Dawn Unleashed

Something had to be done to stop O'Sullivan. Someone had to sacrifice. Either way, whether it was Eric, his father or himself, someone would die. He rather it be him. Rather make the choice than have it made for him. Robotically, he found his way into the study. Carter was back at his perch on the mantle, staring down into the flames of the roaring fire. "We both know what has to happen."

Carter nodded. Keeping his eyes fixed on the flames. His fingers tensed their grip on the ornately carved mahogany mantle.

"Promise me. When the time comes, you'll do it. Don't let me die at O'Sullivan's hands or worse, in Yessette's arms."

"Daniel..."

"Promise me!"

Carter turned his head toward the boy. Daniel stood before him fearless Feet spread wide, arms crossed in determination. Not as much as a boy as he was moments earlier. The truth had transformed him into a man. Blood stained his hands and his clothes. The tears had dried salty trails on his cheek, leaving a grim set to his jaw. Silently, Carter nodded and looked away.

Daniel tipped his chin, satisfied with Carter's promise to end his life. "Keep my dad safe. Get him out of here in one piece. After O'Sullivan is dead take Yessette and hide her someplace where the Sons will never find her. We both love her too much to put her into their hands. Take her somewhere far from here where she can't hurt anybody. Try to make her right."

"You have my word." Their oath wasn't forged in blood. But, the words spoken were every bit as binding. He had no intentions of having to hold to his part of the oath and take the boy's life. Carter knew this moment had been coming for a long, long time. Circumstance forced him to search deep within himself for the courage to fulfill the task set before him. Who would finally do the deed didn't matter as much as the deed itself. It was time for O'Sullivan to meet his end.

Chapter 51

Bianca sauntered along the sidewalk with Michael tight on her heels. His mood seeped into the very air around him, charging it with particles of energy. He was in fine form tonight, raw and grouchy, positively bordering on asshole, barking orders and grumbling under his breath as he stalked behind her.

The dark presence of his aura made her absolutely giddy with delight. She was after all the reason for the pisser of a mood he was in. Suffering was good for the soul. She'd denied him a taste of paradise after bringing him so close to its gate. He wanted her so badly, his eyes focused on the fit of her leathers so tightly. As if he hoped to sear them off with the heat of his stare. Good. Let him drool. She'd make a lap dog out of him yet.

Tonight, she had a gift for him. His patience was at the breaking point with her and the endless circles she'd led him ceaselessly wandering. Tonight, she planned to throw her poor pooch a little bone. O'Sullivan guaranteed her that the human didn't know squat. He couldn't identify a mole on his ass, let alone his supplier. The boy was nothing more than a mule delivering precious cargo. And she was about to deliver the hapless youth into Michael's hands for a little one on one time. She did hope he made the punk bleed, just a little. His control was so thin that the smell of blood might be enough to send him careening over the brink.

Brant slouched against the rough brick of a dilapidated building, waiting for his clients to arrive. Yeah, he was hardly a Wall Street tycoon. But, the cash he earned was substantial enough to meet his needs. A chilly breeze wafted down from the tops of the buildings around him, tousling his dirty dishwater blond hair into his eyes. Idly, he lifted and dropped his skateboard with the tip of his toe. He was certain he was in the right place, and on time. Exactly where and when his contact told him to be. But, where were the buyers? His boss had promised him half of the take, if he could make the sell. Half. Usually, he cleared a measly ten percent. Half would be more than he normally made in a month and he was an excellent salesperson.

Bianca brought Michael to a halt with the press of her palm against his chest, waggling her gilt fingernail under his nose. The closeness to her was enough to make him nearly come undone. An hour underneath the frigid spray of the showers had done nothing to quell his ever growing need for her. She was cool, nonchalant, as if nothing had happened between them. Her casual attitude toward him grated his ego.

"I have something for you," she said in a lilting sing-song voice. "A tip from a concerned citizen who wishes to remain nameless. There," she said, pointing to the boy, "is your dealer."

"That kid? He doesn't look old enough to wipe his own nose let alone peddle pink," Michael scoffed in disbelief. Whoever Bianca's contact was had lost their mind if they thought this punk was selling pink out in the open like this.

