Dawn Revealed

"Quit talking to the cow," Marcus snapped. Sam stood, perched on the split rail fence making goo-goo eyes at the damn thing, stroking his furry head and giggling as he licked her fingers. He couldn't exactly meet the animal eye to eye. And making nice with it wouldn't change what was about to happen. He'd been a meat eater and felt a slight twinge of guilt at seeing the source of all those rare steaks and double cheeseburgers he'd consumed with such zeal up close and personal. And he wasn't even going to think about his black leather combat gear and where it had come from. "You're making this harder than it is. If he weren't going to be sacrificed, he'd end up on someone's dinner plate or as a designer handbag. We're probably wearing one of his cousins or something."

Sam wiped her slobbery fingers on the thigh of her pants and glared at Marcus. Ok, so sometimes the love of her life was not Mr. Sensitivity. Yeah, yeah she got it. The bull was walking the green mile. But, did Marcus have to point it out? "He's a bull, not a cow. And you don't have to be so mean about it. You'll hurt his feelings," she chastised.

Marcus shook his head at his soon to be wife and dragged his hand through his sandy brown rat's nest of hair. Great. She'd bonded with the cow...bull...whatever. It was better him than them. He tugged on the animal's halter leading him to the trailer. The animal dug in his hooves and stubbornly refused to cooperate. "Sam, how do we get him in the trailer?"

"City boy," Sam good-naturedly teased. She took the lead rope from Marcus's hand and looped her fingers through the halter. The bull gave her a sad stare with those round moon-eyes of his and exhaled a soft puff of air out of his nostrils. "C'mon," she coaxed, giving the animal a not so gentle nudge to get him moving. Complacently, the bull ambled up the ramp. "A handbag? Really?"

Marcus cleared his throat and mumbled, "Sorry." He dropped the pins securing the ramp in place and slid behind the wheel. He rested his hand gently on her knee and gave it a squeeze. "I'm sure he'll go to greener pastures."

"Marcus," Sam said gently, "You're not helping."

The Great Father slid into his ceremonial leathers. The leather was faded and soft, the hide worn thin in spots from use. The leggings were the last remnant of his human life. The only thing he'd managed to hang onto. Everything else-everyone else- was gone. The Shaman was the only one left of his original Sons that had chosen to stay behind.

Their kind was a dying breed. His men were loyal to him. Scattered across the country they governed territories of their own. Fought the good fight and sometimes, died for it. The Great Father ran his fingers along the faded stain, rusty, brown splatters that marred the right leg of his leathers. He'd boasted to his brother the morning of the battle that if he were going to cross the Great River and meet their goddess, he wanted to do it looking his best. So he'd worn his ceremonial clothes and rode out. The blood on his leathers was human. His. And Roark had spilled it nearly two hundred years ago.

With contemplative hands, he tightened the studded leather straps holding the scabbard in place across his back. The twin onyx hilts peeked over his shoulders like a pair of black folded wings. Swirling his fingers through the paint, he traced patterns over his bare chest and drew the marks of his ancestors, designs of incredible power and purpose, on his skin. He thought about how strange his life had become and how strange it had always been. And about how, even now, it didn't seem to be real.

He'd always done what he had to do to protect his people. Today wasn't any different. At the time, when he was transformed, he would have given anything to exact revenge on Roark for taking his humanity from him. Robbing him of his family and his home. But now, here he was, he and his Sons, fighting along beside the man that had killed him on the battlefield so long ago.

The Great Father traced his painted fingertips over his cheeks and pondered the bigger purpose to his life. It seemed an unfathomable task to think about such things. To know whatever peace existed between Roark and himself was temporary. Roark had agreed to the terms. And both men knew as soon as they'd defeated the windigo only one of them was leaving the bluffs alive. His nerves were as sharp and honed as the blades strapped across his back. His will hard as forged steel. Battle ready. There was only one acceptable outcome, no treaties and no truce, only victory.

Roark took his time getting ready. And likewise, the Great Father was off somewhere doing the same. He stared at himself in the mirror. The sight of his masculine beauty sickened him. He had never wanted to be this thing that he'd become. Somewhere inside of him was the man-the boy he'd once been. And he hated that simpering powerless creature even more than he hated his own reflection. Smoothing back his hair, he straightened his silk tie and adjusted his cuff links. Today would be the end of it. And it wasn't about conquest or revenge. It was about vanquishing that pathetic child, silencing the voice inside of him forever.

