Dawn Unleashed

"Then select another. There are other donors to choose from." John Mark kept his tone even, his voice stern. No was not an option. "Perhaps your father."

"My dad?" Cole sank to the cold, hard, vinyl surface of the white mat and buried his head in his hands, tugging at his hair with his fists. Already the hunger boiled inside of him like a pot left to run dry on a hot burner. He was feverish and so parched. His thirst tortured the back of his throat like prickly needles. "Ahhhh! I hate this! Isn't there any other way?"

"No. Cole, you knew the price of your decision before you made the choice. Now you have to do as your nature demands. The longer you put it off the worse it will be." John Mark sat beside his student and gave him time to absorb his words.

"I thought...I thought maybe I'd be different. Maybe, I'd be the exception to the rule and I wouldn't need human blood." He tore his fists free from his hair and lifted his face to John Mark's. "I could kill someone," Cole whispered. His voice was barely audible in the echo of the empty gym. "I can feel it, inside of me and I'm terrified. What if I can't stop? I don't want to kill anybody."

"This need of ours is but one burden in a life filled with blessings. Don't let it consume you. Don't let it turn you into something you're not. You will be able to stop. As long as you always remember who and what you are, you'll find a way to control the beast. Forget the beast and its nature and it will take you to a place and turn you into a person you don't want to be."

Cole folded his knees up under his chin and fingered the cross at his neck. Already, too much had been done that could not be undone. He wouldn't forget who he was. The thing inside of him, although they were barely acquainted, grappled for dominance over him every second of everyday. He couldn't let it win. He'd already lost Rachael. He wouldn't lose himself too. "I have to do this."

John Mark nodded and placed his hand on Cole's shoulder. "Yes. There is no other way. The beast is a part of you. But, it does not own you. Not unless you allow it to."

"Never," Cole vowed. He pushed his body up from the mat. Knees shaking and hands trembling with exertion, he stood. John Mark walked at his side in silent vigil. Cole knew his mentor would not let him go too far or take too much. The battle took place inside of Cole's own mind and it was one that no matter how well meaning or how watchful John Mark was. He'd have to fight for himself.

Robert wandered about the compound, marveling at his newly found sense of touch. Walls were cold and rough under his palms, but they felt amazing. The texture of fabrics fascinated him. Never before had he brushed his fingers over such luxury, cottons, silks, velvets, and wools. Not one stray thought entered his mind. Not one unwanted image flashed before his eyes. His gift was finally his own to use as he saw fit. He ran his hands over the smooth stones that made up the fireplace in the rec room, smiling. A sense of the people who had piled gray stone upon gray stone and fit them together filled his mind. But, he couldn't grasp the thoughts they were thinking as they pressed the rocks into the mortar. Knowing nothing, seeing nothing, fearing nothing was wonderful.

Giddy as a child, Robert snatched a cue ball off the pool table and held it to the light amazed by the feel of its slick, cool white surface against his fingers. Nothing, absolutely nothing entered his mind. He wasn't sure enough of himself to abandon his gloves entirely. They were wadded up in his back pocket, just in case. His hands and fingers felt cold and naked without them.

There wasn't anything he couldn't do. Freedom, something he'd never dreamed of, became a land filled with possibilities. He didn't have to hide in a cabin in the middle of the wilderness any more. Inside of his mind, sculptures he hadn't dared to create took shape. He could shake hands with a complete stranger and not be afraid of the secrets they hid. He could hug his son, hell, hug anyone. He could be brave enough to seek out love and passion, something he'd denied himself for so long, once again.

His fingers brushed over the soft, green, slightly worn surface of the pool table, exhaling at the blessed silence in his mind. Behind him, foot steps echoed as boots struck the stone floors. He turned to look to see who was entering the rec room. Maybe, he'd try his luck and stick out his right hand, offering a manly shake to whoever it was.

Cole, his son, flanked by John Mark entered the room. His son. He never grew tired to looking at the man Cole had grown up to be. Cole was a mix of the best of Jess and of him. Sometimes, he saw her expression, her smile, on his son's face, and it hurt. Left a pang of regret deep in his heart for the woman he'd handed over to another man so willingly. He hadn't even bothered to try to fight for her. "Hey Cole, John Mark."

