. Heavy and laden, the air was still, choking and oppressive with the cloying scent of death. The ones left alive, stared with eyes rounded in fear. Inching back, they sought the shadows. But, in the black of night, everything was shadow and darkness. They had no place to hide. Not even the woods offered a whisper of sound to fill the silence. Quiet. Dead quiet in honor of the dead.

Disgusted, the Great Father approached Roark. Master to master they stood, sizing one another up. Tasting one another's power. Posturing as if they had something to prove. Roark was in over his head. He could not control what he'd unleashed. And this manic scene of horror and gore was only a preamble of things yet to come.

Necessity would force these two great men of such potent presence to forge a fragile alliance. Face to face, they came to an unspoken understanding. As soon as they managed to defeat this common enemy the truth was plainly evident, readable in the steely determination of their expressions. There were no more games left to play. This was the final round between the two of them. And there could only be one victor.

Roark's eyes never left the Great Father. Power swirled around him in a vortex of purity and biting cold. Stoic as ever, the Great Father held his ground. Condemning in his silence and stony expression. Roark refused to bow to the man or the stinging bite of his power. In response he exercised his own brand of dark fury. Releasing the outpouring of his strength in rippling waves of white-hot energy. The contest was a solid draw. Neither man caved to the other.

With a flash of white fang uncovered beneath an ambiguous smile, Roark withdrew from the contest. The Great Father was not alone. It wasn't an issue of man versus man. Not yet. The brothers appeared from the mist, garbed in black from head to toe. Their eyes were sharp with alertness and fingers flexing at the hilts of their legendary swords of justice. This could be the fight to end all fights, the end of the brothers and the Great Father.

With no outward sign of intent, the Great Father silently ordered his men to stand down. Enough blood had been spilled tonight. The rogues were spooked and confused. Rattled by the deaths of so many. There wouldn't be much of a fight from them. Bound to Roark. Called by his power. But hardly under his command, the rogues stalked through the mists. Carefully backing away from the warriors emerging from the woods. They wanted no battle. And it was clear that they would not defend their master.

The Great Father could kill Roark and solve the mutual problem he shared with the rogues. Right here. Right now. End it. And it was tempting. But, Roark was the key, the only way to put the windigo back where they belonged. Any vengeance he longed to seek would have to be delayed until afterwards. When Roark no longer served a purpose. The man was desperate and shaken. Though he tried so hard to hide it beneath a suave, cool exterior and magnanimous smile. As if the slaughter of over one hundred and fifty vampires was something expected, something that happened everyday. And maybe in his world, it did. But, somehow, the Great Father doubted that was the case. "Walk with me."

Patrick shuddered at the grotesqueness of the scene. The gore on the ground congealed into clots of muddy blood and matter. Eyes glazed with terror stared up lifelessly. Mouths frozen in horror screamed silent screams. Heaps of pale, dead flesh pockmarked the brittle sun dried grass. Pieces of bodies, so small they defied recognition dangled like party streamers from the low hanging branches of the distant tree line.