"Perhaps," Bianca answered dismissively. "If you have another lead, I'd be willing to hear it."

Michael narrowed his eyes at Bianca. That pretty mouth of hers was curved up into a mocking pout. Just begging him to nibble her lips apart and swab his tongue deep inside. Quickly, he averted his eyes toward the quarry.

The kid was nothing more than a bag of bones wrapped in flesh. His long, lanky legs were clad by a pair of ill fitting jeans. A knobby knee poked out from a tattered hole in one leg. His hair was in serious need of a washing and good trim. Long hunks of dirty blond tangles hung down over his eyes. From his vantage point, Michael could not quite make out what color the eyes were. A jacket, as oversized as the jeans, flapped like wings in the night breeze. This was supposed to be a big time drug lord? The kid should be home in bed, saying his prayers where he belonged. If indeed, Bianca's contact was right, this little punk was going to need all the prayers he could get.

Michael squared his shoulders and stuck to the shadows. Moving so fast that he avoided the detection of any human sets of eyes that might be lingering around. The kid barely had time to squeak in surprise as he grabbed the collar of the filthy nylon jacket and jerked him into the alley.

Brant could do nothing but stare in disbelief at the wall of menace that was choking the life out of him by his collar. This was one big son of a bitch, easily six-foot four, given the way his feet dangled as the guy hoisted him up to make them eye to eye, make that six foot-six. Dark eyes promising pain and menace glared at him. Brant dangled there helpless as a rag doll, clutching at the thick wrist of the man, wondering if he was going to die. God, he hoped it was quick and the bastard didn't do anything nasty with his dead body.

Brant saw movement out of the corner of his eye. It wasn't the pearly gates opening for him, but damned if it wasn't an angel straight from heaven. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Tall and shapely, tight leather hugged the curves of her hips. Her hair, black as night, was piled in a tangle of loose curls at the top of her head. Full, lush lips the color of the wine he stole from his dad's liquor cabinet last Christmas widened into a seductive smile. She placed a dainty hand on the brute's bicep and spoke in a soft voice that flitted over his skin like velvet. "Please, allow me."

Brant fell to the concrete in a heap. Before he knew what hit him, his back was against the rough brick exterior of a building and the sharp point of a stiletto heel was poised against the hollow of his throat. But, damn, what a way to go. "Is there something in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" she asked in the most seductive voice he'd ever heard. He was definitely going to die with a smile on his face. He barely felt the point of her boot at the tender skin of his neck or the rough hands of the bruit searching his pockets. He was lost in the depths of her big blue eyes, entranced by the magic of their glimmer.

Michael withdrew a handful of vials and a wad of cash with a hiss. He uncapped the tiny glass container and tasted its contents. He wasn't into busting a thug, peddling nothing more than an imitation of the drug he sought. The pink powder was bitter and caustic on the tip of his tongue. Spitting, he cursed. Pink. No doubt about it. This little punk could lead him to the source. "My turn."

Bianca lowered her heel and stepped gracefully out of the way. The kid stammered and stuttered as Michael dragged him up the wall and held him dangling from the collar of his jacket.

"What do you want with me? You want pink? Take it," Brant rasped. "You need money? I've got it." He knew he was wasting his time. These weren't the kind of people who wanted drugs or needed the wad of twenties buried in his shoe.

"Listen closely you little shit," Michael rasped. "Tell me what I want to know and I'll let you live. Fail me and I think I'll send you straight to the pits of hell where you belong. Where'd you get the pink?"

"I don't...I don't know who he is...Never seen him..." Brant screeched as he sailed through the air and landed in a pile of moldering trash bags. He held up his hands in a vain effort to protect himself from the rough handling he knew was coming as the man closed the distance between them.

"Wrong answer," Michael said. He bent and jerked the kid up by the lapels of his jacket, giving him a sharp rattle as he hoisted him off his feet and brought their noses inches apart. "Let's try this again. Where. Did. You. Get. The. Pink?"

"Some guy. I don't know!" Brant wailed. "I never saw his face!" His lungs cried from lack of air. His body ached with the promise of bruises yet to bloom. "I'm telling the truth. I never see his face!"

"How does he contact you?"