Cole snickered at his dad. His dad wildly waggled his bare fingers in his face to show off the absence of the gloves. Finally understanding where his dad had come from and why he'd done the things he did had helped to clear the tension riddled air between them. If the choice had been Cole's to make, he couldn't honestly say he might not have done the same thing. It seemed that he and his dad always had an obstacle between them. Maybe they always would be. First it was his father's gift that had separated them by miles and years. And now, it was the request he would make of his father. Dining on dad's neck would definitely make the point of how different and apart they really were. "Dad."

"Want to shoot some pool with the old man? Back in the day, I used to be pretty good." Robert snapped his mouth shut. Realization of what his son really wanted came to light. Cole stood tense and strained, feet wide apart, and eyes focused on the floor. "Oh." Nervously, his hands went to his shirt collar. "Um."

"Maybe you should sit down," John Mark suggested. Robert's discomfort at the situation was as apparent as his son's. Cole stared at the floor. Shamed by what he'd come to ask his father to do. And Robert looked anywhere but at his son, as he realized what Cole had come to ask.

Robert plopped onto an overstuffed sofa. Leather upholstery, of course bloodstains were probably a bitch to get out of fabric. Awkwardly, he shifted his weight. John Mark practically dragged Cole and had to push him to sit on the cushion next to him. Cole appeared every bit as uncomfortable as he felt. The only one who seemed the least bit relaxed was John Mark, having settled into an easy posture with his long legs kicked out in front of him on the other side of Cole.

"Dad...you..."

"No, it's cool. Dane already explained everything to me," Robert said with a shrug, anxiously wringing his fingers into knots. "I'm down with it."

Cole raised an eyebrow. "You're down with it?" His father attempting to use slang to break the ice was almost comical. Almost.

"Isn't that what you kids say now days?" Robert asked.

"Close enough," Cole said. He did his best to see his father through the haze of his hunger. Robert Black was human, his father. He lived and breathed, and someday, he would die, but not today. Not by Cole's hand.

The steady thump thump of his dad's heartbeat roared in his ears. The scent of blood, the warmth press of the body sitting next to him was almost maddening. His fangs ached and throbbed with a pulse of their own. He could bury them deep in this bit of human flesh and soothe the pain. Quell the desert heat scalding his throat with a torrent of fresh blood. The beast roared to life within his soul and demanded his due. Now. Cole panted with the effort it took to keep from ripping his dad's throat to shreds.

"Cole, do you intend to torture your father?" John Mark asked. He kept his posture deceptively casual. He was anything but. Ready to pull Cole back, if he needed to. "Release him from the pain of your bite."

Cole shivered, his fingers trembling, clutching at his father's shirt. He could no longer hide the prominent fangs protruding from beneath his upper lip. Every nerve ending was on fire. Burning with unquenchable agony. His dad possessed the only thing that could end the pain. "It hurts so bad."

Robert did his best not to jerk out of Cole's grip. Damn. The thing that replaced his son was terrifying, fang and fury, raw hunger and instinct. Still, he saw traces of his son, like sunlight glinting through black storm clouds, sneaking from beneath the devil's mask. "He won't catch my gift will he?" That was his biggest worry, his biggest fear. The reason he stayed away for so long. That somehow, his gift would be transferred to his son.

"No, I don't think so," John Mark answered. "Cole, control the beast. Tame its hunger. Command it and bend it to your will. Donors are sacred. We do not cause them harm. They feel no pain from our bite. Search out your father's thoughts. Embrace them. Open his mind to yours. Send him to the place where there is no pain, only bliss and joy."

Cole's control and his patience teetered on the brink. John Mark spoke magical mumbo jumbo. Yet, some place deep inside, the cautious instruction of his teacher took root. If he focused, struggled past the heartbeat pounding in his ears and the sweet smell of blood, he could sense his dad's brain waves. See the twisting tangles of thought in his mind. Each synapse fired, sending chemical signals to receptors. Neurons stretched out their fibers to form the spider's web that was his father's mind. He traced the trail of fibers to their source and sent a suggestion to the network of cells. Sleep. Easy. Simple. Undeniable.

John Mark breathed a sigh of pure relief as Robert sagged against the couch. Cole's technique would improve with practice. Eventually, he wouldn't have to send his donors to la-la land to get what he needed. For now though, it would do. Cole would eventually figure things out for himself and take them to the next level.

