Dawn Revealed

Chapter 51

"Now Anna!" The Great Father shouted as he dove in between Roark and Lamia. Knocking Roark out of the path of Anna's power. He would deal with Roark later. After the windigo were defeated. Right now he needed to focus on the goal at hand.

Anna unleashed the force of her power. A white-hot blast of energy surged from her palms and wrapped around the siblings, engulfing them. She winced against the soft feminine cries and the guttural male moans of agony, desperately trying to block out the sounds. Tears of strain flowed down her face. Giving all of her strength to maintain the bubble of raw power containing the twins was draining her quickly. Toby endured the sting of the energy leaking off of her, holding her upright. Never leaving her side.

Lamia cried out in anguish. She was betrayed. Her heart felt the sting and bitterness of anger. But, she had no time to explore her wounded feelings. The energy waves surrounding her were crushing her. Compacting her ethereal body into smaller and smaller forms. Soon, she would cease to exist at all, forced back into her spiritual realm of darkness until the day she was called forth again. She liked living and she wasn't about to give it up without a fight.

Samael hissed and shrank to the ground. The bubble of energy was crushing him. Squeezing the life out of his body. He fought back gathering his strength to push out against the constricting bubble. Going back to the black nothing of his realm was not an option. Floating in the darkness was more agonizing than the pain he currently suffered. He had to live.

Anna felt her strength begin to waver. These two were powerful and the sounds of battle stirring around her were distracting. Forcing her concentration on the two, she milked what was left of her waning strength on holding them incapacitated. "What do I do now?" She cried.

Kokumthena rested a hand on Anna's tensed brow. Anna was wearing down and the windigo while severely weakened had not been destroyed. Focusing her energy, Kokumthena sent her power flowing through Anna.

Murmurs and whispers, shouts of confusion and panic sent the crowd scattering desperately for cover. The warriors fought to maintain order and keep the rogues contained. And they were beginning to falter underneath the sheer size of so many rogues.

Kayla stole a glance at Janine and ducked out of the way. Of course, Janine and she had been ordered to stay behind at the compound. And of course, they hadn't. Their men were out here fighting and just because they were humans, females, didn't make them weak or defenseless. They wanted to help out. They had one thing that could prove critical in battle, life-sustaining blood, fresh and on tap. Awkwardly clutching the swords they'd stolen from the weapons room. They snuck through the panicked crowd to the altar.

Roark struggled to maintain his composure. His sword unsheathed and gripped tightly in his hand. He stayed safely tucked behind the defensive line set up by the warriors. So far, the brothers did a fine job of keeping the crowd at bay. He turned staring through the blinding field of energy, glowing intensely white hot and saw the crystalline tears of Lamia's suffering. He tipped his head and nodded triumphantly in her direction. She and her brother were on the verge of disappearing, banished back to their world forever.

Spinning on his heel, Roark brandished his sword, ready to aid the warriors. Anna needed a few more minutes, and then it would be over. Fear niggled in the back of his mind, what if, when she was done, she turned the fullness of her power on him? He'd done things to her. And she could finish what she'd started months ago.

The energy field surrounding Lamia wavered fading from pure hot white to black. She was returned to her realm of nothing. She swallowed the terror of her screams. They would echo through the lightless chasm until they reverberated off her skull. She was helpless, dormant, biding time waiting for the day when she would be released again.

Samael was surrounded by darkness, soundless, colorless, tasteless, and scentless nothing. He roared in rage. Captured and confined for an unknown, limitless infinity. He succumbed to the insanity that crept in, forging the bars to his prison. He would live the lives already passed until he was called forth to breathe once again.

Anna shuddered as the energy collapsed and folded onto itself. The windigo were gone. She sucked in a breath and drew her power back. It was still hungry and raw, snapping and chewing at the bars of its confinement, desperate for release. She dropped to the ground panting and exhausted. Clamoring to restrain the beast.

Kokumthena withdrew her fingertips breaking the binding tie of her energy from Anna's. She ran her fingers along the pale strands of hair as she cradled Anna's head in her lap. "You did well."