"Pay phone at the corner of Grant and North Streets. Every Wednesday, seven o'clock in the evening." Brant husked. He'd tell the guy anything he wanted to know. Anything! "Please! Let me go! Don't kill me!"

"That remains to be determined," Michael said, unsheathing his fangs. "On if you're telling the truth or not." His lips curled back in a sneer. He needed some way of tracking this little piece of filth. Besides he had worked up an appetite. His grip tightened on the punk's jacket. The prey squirmed in his arms. Wednesday he planned to be at that payphone, waiting on a call that so help the kid in his arms, had better come. The kid's scream died on the air as Michael dug his fangs into a frantically thumping jugular and bit.

Bianca's fangs lengthened in excitement, enticed by the thick aroma of human blood in the air. Michael was a thrilling specimen of manhood, taking his prey and devouring it, true to the nature of the predator she sensed within him. She watched as he withdrew, shuddering from the effort it took to disengage from the source of his nourishment. Few would have had the restraint to leave the game alive after such a thrilling hunt. But, he as always, damnably excelled at resisting every temptation.

Bianca breathed a relieved sigh. O'Sullivan was as good as his word. The kid didn't know shit. If he had, the little punk would have sang like a canary. All that was left was to make sure the call never happened. At her insistence, they left the piece of gutter trash in the alley to sleep off the worst nightmare he'd ever had in his life.

The street filth was just another loose end to tie up in a neat little bow and she knew just the person to take care of such a task. Make sure the kid disappeared without a trace of DNA left for the Sons to track. Eric so loved to give his precious Yessette gifts. The boy would clean up nicely. Such a nice plaything for Eric's beloved to enjoy.

Eric sank back into the shadows, an unnoticed spectator. He so enjoyed a good show. Bianca never disappointed in providing him with such entertainment. Watching the Son so close to the brink was quite the spectacle. For a moment, Eric envisioned the drama of the Sons hunting down one of their own gone rogue. But, at the last second, duty prevailed and the warrior released the boy. Too bad. There was always a place for a good man in his organization. He dialed the number and arranged for a clean up. The last thing he needed was for the boy to go to the human police with his outlandish tale. Yessette would silence him. Permanently. Eric was after all, above all the dirty work.

Chapter 52

Cole felt his dad's eyes burning a hole in his back as he finished the last few minutes of his workout with John Mark. The exercises were grueling and intense. Meant to save his life in the heat of battle when the time came. All in all, he felt pretty proud of himself for how much he'd learned so far. Out of all the practice sessions, hand to hand combat was his favorite. Something he took to readily and excelled in with ease. When John Mark announced that today's run was over and that he was giving Cole a hard earned night off. Cole beamed. His mentor was pleased with him as well. To him, milking a little praise from his hard willed, stoic teacher was the most difficult of all the tasks he'd been given yet.

Cole bent at the waist and gave John Mark the customary bow and then turned to his dad still seated on the bleachers and dropped his chin in acknowledgment. He wouldn't have minded sticking around the compound tonight and getting to know his dad better. Surely, they had more in common than just DNA and the same shade of sandy brownish blond hair. But, the offer to get out, away from this maze of rock without a babysitter attached to his hip, was too tempting to pass up. He beat feet to his room to shower and check out all the cool things Janine, the compound's resident vampire fashionista had slipped into his closet.

John Mark couldn't help but be pleased with Cole's progress. Still just a mere infant to this world, the boy had a lot more to learn, but was well on his way to earning full warrior status. He hoped Cole would never have to prove his skills in battle. Battles meant loss and pain, suffering, and death. They were unfortunately inevitable. The truth of that fact always weighted heavily on the hearts and minds of all the brothers. The truth was like a gray cloud that hung always on the edge of the horizon, shadowing everything they fought so hard to create.

"He's doing well, isn't he," Robert said. His eyes bounced between the spot Cole had occupied only seconds before and John Mark. The new abilities of his son never ceased to amaze him. These vampires never ceased to amaze him. So much of what he knew of vampires came from the shadowy worlds of other people's thoughts and memories. The dusty echoes of past lives and deaths, echoes from the past tinted by terror. He was just beginning to realize that these vampires weren't like the ones he'd seen glimpses of from others. His son was not a murderer. For lack of a better term to describe them, these people, weren't killers.