Part, a very important part of the experience was the ability to meld with one another's minds during the exchange. Communicate on not only a physical level based on the sating of need, but on a spiritual plane. Sharing one another's souls, the bond created in these moments was strong enough that when broken they were unbearably painful.

John Mark felt a pang of loss for his first donor, his wife's father and his best friend, Robert. Robert and his wife, Danielle, were killed in a car accident. The head on collision wasn't so much an accident as it was the start of the war with the rogues. That had been a painful and bloody time for the Sons. Robbie loved her parents and she missed them, but she'd never known them on the same level as he had. Sometimes, when his mind was still enough, John Mark could still feel him there, deep inside. Their souls still united as one, even in death. "Careful. Don't hurt him," he instructed.

Cole grappled with his father's lax body holding warm flesh against his chest. Clumsily, he tore the collar of his dad's shirt open and pressed his mouth to the hot beat of his father's pulse. Such contentment, he'd never known as his fangs punctured through skin and released the flow of blood onto his tongue.

The very essence of his father ran down his throat, quenching his thirst, putting the agony, finally to rest. The blood was rich and sweet, so sweet, thick, and decadent. Animal blood was water by comparison to the wellspring of nourishment flowing from his father. Every cell in his body cried out for more. Burned for it. Begged and pled, never satisfied by each swallow he pulled into his mouth. More. He had to have more.

Cole was so lost in drinking he forgot that the neck he dined on belonged to a human being. He forgot about his father. John Mark and the Sons only existed as a distant memory. His vows reduced to nothing more than words uttered by a child. This mattered. This was all that mattered. Blood. So good. Beneath his lips, the pulse hammered away, fluttering wildly, pushing blood, more and more blood into his mouth.

John Mark listened to Robert's heart. There were signs, the tell tale fluttering of the heartbeat and the stammer of a rhythm, to act as a guide. The key was to stop early before one needed to listen for them.

Cole growled, feral as a rabid dog working at a bone when John Mark placed a hand on his shoulder to coax him back from the flesh between his fangs. The scent of blood was reaping havoc with John Mark's own hunger, flaring it painfully to life. He had a lot more experience than Cole did with controlling the urges pounding at his instincts. If he gave in, even for one second, and tasted the blood, Robert would die. "Cole stop!" he tightened his grip on Cole's arm, till his fingers dug ruthlessly through muscle into bone. "STOP! You are not a killer!"

Cole lifted his head from the source of nourishment, resenting the interruption and the painful dig of fingers into his bicep. "Get off me!" He twisted out of John Mark's grip and returned his attention back to the source of his relief. Nothing, literally nothing had ever felt or tasted so good. His body hummed with energy as powerful as electrical current. Memories and thoughts that weren't his engulfed his mind, dragging him down deeper. He swallowed and savored the link between minds. Terror gripped him, as it finally occurred to him that if he didn't stop and regain control, his father, was going to die, just as savagely as Rachael had.

It took every ounce of strength he had to withdraw his fangs and swab his tongue over the wounds to close them. His dad, pale, but breathing, dozed obliviously in his arms. Cole swallowed the regret rising with bile in his throat at what he'd almost been reduced to, a brutal cold-blooded murderer. His body wracked with spasms, shuddering against the cold reality that had become his life. He had to feed to survive. He needed blood with the certainty that he needed air. Every time he drank, he could lose himself forever. "John Mark," his voice trembled, more of a gasp.

"Let your father rest." John Mark took Cole, firmly, but more gently than before and led him away from Robert. "You stopped in time. He'll be fine. You'll be fine." He didn't need to worry. Cole had done well, battled and overcame the demons inside of him and remained intact. The urge, the desperate need would always be there. How well he knew. But, Cole would never succumb to the fate that had swayed so many off the path in the past. Bloodlust would never claim his pupil, his friend, and his brother.

Chapter 61

"I'm not really in the mood for company tonight," Bianca said, feigning a nonchalant air as she buffed her nails on the hem of her silk blouse. Inside she was anything but cool. Panic, the last thing she needed, gripped her hard and made her knees knock. Not that she'd ever show it to the cold warrior intent on staring her down. His brown eyes surveyed her with harsh indifference, searching for a crack in her façade. As if he'd ever find one or guess how deeply invested she was in his news. The Sons, warriors, hardened by battle and years of self-denial and service to their goddess, were coming to her city. The Sons did not neighbor and they were not friendly. If a warrior showed up on your doorstep you could bet it wasn't a social call.

