Dawn Unleashed

"But, he is alive," Eric taunted. His hands fisted in Daniel's hair, snapping the boy's head back with a hard jerk. Daniel moaned pitifully in response. "Let us not play games. I want what is mine."

Hunter growled low in his throat. His son terrorized at the hands of a madman. Rage boiled through him. His hand was on the blade at his side before he realized he'd made the move. Only Nash's arm across his chest and the harsh command held him back.

"Don't." Nash felt Hunter's rage. The ragged heat melded with his own, adding fuel to a blazing fire of fury. Losing his head this early in the game would only serve to get them killed.

Nash glanced over to Carter. He stood protectively behind a woman with the face of an angel and a soul as black as the devil's own. Carter assured them that there would be plenty of evidence, enough to earn O'Sullivan a swift and quick death at the hands of the Son's justice. Another pact had been made, evidence in exchange for safe passage for Yessette.

Things were about to get uglier than they already were. Hunter could barely contain his wolf. Only the command of an alpha in higher standing had kept the beast at bay. John Mark flexed his fists, too eager to draw first blood and Dane stood, light on his feet, ready to add his strength to the fight. "This is no place for a lady," Nash growled.

Eric laughed at Nash's archaic sentiment toward females. Yessette was hardly a lady. She could have barely been called a lady when he plucked her like a ripe apple from the tree of humanity centuries ago. Nevertheless, he could do without Carter's intervention. As for Yessette, he would not risk her life so carelessly. "Very well. Carter, take the lady out."

Carter tipped his head and lightly wrapped his fingers around Yessette's upper arm, gently lifting her from the edge of the sofa. "Come, walk with me."

Yessette got to her feet gracefully and slid an arm through the bend in Carter's elbow. There were things she wanted to say to Daniel and his father. But, she wisely kept her mouth shut. If time had taught her nothing after all these centuries, she'd learned when to keep quiet. Her eyes ran over Daniel's limp form, silently apologizing for all the wrongs she'd done to him. She let Carter lead her from the room and out the back door.

Carter had maybe a matter of minutes to act before Yessette realized what was happening. Right now, Eric was busy, occupied by his company. Before long, he'd realize what Carter had planned. Eric would never let Yessette go. He'd never loosen his claim to either one of them as long as he was alive.

Yessette hurried her pace to match Carter's. So much of his mind was still shielded to her. The neighborhood lay in the quiet hush of midnight around them. But, she could sense the presence of vampires and other things in the air. Danger prickled along her skin. "Carter, where are we going?"

"Someplace safe," Carter answered. He pressed the key fob clutched in his fist and stuffed Yessette inside the idling Land Rover. This was the only chance he was going to get. So far, everything was going according to plan. He wondered if O'Sullivan survived, if anyplace, even the most desolate place on Earth, would be far enough away to keep Eric from finding them.

Daniel was jarred to consciousness the minute the chains strapping him to the chair were freed and his face connected with the floor. He lay there, hovering between awareness and the black limbo of unconsciousness, not exactly sure which one was the better choice. If here were out, he wouldn't have to feel his father's rage flowing over him in scalding torrents. Out was better, so much more peaceful. So calm. He was in no shape to bat at the fly buzzing around his head with eager enthusiasm let alone take on O'Sullivan. Yessette was safe. There wasn't really anything more he could do beyond that simple task.

"The boy is a member of my pack. You have abused him. That violates the agreement," Nash said.

"I think you'll find Hunter made no specifications regarding the condition in which his son was surrendered. The only condition was that the boy had to be delivered alive and he has been. The blood oath stands." Eric wanted to slap the arrogance right off of the pack master's face with a swift flash of his palm. Soon enough, he'd wipe the arrogance off of all their faces.

"The boy and his father belong to me. Their lives are not theirs to bargain with. There is no pact to uphold," Drew said. He didn't bother to hide the bitter venom in his words. He didn't have time for a pissing contest between Nash and O'Sullivan. He'd come to deliver justice.

"I demand compensation," Eric spat. The Great Father was getting more pissed off by the minute. Good. Pissed off people were ruled by their emotions. Emotions made people easier to control.