Keene blinked and shook his head, clearing it of the fuzziness that descended over him in waves. He was free, the calling broken. "Release me, John Mark. Quickly. I need a weapon." He looked intently at his wife. She was no fighter and for her to stay would place them both in jeopardy. "Lori, you have to run." He knew what was coming. He could feel it in the very fiber of his bones. This war was far from over.

He massaged his wrists for a brief second as John Mark cut him free. Grabbing Lori's shoulders he pulled her in for a quick kiss and then spun her away from the bluffs. "There's nothing you can do here. Go. Now."

Lori blinked back the tears as Keene's lips parted with hers. "I...."

"No argument, go." He watched as Lori disappeared into the woods. His wife was safe. And as long as he could ensure that, he'd be fine with whatever fate dealt him. He glanced down at Angel. "Can you defend yourself?"

"Yes." Angel took the twin set of daggers from Lance and tucked them into her belt. She was ready for whatever came her way. The unknown didn't scare her. It was her terror of the past that gave her nightmares. "I'm ready."

"Ok." Keene stood back to back with John Mark, taking a defensive stance ready for the inevitable attack. Angel stood at the ready with her shoulders brushing against Lance's back. Together they made ready their stand.

Realization flickered in countless sets of eyes. The binding spell that held them to Roark was lifted. They were free. Danger filled the air, a prickling, tingling, palpable threat. Many rogues, sensing the threat, darted for the safety of the woods, anxious to return to safety. Others, done with Roark and his parlor tricks whisked into the distance to return to their homes, quickly disappearing as nameless and faceless as they'd come. And there were scattered factions that stayed behind, ready to sever all ties with their creator permanently. Demanding his life.

Roark stood back to back with the Great Father ready to battle the angry mass quickly descending upon him. They wanted his life, and perhaps it was due them, after all over the course of centuries, how many lives had he taken? How many people had he forced into this life against their will, ripping them from homes, jobs, families, and loved ones? He honestly didn't know. But, he wasn't going to offer his life up as restitution, not willingly.

He engaged the first wave of the attack. In a tangle of fangs, blades, and fists, he and the Great Father held the defensive. "I guess I'll have to kill you some other time."

"Looks like it," the Great Father agreed. Swinging his blade wide, he cut through the line of attackers. As much as it would suit him to let the rogues have Roark, he couldn't allow the bastard to be torn apart limb from limb. It was a dishonorable way to die, and if Roark was nothing else, he was at heart, a warrior.

The warriors fought through wave after wave of fury defending their Father with honor. He was their leader and they trusted him with their lives. Obeying him faithfully. Roark deserved whatever punishment the rogues had in store for him. But, their Father battled at his side, pushing the attackers back, and where their Father's heart was, so was theirs.

Dane flanked the Great Father with John Mark at his side and Keene beside him. They drove the handful that remained away from Roark. Pushing the defensive until the last of the rogues was dead or forced into the woods.

Patrick was busily organizing and assigning patrols. He led the chase into the heart of the forest, tracking the rogues brave enough to stay behind. He didn't want any surprises or stragglers left behind wandering, stinking up his peaceful woods, and scaring off his dinner.

Candace squeezed Chris's hand gently. The bluffs were littered with bodies. Luckily, the casualties had been low and none of them were Sons. She had gotten up close and personal with death before. But, Chris's eyes were wide with shock and her hands trembling. Together, they worked to build a pyre to burn the bodies.

Mack clocked the red sports car hightailing it out of town with a speed that almost breaking the sound barrier. He didn't bother with lights, sirens, or giving chase. "Good riddance," he muttered as he lifted his coffee cup to his lips and flipped open the morning paper. The first wisps of fall chill hung heavily in the air. And it was going to be a beautiful day.

The Great Father backed away from Roark and spun on his heel to face him. "What will you do now?" He lowered his weapon to the grass, thick with morning dew, to wipe clean his blade. He tried to appear nonchalant by lowering his weapon. Giving Roark an out and time to reconsider. But, his instincts were screaming, and over the centuries he'd learned to trust them. Roark wasn't going to let it go and simply walk away. And they both knew it.

Roark hissed and bore his fangs. The Great Father had his blade down, obviously not considering him a threat. Big mistake. NOW! The time was now or never! Swinging his weapon widely, he delivered the first strike.