"Quite," John Mark replied. Cole seemed to be built for this life. Cole took to his new body and abilities like a fish to water. If John Mark had one ounce of doubt about his pupil's ability to control himself in public, he'd never have unleashed the boy on the town's populous. John Mark recalled his first weeks into his new life with a measure of trepidation. He had not done nearly so well as Cole. The thirst, the hunger raging in the very depths of his marrow for human blood had been unbearable. Cole had a gift. One he'd only begun to tap into.

John Mark cocked his head to the side and studied Robert. The man fidgeted and tugged at the gloves on his hands nervously, self-consciously. Gifts could be hereditary. Passed from one generation to the next. If the blessing the goddess had given to Cole's father had been handed to his son, Cole hadn't made mention of it. John Mark had gotten no sense of the rare talent's presence in his pupil.

He could understand why Robert wore the gloves and was so timid about letting them go. Usually, the gifts of the goddess, as rich and amazing as they were, came with a cost. John Mark knew the price of the gift his goddess had given him down to the last cent. But, he'd never stopped to think about how much Robert's abilities cost him. He didn't know all the details. Just what he'd heard and the glimpses he'd caught from the whispery depths of Cole's thoughts. "Cole should be back before dawn."

Robert cleared his throat to hide his obvious discomfort at the vampire's scrutiny. Around here, there didn't seem to be much a person could hide, not even his own thoughts. Everything was laid bare and in the open. He didn't know how they did it. If they were, in their own rights gifted with rare insight into others or if it was just how acutely they observed things that humans could not such as a spike in heart rate, dilation of a pupil, or a breath held just a second too long. "Good. Well." Nervously he shifted his feet. "I guess I'll get going and catch up with him then."

John Mark watched Robert make his way across the gym's wood inlaid floor. His shoulders drooped low. Gloved hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his worn jeans, and his gait ambling and deliberate, as if the man really didn't have a particular destination in mind and didn't particularly care when he got there. "Robert," John Mark called after him. "I know he's having a hard time showing it. But, Cole really is glad that you're here."

Robert sighed and nodded. "I hope so."

Chapter 53

Cole showered and dressed with deliberate care. He had no idea where he was going or what he'd find when he got there. So giddy was his excitement, he really didn't care. The towel made squeaking noises as he wiped at the white layer of moisture and steam on the bathroom mirror. Since his changing, he hadn't had much time to admire his reflection. The new jeans were stiff and rough against his skin. From the waist up, he was undressed, not bothering with a shirt until the ends of his hair quit dripping water from its washing.

What he saw in the mirror shocked him. It was him. The same reflection he always saw but somehow the image staring back at him was different, changed. His eyes were the same color, a mix of gold, brown with flecks of green, but there was an intensity to them that wasn't there before. His hair was dark with water from the shower, the ends curling in that crazy haphazard way they did when he let it air dry. His skin, so fragile before, was paler, and not from the lack of a summer tan. The flesh covering him was practically indestructible now, luminescent, almost pearlesque beneath the garish lights of the bathroom. Pecks bulged where he had none before and the abdominal muscles he'd worked so hard to form into a suitable flat plane were molded into a perfect six-pack.

He spun and tilted his head to look over his shoulder at the tracings of the tattoo that covered his back. Indigo lines swirled around his shoulder blades and traced down to below his belt line and around his waist. The tattoo indicated his status in the Sons. A beginner and new to this life the tattoo was sparse. John Mark's and most of the other brother's tattoos were markedly different, more detailed in their design. Earned by test and trial. In time, he'd prove himself and add to the intricacy of his indigo markings. No matter what he did or how much he'd changed. It seemed he was always chasing time, struggling to catch up with the fleeting moments before they seeped out of his grasp.

He turned to face the mirror once again. Staring intently at the mix of the boy that remained and the man he hadn't yet quite evolved into. Ejecting the fangs from their resting place in his gums was easy. The white tips protruded from beneath his upper lip. Sometimes, it was easy to forget what he was. Sometimes, what he was consumed him. With an ease that surprised him, he sheathed his fangs. With them neatly put away, he could pass for something he wasn't anymore. Human.