Drew narrowed his eyes at O'Sullivan. The vampire had lived too long to be so careless as to invoke the wrath of the Sons. Death, it's sweet cloying scent hung in the air. Not new death, although there were traces of its scent, but old death and decay. Carter promised evidence and traces of his promise clung to this house. "Take him into custody and search the rooms." He wanted this man dead. Soon.

Bianca hovered in position behind a bank of abandoned warehouses. She clung to the mental fence she was so precariously balanced on. If Eric made it this far, she'd given orders to her soldiers to let him pass. The Guardians were no match for him. He'd tear through them like a shark through a school of lesser minnows. No need for everyone to die tonight. She was no match for him either. Her abilities were just as brutal and final as his, just more refined and subtle. Her tongue was as sharp as any blade and as cutting. Tonight was about keeping herself and her troops alive. Tomorrow, she'd decide which side of the fence to call home.

A part of her hoped Eric would die. Hell would be happy to have its beloved home at last. She owed him. If not for O'Sullivan, Carter would not have fallen so far and so hard from the Son's good graces. Too bad, she'd had to do a little bartering with her own soul in the process. The Guardians were in their infancy, weak and helpless as babes in the wilderness. Someday, they wouldn't be. They'd be strong enough to stand on their own and be servant to no one.

Michael listened to the soft chatter over his headset. Everyone was in position. Waiting. Watching. O'Sullivan wasn't getting through their lines. Carter was out of the house with Yessette in tow absolutely untouchable. Too bad. He would have liked to teach the betraying bastard a lesson in loyalty. Carter's education would have to wait for another time.

Bianca's face was an unreadable mask. Why wouldn't she just admit what she knew? Michael had nothing concrete, just his gut instinct. Would the justice of the Sons flow over her if they knew the truth? Her time was running out. His chance to save her was up. If the Great Father gave the order, her life would be null and void. If she were guilty of conspiring with the enemy, the Sons would take her head.

Bianca stared down at Michael's outstretched hand. The gesture was so simple, so touching. His fingers spread wide in the open air, palm cupped up, waiting. His eyes soft, readable as a book, he still believed in her. He wanted to hold her hand, cling to his belief in her innocence. She was guilty as hell. The fence she balanced so carefully on wobbled beneath the weight in his stare. She could fall so very far, and so very hard without anything to break her descent. Not even Michael could stop the Great Father from carrying out the order if it came. No one could save her life if the Sons wanted it. Slowly, she lowered her hand into his and felt the warmth of his fingers fold in a crushing wave around hers.

Chapter 87

John Mark moved through the opulence of the house with complete indifference to the antique finery around him. His boots made soft whispering sounds against plush Persian rugs strewn across gleaming wooden floors. Wealth in such obvious display infuriated him. O'Sullivan had pieces scattered here and there, collected over almost a thousand years worth of living that would have made the Smithsonian quiver in envy. Priceless artifacts gathered dust on tabletops and hung from the walls as if they were commonplace baubles.

He searched through the upper floors, trusting his nose to lead him where his eyes could not. Somewhere in this maze of rooms death, its' scent thick in the air, had been delivered. Judging by the heaviness of the smell in the stale air, more than once. John Mark stopped in front of a locked door. Here the scent was the thickest, almost nauseating. He took a deep breath through his mouth and squeezed the knob till it shattered into tiny brass shards in his grip.

The room was a woman's room, if the décor was anything to go by. A wide bed draped in silks and luxurious linens stretched the width of one wall. Expensive, dense velvet drapes hung from the windows blocking out any chance of light. Jewelry, piles of gold, silver, and gemstones were scattered across an ornately carved dressing table and dribbled onto the floor. Baubles, some of them worth more than he'd ever see in his lifetime, lined countless shelves and decorated every inch of space. A pile of dolls, some old and delicate as parchment paper, some new, as if they'd been bought today, were stacked in tidy heaps in the corners of the room. The smell was strongest, almost intolerable by the dolls. Cautiously, John Mark kicked them to the side with the heavy steel toed tip of his boot.