The Great Father recoiled, blocking the lethally sharp edge with his sword. Metal clashed against metal. He drove in hard and deep, parrying and delivering lightening fast blows. There would be no treaty with Roark, now or ever. This was it, the final showdown. They were equally matched in skill and ability. The ages of conflict between them would end today. Adversaries to the very end, Master against Master. Man against man.

Time stopped, the rogues forgotten, as the psychic signal passed from brother to brother. Returning to the bluffs they bore witness to the conflict raging between the Masters. Each brother, standing to encircle the duo, weapons drawn, fangs bore, and tempers flaring. This was the Great Father's fight.

Keene respected the sentiment of his brothers, to let the two Masters fight to the end without intervention. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded at Dane, adding his pledge to that of the brothers. No matter what happened, Roark was not getting off the bluffs with his life. No matter what, as certain as the morning sun that rose above them, it ended today.

Roark crouched low, recovering from the bone-shattering blow the Great Father dealt. As he guessed, the man was a worthy opponent countering and matching every death dealing strike with lethal precision. Time seemed to stand still and the scenery around them faded as he focused in, concentrating on delivering his enemy into the hands of death a second time.

Roark cursed and blew out a breath as the Great Father's blade bit deeply into his flesh. A deep well of blood flowed freely from the razor edge gash in his chest. No matter, he'd heal. Ignoring the pain, he drove his blade forward, slashing through open air, missing his target.

The Great Father dodged the gleaming edge of Roark's blade. The razor's edge missed his vital organs by centimeters. He'd met the lethally sharp weapon's point more than once, and had plenty of open wounds to show for it. At this rate, they'd cut each other apart, bit-by-bit and piece-by-piece. He thought past the pain, and to the danger his Sons would face if he lost. Grasping onto his love for his Sons, he gripped the hilt of his sword and pressed on thrusting with his blade.

Roark roared in agony as the weapon lodged in his side, twisted and then was ripped away. Gasping and falling to his knees, he cradled the injured flesh with his palm. The wound was deep, ugly, and bleeding profusely. Combined with his other injuries and the blood loss he'd sustained, it was a lethal, killing blow. He clutched his weapon tightly in his hand, not ready to admit defeat. It couldn't be over. Leaning heavily on the hilt, he lurched to his feet, wobbling on unsteady legs that threatened to buckle beneath his weight. "You think getting rid of me will be easy?" he muttered.

"I don't want to have to kill you." The Great Father circled around Roark defensively. The man was bleeding out profusely. Suffering. Ending it for him would be the kindest thing he could do. He held his blade to the side of his body, waiting.

"You know if I die another will rise up and take my place." Roark spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground. Coughing and gagging on the deluge bubbling up in his throat, he rasped for breath.

"Perhaps." The Great Father felt a new respect for this man, who seemed determined to die on his feet. "Your injuries are mortal. Too much for even one as strong as you to recover from, unless you take my wrist and allow me to heal you."

"You mean take your blood under certain conditions." The blade shifted in the ground throwing his weak balance off and tossing him onto the grass. He wailed in agony against the impact. Weakly he scrambled up to his knees. Anything beat lying in the dirt, staring up at his enemy, helpless. The superficial bruises and cuts that scored his flesh were healing. But, the gap in his chest and the deep gouge in his side still open and bleeding even harder now thanks to his fall.

"Yes." Roark's agony was apparent and his need for blood tore at the Great Father. But, he could not yield or show weakness. He would not risk his Sons or humanity again. Either Roark accepted the terms or he died. No exceptions. He would not feed an enemy only to have him rise up later.

Roark gasped for air like a fish out of water. He mussed that his lung must have been punctured by the Great Father's blade. And given the amount of blood spilling onto the ground, his heart had been pierced. With effort, he lifted his head, fixing his eyes on the Great Father's steely expression. "I can't change. You should know that by now."

"I do." The Great Father nodded and broke contact with Roark. The man's eyes dulled as the spark of life dwindled. It was too late for Roark. He would never accept the gift of life that was offered. Not if he couldn't live by his own terms.