Chapter 50

Angel had been parked in the corner for hours. She fidgeted to have something to do besides stare off into space and wait for something...nothing...anything...to happen. Her head snapped up as the steel door slid open. Finally! Someone was coming to rescue her. She scrambled into a kneeling position, unable to stand upright with her legs and wrists bound by the merciless steel cables. Given the grim expressions on the faces of her would be rescuers. Maybe, she was better off not being rescued. Or maybe, they weren't here to rescue her at all. Warily, she eyed the wall of muscle and brawn blocking the exit and shrank back along the wall.

Keene shielded his eyes against the brilliant white light spilling in through the doorway. He hissed in warning, shoving Lori protectively behind him. Internally, he recognized the sight and familiar scent of his brothers. But, he couldn't make sense of what they were doing here when the calling still roared inside of his mind.

"Keene? What's going on?" Lori asked. She strained to peek over his shoulder in hopes of getting a better view. She guessed the brothers weren't here as a social call. The pull to go to Roark flared to life. If it weren't for Keene's big body blocking her way, she would have made a mad dash for the open door.

"We're taking you to the bluffs," John Mark answered. Carefully, he stepped through the doorway, waving Lance and Chance inside. Slowly, he walked toward Keene holding his hands out in front of him in a non-threatening gesture. The big man, although a brother and one of his closest friends, made him nervous. Especially now, while Keene was still under the influence of the calling. "Easy big guy," he cautioned. Struggling with the bulk of Keene's weight, he helped him onto his feet.

"Have you found a way to break the calling?" Keene's muscles were tightly coiled, stiff and ready to release their power. The teasing thought of freedom made it so much harder to maintain control of his lesser nature. But, for the sake of his wife and his brothers, he struggled against it.

"We think so." Chance answered. Even though John Mark kept a careful hold on Keene, Chance was wary of the hulk of man who watched him so intently. His eyes marking every move as Chance helped Lori to her feet. Keene's fangs were fully extended and his eyes, gray and hard as steel glared at Chance. Instinct was a formidable adversary and right now, Keene was running on it, full bore. One wrong move might set him off and Chance had no doubt, that if Keene thought his wife was in danger, bound or not, he'd find a way to take a bite or two out of him.

"Thank God," Lori sighed in relief. She was tired of the startling and raging thoughts in her mind. She focused on the good things in life and what she had to look forward to, fresh air, a long hunt in the woods, and a longer shower. She didn't realize how weak her confinement had made her. Blood rushed to her legs as Chance eased her onto her feet. The sensation of pins and needles was awful. Embarrassed by the weakness, she exhaled as Chance gripped her around the waist to help her stand.

Angel leaned hard into Lance's arms as he helped her onto her feet. "You dressed up for me," she said. Struggling to maintain control of her wobbly legs, she leaned heavily on him for support. Her body hummed with awareness teased by the momentary flair of heat pulsing between them. He wore nothing but a loincloth and weaponry, the perfect mix of her two favorite things, bare flesh and lethal steel. She hated weakness. Especially when it was hers on display. Her tough exterior was the only defense she had. "I didn't know you were into role playing. So tell me chief, what's under the loincloth?"

"Maybe, we'll talk about it later," Lance snickered. He sensed Angel's discomfort and shame at the weakness that was so apparent. Knowing how badly she hated having any vulnerability show, he casually draped an arm around her shoulders and led her out of the cell. He doubted in her current depleted state that she could out run him. Judging by the musky scent of desire perfuming her skin, he doubted if she would. The calling had her all mixed up. And he did not take advantage of women.

Angel's body rested heavily against his shoulders. Lance crouched at her feet and loosened the coils around her ankles to give her enough slack to walk in her own. John Mark likewise loosened Keene's. While Chance, bound Lori to prevent her escape. If there weren't the possibility of fighting breaking out, Lance would offer Angel his wrist. Odd as it sounded, he didn't shirk the possibility of forming a bond with her. His blood wasn't as nourishing as human blood. But, it would offer vital sustenance until she could hunt safely. Unfortunately, she'd have to endure her hunger for a while longer. He couldn't protect her or anyone else if he wasn't at full strength.