His hand came up to cover his mouth and nose, trapping the muttered curse at the tip of his tongue. "Son of a bitch," he gasped. A corpse, hidden beneath the pile of dolls stared up at him with empty, blank, dead eyes, glassy and unfocused as the eyes of the dolls beside her. There was no doubt the decomposing rotting heap of flesh was female. Clothes, luxurious velvets and silks adorned her putrid flesh. Someone liked to play with their food. Killing what every thing had occupied this room and done this to a human being would be a public service. A mind this far gone had no business with hands and feet to carry out its deranged ideas.

Hunter knelt beside Daniel. His son was in no condition to be moved yet. Daniel's werewolf body would recover the physical damage, but his spirit could be crushed permanently. Gently he removed the gag from Daniel's mouth and ran his hands through Daniel's hair, cradling his boy's head in his lap. "It's over, Danny," he whispered.

Drew and Dane took the narrow staircase that led down into the dim light of the basement. The basement stretched the entire length of the palatial mansion over their heads. Much of the space had been divided up into smaller rooms made of concrete block and steel doors. Behind these doors, Drew hoped to find the evidence Carter assured him was there. The smell of death and blood, no matter how old or how new was not enough on its own to convict a vampire of breaking the law.

Nash paced the living room nervously. Something wasn't right. O'Sullivan was too accommodating. Too willing to send Carter and Yessette away. Too ready to be taken into custody and led out of the house. He'd almost welcomed the wolves and the Sons into his home and invited them to search. Troops flooded the floors of the house, searching every corner of O'Sullivan's home for anything that might be construed as evidence against him. Eric had seemed almost cocky about the whole thing instead of scared shitless. Something wasn't right about the whole set up.

Nash's skin prickled with the vibration of danger almost palpable in the air. He inhaled deeply and trapped the breath in his lungs. Without his wolf form, his senses weren't as acute as they could be. But, they were better than an ordinary human's. He sifted through the scents of wealth, old money, blood, and death. Deeper. House dust from the rugs and multiple rooms filled with opulent furnishings tickled the back of his throat. The smells of the city, exhaust, concrete, and humanity clung to the tip of his tongue. There was something faint and almost non-existent underneath them. Something he was missing but could almost place. "Hunter?"

Hunter glanced up from his son to his father. Nash's brows were wrinkled in concentration. His chest blown up tight with trapped air. Hunter took a deep inhalation of air and held it. Smelling. Warriors flooded past him in a flurry of activity. The house smelled of the wax used to polish its floors. The smell of old blood tainted the air in his lungs. Hunter closed his eyes and went deep into himself, away from the activity and away from the danger. He'd been in the service. He'd spent years dedicating himself to tactical and weaponry training. How could he have been so stupid? He was an expert in explosives. He should have smelled them sooner. He was already on his feet, snatching Daniel over his shoulder. "RUN! Bastard's planted a bomb! This place is going to go!"

O'Sullivan watched the warriors and wolves flood through his front door with almost complacent placidity. He'd agreed to go into custody quite willingly. Wouldn't do to get his own head blown off in the process of ending the Sons. He wasn't a safe distance away, but safer than he had been standing in his own living room a few minutes ago. "Mind if I smoke?" he asked his captors with cool, calm, almost casualness in his voice.

Chance glanced at his father and shrugged. He'd never heard of a vampire that smoked. Unfortunately, the bastard wasn't going do anyone a favor and drop over dead of lung cancer anytime soon. "I don't see why not. Although, it's a filthy habit."

Eric chuckled at the youngster and took a cigarette from its silver case. "Somehow I don't think you're that concerned about my health." He tapped the end of the cigarette on the lid of the case and put it to his lips. The lighter was a slim, sleek thing in his hand. He rolled his thumb over the strike and grinned. A tiny, chemical flame sprung to life from the lighter's tip. The Sons were far too trusting. A detonator could be made out of almost any common household object, like a lighter, for instance. He watched as the house in front of him burst apart at the seams.

Drew was thrown back by the fury of the first wave of the explosion. Concrete, wood, and brick fell in a shower around him. Flames licked at the debris with eager, hungry tongues. Smoke rolled in a thick, choking fog through the basement. The floor over his head groaned and bucked with the force of a second explosion. He scrambled through the confusion, searching for Dane.

