Dawn's Destiny

Grant awoke shivering and sputtering on a rocky beach. Not really sure of how far the swift current had carried him. He scrambled up the steep embankment. Rocks and stray sticks bit at the soles of his feet. He was sore. Aching from the battle, hungry, and exhausted to the point of simply plopping down in the mud and giving up. He had no clothes, no money, and no place to turn for help. Nash had expelled him from the pack. And he was alone in the last place he wanted to be, a dangerous place. One he didn't truly know how to navigate. The human world.

He tried to call on the power of his wolf. His wolf would do better on this rough terrain than he was managing, naked and barefooted and not even certain of what direction he was headed. Pack magic trickled over his skin. But, it was weak, barely a trickle. His wolf was with him. Growling in his head. Pointing him towards home. The problem was, Grant couldn't go home. He could never go home again.

Shivering despite the sunshine streaming through the leafy branches, Grant followed the lake's edge. Sticks and rocks jabbed at the soles of his feet. Stray brambles and the fingers of low hanging branches grabbed at his bare skin. But, he had to keep moving. If he stayed lost out here without his wolf's aid, he would die. And while that might make the pack happy and ultimately was their intent, he really would rather not die naked and alone in the woods.

The cabin's windows were dark. The location was remote, far enough off the beaten path that an unexpected visitor wouldn't be noticed. Nestled in a thick outcropping of maples and pine, the cabin's dark wood, plank siding, slightly askew front porch, cheerful red gingham curtains, and a cedar shake roof made the place look homey and inviting, and very, very secluded. A dock weathered and a bit rickety looking, reached out into the calm waters of a lagoon. A boat battered by the winter, the paint on its bottom peeling in long strips, rested abandoned on the shore.

There were other cabins on the far side of the lake. Lined up like clapboard soldiers side by side. It was still early enough in the spring that the campers wouldn't arrive for another few weeks or better. The narrow drive winding its way up to the cabin was riddled with potholes. Dried brown weeds from last summer grew in between the sparse patches of white rock. A weatherworn outhouse sat at the far corner of the overgrown property. Twin bottles of battered LP gas cylinders were chained to the side of the cabin's far wall. And a black, spindly electrical line snaked from the pole to connect to the cabin's roof.

A small neatly stacked bundle of wood sat beside a makeshift fire pit made out of rocks from the lake. A loose shutter hung from a rusty hinge and gently slapped against the side of the cabin as the breeze tossed it about. From the looks of it whoever owned the cabin hadn't been here anytime recently. And might not come back for a hiatus till summertime officially started. Spring weather was too unpredictable and it was still a little cool at night to give the boat and the outhouse the layers of fresh paint they obviously needed.

Cautiously, Grant crept around to the backdoor. Luck might be on his side for once. And if it held out, he might have found a place to hole up long enough to get his shit together. Right now, he'd settle for some clothes and a bite of food to ease the grumbling in his empty belly. He'd worry about the other aspects of his new human life after he got some rest. Giving the doorknob a hard twist, the flimsy lock snapped and he eased the door open inch by inch.

A thick layer of dust covered every available surface and confirmed his suspicions. The cabin hadn't been visited in months. Wasting no time to take in the quaintness of his temporary home, he searched the cabinets. Crackers and peanut butter was all he found. He didn't know how old they might be and he really didn't care. He ripped open the crackers and scooped up peanut butter with his fingers, stuffing his mouth eagerly with his make due meal.

Grant licked his fingertips, savoring the left over bits of peanut butter and salt stuck to the tips. He'd forced himself to stop halfway through the stack of crackers and to put them aside for later. They might have to last him for a day or two until he came up with something. There wasn't much in the cabin as far as items necessary for survival went. He'd found a butcher knife in a drawer along with some mismatched silverware. A half used pack of matches resting on the mantle. A few coins in spare change someone had dropped into a mug by the side of the sink. A couple of chipped dishes, various pots and pans, and a rusty can opener in the cabinets. And a very battered rod and reel combo with an impossible knot of tangled fishing line propped up in the corner.