Michael glowered at Bianca. What in the hell was she up to? For weeks he'd been in the city trying to track down an invisible foe only to be thwarted by her at every turn. Watching her casually buff her crimson tipped nails on the hem of a blouse that probably cost more money than most of his brothers, or him, had ever seen in their lifetimes grated him. Was she somehow involved in this mess? He didn't see her as a small time thug peddling her blood for extra cash and he didn't see her as a cold-blooded murderer. Sure, she was tough, vicious, but, not a killer. Behind the face she showed to the outside world hid a woman, soft and vulnerable. He'd seen that woman, once or twice, when Bianca thought no one was looking and let her guard down. She could hide who she was from everyone else, but not from him.

Why wouldn't she cooperate willingly? The Sons were coming. Nothing she could do about that. Securing her assistance would help, but they really didn't need an invitation. Staring at her now, he could see chinks in her armor. Expensive clothing, glittering jewels, and perfect appearance didn't hide what he saw. Fear. Deep inside, she was terrified.

Michael exhaled and surveyed the planes of her face. Her mouth, coated with ruby lipstick was bordered with lines of tension. Posture stiff and strained, no matter how hard she tried to look as if she didn't care. The hilt of a weapon, hidden to the untrained eye, poked out from the billowy folds of her blouse. He had no doubt there were probably a dozen more stashed away on her person. Although, she was dressed to her usual standard of perfection, low heeled boots had replaced her stiletto pumps and her pants were made of a loose, stretchy material perfect for mobility and defense. Who did she have to defend herself against? Him? His brothers? "Bianca, please. If you're involved with this man, tell me now."

Bianca scoffed bitterly. Involved? He had no idea. She was up to her eyeballs in the shit with O'Sullivan and there wasn't a damned thing anyone could do to help her now. She knew about the drugs. She knew about the wolves. She knew about the murders. Although, she hadn't had any part of any of O'Sullivan's nefarious dealings, her inactivity was cause enough for the Sons to separate her from her favorite appendage. Her head.

She'd kept her Guardians reined in. Prevented them from doing their jobs. She made sure her Guardians and O'Sullivan did not cross paths. Michael's stare was unnerving. The concern in his eyes enough to make her confess her soul. She sauntered over to the wide expanse of windows overlooking the city. Below her an array of lights sparkled like jewels. People rushed about like ants, gathering and stashing away their treasures for a life that would be spent in the blink of an eye. She could barely remember what it was like to be one of them. "Do you have any idea how old I am? I didn't live this long by being careless or stupid. I can take care of myself."

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. He wanted to shake the truth out of her. Rattle those pretty little fangs right out of her head. Press her until she told him everything. When the shit went down. It'd go down hard and fast and if she were involved she'd be swept up in the wake. He couldn't protect her unless he knew how deep she was in. "You have nothing you want to tell me?"

He ground his molars in frustration as she shook her head and said, "Nothing." His contact, his only link to the drug dealer, was dead. He'd felt it the minute the boy passed from this world into the next. Did she know who had taken the boy's life? Something deep inside of him told him that she did. Yet, she'd said nothing and pretended ignorance.

Michael towered over her. His big body ate up her personal space. Crowding her, his breath skated across her face. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to slap. She wanted to do both. His brown eyes flashed, he knew what she was hiding. He was risking everything to give her an out. All she had to do was take it. Perhaps, the Sons would let her live. A warrior to his core, if ordered to, he'd take her head. He might regret the act. He would do it though. O'Sullivan was every bit as lethal as the warrior. If she told the Sons all that she knew and he found out. He'd take her head every bit as swiftly.

Michael backed off. Bianca wasn't one to be intimidated by physical size. She'd held her ground. Met his eyes, without even so much a flutter of her lashes. Her silence formed an invisible wall between them. Obviously, she didn't want his help. If he tried to force her, he wouldn't accomplish a thing other than adding to his frustration. He'd done his job, left her with all the warnings he could. "The Sons will be here soon, with or without your permission."