John Mark fell down an open hole from a stairwell that was suddenly no longer beneath his feet. Glass and priceless knickknacks flew through the air with the force of bullets. Something hard and heavy struck him in the temple. Pain surged and his vision narrowed to white starbursts behind his eyes. He felt the force of his impact and then nothing but blackness, an awful, terrible blackness that swallowed him whole.

The force of the blast knocked Hunter to his knees. Concrete split into huge, jagged hunks in front of him. Heat from the fire gnawed at his back. The front door hung precariously balanced by one hinge. Somehow he'd managed to keep hold of Daniel during his fall, cushioning his son from the worst of the impact. Breathless from all the smoke and debris loosed into the air, Hunter crawled with Daniel in tow through the wreckage of the spent house and the frenzy of confusion on the front lawn.

Nash crouched in a corner behind the sofa for cover as a third wave of explosions rocked what was left of the house. The very walls bucked and shuddered from the shockwave. There wasn't going to be anything left of this house but a pile of sticks and rubble. Warriors groaned, fell, and scrambled for one another in the confusion left in the explosions' wake. Above his head a window glass shattered. Shards fell around his shoulders. Heavy chunks of plaster from the ceiling crashed to the floor beside him. Nash lunged for the window and rolled through its jagged open maw.

Eric watched the symphony of chaos unfold around him. Cries of agony filled the air in a sweet soprano. The deep bass rumble of the house, groaning to hold itself together and the rich timbre of splitting wood and tinkle of shattering glass were a complementary harmony. But, he wasn't done yet. Grinning, he cocked his head and listened to the second act, and the third, the whole concerto of destruction explode into a chorus of utter oblivion at the command of his fingertips.

The Sons were too busy keeping themselves upright to notice it when he slipped through their grasp. Eric walked away from the line of writhing warriors as if he were walking through a park on a bright spring morning. The blood bond that made them function as a unit, extensions of the same whole, had crippled them. Perhaps, if it had not been their leader dying beneath tons of flaming debris it would not have been so. Today was a good day for the Great Father to die.

O'Sullivan had to admit he was a little disappointed by the lack of resistance in which he passed through the lines of defense. The werewolves were confused, howling in agony into the night. Without their Supreme Pack Master, the Great White Wolf to guide them into battle, they were every bit as useless as the Sons.

If he'd known it was this easy to take them down he would have saved a bit of cash and a few of the sprawling Victorian mansions on the block. What was human life any concern of his? A dozen or so dead families and a handful of wasted mansions were not his problem.

He almost started whistling and skipping like a carefree child. His victory was so easily obtained. A car waited for him, parked down by a line of long abandoned warehouses. The dregs of society, his kind of people, called this part of town home. Eric stopped mid step. He hadn't counted on the Guardians to give him any grief. Yet, he could sense them, lurking in the shadows. Watching him.

Bianca slapped Michael as hard as she could. He rocked on the ground, holding his head, moaning in agony. The smell of seared wood and ash floated on the air. O'Sullivan had ensured his getaway and taken half of the historic district with him. "Michael, what's the matter with you? Get up!"

Michael felt every lick of flame as if it were consuming his flesh. He choked on toxic black plumes of smoke and ash as if he were in the middle of the explosion. His hands clawed blindly in the darkness at mounds of debris trapping him beneath the ground. Uselessly pinned, his body writhed in agony. The sharp smack of Bianca's palm against his cheek and her harsh words helped to pull him out of the agonizing sensations that weren't his, but the Great Father's.

"Shit," Bianca cursed under her breath. She shook Michael by the lapel of his leathers like a rag doll. His breaths were coming out in a series of short pants. Pallor dulled his already pale skin. She thought he might be dying. He was linked to his brothers through a psychic connection. Every one of the Sons was feeling the same thing, the same pain, dying the same death. She had to break the link before death took Michael with it. Her fangs pierced the skin of her wrist. Wincing, she pressed the torn skin to his lips. "Drink, damn it, drink."

Chapter 88

Cole stroked Maggie's hair. She curled into a sleepy ball in his arms and sighed. He hadn't bothered to bring her back to full wakefulness after drinking from her. He let her float in a calm, happy world of dreams where nothing could ever harm her. A part of him felt guilty as hell that he'd done it. But, another part of him was peaceful and blissfully content with her in his arms. Tonight they'd shared something more intimate than sex.