But, on the plus side of things, the electricity worked. And a quick inspection of the LP tanks out back revealed that he had enough gas to make a few meals, if he found something to cook. The stove worked. The rickety lamp sitting on an even ricketier end table shed plenty of light in the cabin's dim interior. There was kindling and a few logs set and ready to go in the fireplace. And he even had running water, if he gave the hand pump on the sink a couple of good pumps.

Grant was a fairly decent trapper. And he had the makings of a pretty nice snare with the fishing line and the green twigs from the trees. He shuddered at the thought. But, the woods were full of squirrels and fat rabbits. And if he could find some tackle. He could fish in the lake. His wolf should be thrilled at the possibility. But, he was anything but. At least though, he could get by for a week or so, assuming nobody showed up, until he figured out something better.

Searching through a scratched dresser. He came across a pair of worn, mint green sweatpants and a faded t-shirt boasting that the owner of the t-shirt bit 'the big one' at Phoebe's in the square. The sweats were tiny, a woman's size, barely stretching big enough to slide over his hips. The t-shirt was baggy and smelled of summers past and the cedar chips sprinkled inside of the drawer to keep away the moths. But, much like his situation, they'd do until he could find something better.

Unable to locate a pair of socks, he padded barefoot across the rough timber of the floor. The cabin was a one-room affair with a screen separating the main living area from the sleeping area. It wasn't very spacious. Really nothing more than a twenty by twenty box made of logs. But, the absence of walls, the rustic river stone fireplace, and plentiful windows with their faded, cheerful gingham curtains gave the cabin an open and airy feeling. Grant was impressed that whoever owned the place was able to cram so much in it without making the space feel congested and confining.

Every item in the cabin was used and a bit threadbare. A recliner with the springs poking through the upholstery sat to the side of the fireplace at an angle. A small loveseat in an equally battered state of repair sat directly across from the fireplace its back pressed to the screen used to divide the space. A hand woven rag rug in every color of the rainbow took up the floor space in front of the fireplace.

Two battered and repaired more than once kitchen chairs were butted up against a storage cabinet to make a dining room table to the left of an apartment sized stove and the rust stained, chipped porcelain sink. The dorm room sized refrigerator sat unplugged to the side of the sink and was piled with an untidy stack of dishtowels. The three drawers under the sink were stuffed with odds and ends. And the cabinets loaded with an equally eclectic assortment of stuff from days gone by.

The cabin should be mouse central. But, he saw no sign of the little bastards. There was no telltale reek of droppings or sound of scuffling of tiny feet as he poked around. And certainly the crackers hadn't been nibbled on. But, that didn't necessarily mean the cabin didn't have an uninvited guest or two. He hated mice. His wolf hated mice. They were too small to bother with trying to catch. And his wolf didn't have much use for anything he couldn't eat.

A neatly folded handmade afghan was folded at the end of the twin-sized bed. And the quilt, the ends tucked neatly beneath the mattress, was made of a hodgepodge of fabrics and colors. There were plastic totes shoved under the bed. But, Grant was too tired to go through them. He stretched across the narrow bed and sighed gratefully. His feet hung off the end and the lone pillow under his head was lumpy. He could care less. The finest suite at the Hilton could not beat the simple luxury and comfort of this tiny cabin. Vowing to rest for a just minute before he scrabbled to come up with a plan for the rest of his life his eyelids sank closed. Soon, exhaustion overrode self-preservation and he was fast asleep.







Chapter 20

Tala stretched out on the bed, cuddled in Drew's arms. Completely healed, thanks to his blood. But, Drew still insisted on hovering over her. And he was quite the nursemaid. Tending to her every need. A half eaten tray of food sat on the dresser across the room. Not one to waste, her father picked at the leftovers. The big guy was noticeably uncomfortable, teetering tensely on the edge of an overstuffed leather sofa. Tala wasn't sure if he was so nervous because of the stuffy feeling that came with being below ground or if her coziness with Drew was the more likely culprit. "Dad. Relax."