Howling in sheer torment and rage, Roark fell onto his side. His body could no long support its own weight. He didn't have much longer, minutes maybe. The pain was unlike anything he'd ever felt. His body tried to knit itself back together. The tissues strained to connect and reform. The wounds from the Great Father's blade were too severe. And his body had sustained too much damage. And the results were excruciating. He could heal if he took the Great Father's blood. But, the lie died on his tongue before he could speak it. Instead of saving his life, he was intent on saving his soul and didn't have it in him to lie one more time. His long life would be over soon. His mind floated across seas of time, back and farther back. He knew the outcome of his future, he'd always known.

Throughout his life he had been many places and had seen many wondrous sights. He may regret what he had become. But, not the life he'd lived or the roads he'd traveled to get there. And it was time for the adventure to end. Finally at long last, he had peace. The peace he'd denied countless others would be given to him. "End it," Roark rasped through gasping breaths. He would not meet death face down in the dirt. With much effort, he rolled onto his back, met the Great Father's gaze and saw the compassion in his expression. Someone would mourn him. Someone would remember him past this dawn. Staring up at the sun, dazzled by the blinding rays glinting off the silvery carved blade. He exhaled. And it was done. Roark died.

One last blow and it was over. All that Roark had been was ended. The head neatly severed from the body. His suffering was over. The Great Father drug his blade across the grass, freeing it from the worst of its soiling. The rest of the gore, he wiped on his leggings. The Rogue Master's fresh blood mixing with the age old stains. Sheathing the weapon. He turned to face the sun. No longer blinded by its brilliance. "At moonrise Roark shall have a warrior's funeral."

Keene stepped forward, "He was my maker. I will stand guard." He stood opposite of the Great Father, at Roark's feet. Guarding him one final time. For Keene, the end was a bittersweet mix of emotions. Relief that the man was dead and a certain measure of sadness, for almost two centuries, Roark was all that he'd known, his father, his tormentor, and his creator.

Dane exhaled a weary sigh, hugging his wife tightly in his arms. Feeding off the calm that always wrapped around her when he held her. Maybe now, they'd get a chance to squeeze in that honeymoon he'd been promising her since the day she'd agreed to marry him. He inhaled deeply of Chris's scent, letting it wash over and purify him. Or, maybe not. He bared his fangs at the rag tag group of rogues shyly emerging from the forest's edge.

"I am Sebastian, myself and the others," He gestured to the frightened, wary handful of rogues. "Would like to offer our allegiance." He bowed low, waiting. Either the brothers were going to welcome them in, kill them, or send them packing. He didn't know which. But, it was a chance that was worth risking. Roark may have made them, either directly or indirectly. But, he didn't and never had owned their hearts. And at long last, they were free. They were orphans though. And there was only one thing worse than belonging to Roark and that was belonging to no one.

Dane wrapped an arm protectively around his wife and returned the bow. He couldn't turn these rogues away. Not on the heels of a new threat. The rogues were more dangerous than ever. Their leader dead and without an enforcer to police them, the situation could turn volatile. The Rogue Master's final words of warning to the Great Father rang in his ears. Dane couldn't let that happen. Now was the time to end all conflicts and usher in an era of peace. "Welcome."

Sebastian nodded in understanding and led his group to the edge of the bluffs. Out of the range of the chaos, he discussed the terms. They were being accepted, welcomed in by the brotherhood. Without a master the rogues were strays and easy pickings. There were few powerful enough to hold their own in a world as brutal as theirs. The city was unprotected. And with the different masters always fighting to expand their territories. It wouldn't be long before another master staked his claim.

The cost of belonging to anyone was harsh and demanding. The brotherhood made no secrets about how they lived their lives and what was expected. Declining the offer would make them enemies once again. Sebastian had never had a rogue's taste for killing. He preyed on humans because he had to. One by one, the handful of rogues he'd negotiated a home for left him standing on the bluffs. Until only his mate and he remained behind. He didn't know if what the future held. But, they stood a better chance of having a future aligning themselves with the brothers than out on their own. He grasped his mate's hand tightly in his, hopeful for the first time in ages, about what tomorrow might hold for them.

Dane watched his potential enemies filter off the bluffs and melt into the woods. He did not want to kill these people. But, he saw few alternatives. Someone would have to take Roark's place. But, the question was, who?