"Stay close to me," Lance whispered into Angel's ear. They walked on the worn trail approaching the bluffs. And the scent of rogues was heavy in the air. Her body was tense and her breathing growing more and more rapid with each step. Her eyes flashed wide in fear. He acted on his impulse and bent low to brush his lips against hers in a soft, stolen kiss. Later he could say he'd done it to distract her. Play the whole thing off as nothing. But, he'd kissed her just in case he never got the opportunity to do it again.

Angel retreated from the kiss. Coolly playing it off as nothing of great significance. As if she hadn't noticed Lance's desperation and urgency in the brush of his lips across hers. Bad things were about to happen. And the kiss wasn't as much for her benefit as it had been for his. She sniffed the air. "Rogues." Her eyes were wide glimmering with trepidation. The voice of the calling roared within every fiber of her being. As much as she dreaded every footfall that brought her closer to the bluffs, she felt a sense of peace and wild desperation to get even closer. She struggled in Lance's hold. Grappling to fight against the calling urging her forward.

"Stay with me Angel," Lance pled. Grasping tightly onto her shoulders, he held her back. "Fight him." He cupped her face with his palm bringing her eyes to meet his. Hoping she'd be able to draw strength from his gaze. "You can do this."

Angel closed her eyes blocking out the intensity of Lance's stare. She wished that she had a fraction of the faith in herself that he had in her. "I'll try." She breathed out gathering strength from his presence and the warmth of his arm around her trembling shoulders. Holding her back. Hoping his touch was enough to keep her from spiraling into madness.

Lori panted fighting the pull that drew her feet forward. She didn't want to get any closer to the throngs of rogues or to Roark. Her husband's face was strained and tense with his internal struggle. He was fighting it, trying to keep it together for her sake, and she, was trying to be brave, for his.

Keene pulled at the grip of John Mark's fingers biting into the flesh of his arms and wrists. He felt the calling stronger than Angel or Lori. Having been made directly from the Rogue Master's blood. From the heavy sweet scent wafting in the breeze, he guessed at the numbers on the bluffs. If things got critical, he and his brothers were in deep shit, most likely outnumbered ten to one. "Cut these things off of me, John Mark. I can't fight bound like this."

Roark stood at the head of the bull. The filthy animal was about to meet its maker. The success of the ritual depended on him. He had called the windigo out and he was the only one who could summon them into the trap. His eyes ran over the crowd. Over the rogues standing impatiently in loose groups and the brothers, heavily armed and ever diligent at their posts. He snickered privately to himself. Out of all his children, his creations, he recognized precious few and knew even fewer by name. But, of the Sons, he knew most of them personally and their names hovered on the tip of his tongue.

His eyes met Keene's and mingled with Angel's. A twinge of revenge he quickly managed to hide seeped through the surface of his highly polished veneer. Roark swallowed back the bitter taste of delayed vengeance bubbling up in his throat. Now was neither the time nor the place. It was damned hard with Keene and Angel gift wrapped for him as they were. But, they would have to wait. For now, he had to play the part of responsible leader. Only Keene who knew him better than anyone had already guessed the truth. As soon as Roark got what wanted out of the Great Father and the brotherhood, the gloves were coming off. And it'd be one hell of a fight.

Keene twisted helplessly in the steel cables binding his wrists. The calling roared irresistibly in his head. But, it wasn't the lure of his former master that had him fighting for his freedom to the point that his wrists were bloodied hunks of meat. He'd seen it in Roark's eyes. This whole thing was a set up. Roark was using the Great Father and the brothers. And once his mess had been cleaned up. He was going to attack. "Damn it, John Mark. Release me!"

The Great Father approached the altar and looked upon his adversary. Roark was dressed in all his finery. His intent hidden behind an expensive wool suit and the mask of a magnanimous, almost benevolent smile. The man should have been a politician instead of a vampire. The bluffs were a sea of nameless faces and terrified, angry eyes. His sons worked the crowd to maintain order. It seemed the brotherhood weren't the only ones who wanted to see Roark dead. Wouldn't that be an ironic twist? Ordering his Sons to defend Roark when everyone knew he had every intention of killing him.

No one drew attention quite like the Great Father. The bluffs were so quiet he could hear a pin drop. "My friends," Roark said, pulling the stares of hundreds of eyes away from the Great Father and onto him. "It is time to begin." He held the knife high in the night sky. Moonlight glimmered off its razor sharp edge. His voice rose to a pitched crescendo echoing off the steep rocky cliffs, beckoning the ancient ones to appear. Arching the blade he drove it into the bull's thick neck and drug the razor sharp edge across the tough hide spilling its blood onto the thirsty ground.

Anna shivered as the air around her shimmered and pulsed with energy. She looked desperately up at the Great Father seeking his guidance. He met her stare with faith and reassurance in his gaze. Closing her eyes, she dropped the walls holding her power at bay and let the waves of its raw, unleashed fury build. Her hands heated and glowed with the force of white-hot energy. And it was all she could do to hold the foce back.

Kokumthena wandered about the wastelands that were once her beautiful home. Stark tree limbs stood out like dark sentinels against the endless gray backdrop of the sky. The once gently rolling river churned and bubbled like hot acid. Her lush and sprawling meadow was acres of scorched dust. She was heartsick at the sight of it.

The murder of her faithful companion had struck a cord of deep despair in her heart. She was filled with longing for her faithful prophet. Watching him leave her shores as his soul waded across the Great River had broken her. Evil won, shattering her spirit and filling it with the ache of loneliness and bitter anguish.

Her children shouldered a great burden. It was up to them to defeat the evil. They had the tools necessary to beat the windigo. But, would they have the strength to use them when the time came. If there were any fractures in their ranks, if they didn't act as a solid, unified, team, they would fail. She wandered along the edge of the black low hanging branches feeling their fear deep in her heart.

She was far from powerless. But, lacked the strength to help them. The faults lie with her, not them. Like a black cancer, the evil spread through her heart engulfing her spirit and anchoring deeply in her soul. Death was all around her, in the trees, in the land, the sky, the water. And she was helplessly being pulled down from the weight of it.

She lifted her head as the notes of a gentle song wafted to her ears in currents of sweet, rich voice. Replacing the dry stale, air with fresh breezes and the gray with light. Their words of prayer touched her barely beating heart and spurning it to life. Her children had hope. Not despairing the darkness but reaching out to the light. And if they could still hope and dream, so could she. Exhaling a breath, the barren scene awakened, springing forth with the budding green of new life.

The atmosphere whirled past her as she spun through the barrier. Following the sounds of her children's voices she plunged through the divide between worlds and landed gracefully on corporeal feet. Their love and their belief gave her substance. Kokumthena materialized at the altar. The scent of spilled blood and death wasn't what drew her to this spot or held her here. Their faith was what held her fast.

Lamia and Samael drifted over the bowed heads and uplifted hands. After so many centuries of being forgotten, they were eager to claim their sacrifice and take their place as gods among mortal man. They were being worshiped as they had been in the days long past. And the sound of voices crying out to them, the smell of death and spilled blood, drew them into their temple.

If Roark could, he would have fallen into unconsciousness in sheer awe at the sight of the powerful pair as they emerged out of the dark clouds descending around the altar. The prospect of being worshiped had brought the twins into their full power. What he'd seen before was but a glimpse of their true capabilities.

Lamia was beautiful, as always. Her body scantily wrapped in the oily snake skin, red tresses spilling across her shoulders the ends teasingly brushing across her breasts. Samael, tall and powerful, bare-chested, his Mediterranean skin covered by a thin, gauzy sheath that draped over his shoulder and around his groin. Roark dropped to one knee reverently. Reveling in their presence. The power leaking off of them sent his head reeling. "We are honored by your presence most holy ones," he rasped.

Lamia wrapped her cool fingers around the hilt of the dagger clutched in Roark's hand. The bull was a nice touch. But it wasn't the flesh and blood she craved. She wasn't done with Roark. Not in the slightest. "My love." She held his eyes locked on hers, drawing their focus away from the blade, arced and poised to strike.

Samael wanted death, more than the stilled once beating heart of the animal could provide. He needed it, was its prisoner. To him, death was a source of power to be devoured. His lips curled in a smile as his sister prepared to give him exactly what he craved. Roark's account was hefty and his payment was due.