"Sorry," Nash said, clearing his throat. "Long day." The moment he regained control of his body. Thoughts of her occupied his mind and he rushed to get back to her. He should have been quite relieved at the gentle, compassionate care the vampires lavished on Tala. There was not a doubt in his mind they loved her and considered her as one of their own. But, that very fact brought only more questions.

His last memory of Tala before shifting was of her lying face down in the dirt unconscious and broken. But, here she was, snuggling with Drew, healthy and whole. He should be thrilled about his daughter's glowing health. Instead, thoughts of worry, gnawed away at the back of his mind.

Nash blushed as Drew covered Tala's cheeks with tiny pecks of his lips. The man was completely enamored by her. And she could never have chosen a worthier mate. Strong and protective, Drew's only thought was for her safety and happiness. The room was filled with the sweet, musky, scent of a newly bonded couple. Nash pushed the consequences of the bonding away from his mind. In his mind, Drew and Tala stood the same odds as any other mated pair. Their futures were hopeful, but unclear. Just like everyone else's.

He sipped on a hot mug of freshly brewed coffee and returned Tala's happy smile. Hiding his worry from her eyes. Determined not to ruin her joy. He was her father. He was her pack master. Worrying was his job. And right now, he was doing enough for every soul in the tri-state area.

The strongest of his pack were positioned throughout the territory. Patrolling for any sign of Grant's return. Nash had his doubts that the man was gone for good. But, ultimately, despite the harm his daughter had suffered, he hadn't had it in his heart to kill the man. He wouldn't kill Grant unless there was no other option. Life without a pack was punishment enough, lonely, empty, and human, and far worse than death.

Nash knew how it felt to kill a member of the pack. A relative. During his vie for pack master the old laws were strictly enforced. A fight to the death was exactly that, a fight to the death. If his father had won instead, he would have been forced to do as Nash had been forced to do. Murder his flesh and blood. There were no other options. But, this time, unlike last time, when he'd been forced to kill his father. He had options. And he'd opted out of killing the man who at one time had been as close to him as a son.

Tala's brow wrinkled at the pensive expression on her father's face. He had a lot on his mind and tried to disguise his worry behind a wide smile. But, she knew him better. She was grateful that her father had left Grant alive. Maybe, Grant would be better off without the pack. Maybe, losing the fight and her father's mercy had humbled Grant. And he would be able to move forward in the human world. Live a happy life. Tala opened her mouth to say just that to her father when the door burst open.

"How's my patient?" Thomas asked throwing the door open wide. Out of habit, he put the earpieces of his stethoscope in his ears and took an obligatory listen to her chest. The magic of the blood always fascinated him no matter how many times he saw the healing take place. "Sounds good as new."

Thomas grinned as he saw the pleading expression on the Great Father's face. An expression he'd seen on many a husband's face before. The Great Father wanted to spend some time alone with Tala. And her father wasn't about to budge. Sounding official, Thomas cleared his throat and backpedaled on the clean bill of health he'd been about to issue her. "Ah, I'd recommend getting plenty of sleep, though." He grinned at the almost imperceptible nod of thanks from the Great Father and gathered up his things. "C'mon dad. Your baby girl is fine. But, she needs her rest." Amazed that the bruit didn't protest he guided Tala's father to the door and shot a knowing wink at the Great Father.

"Finally, I've got you all to myself," Drew whispered. His fingers spread wide across the small of Tala's back as he guided her on top. Straddling his thighs. His hips arched to press against the warm, wonderful, V between her thighs. "Wanna play doctor? Thomas left his stethoscope," he growled slyly.

Tala shifted her weight. Pressing down to meet Drew's thrust. His thick erection probed against her pajama bottoms. Teasing her. "I could be the naughty nurse," she giggled playfully. Arching her back as his strong fingers traveled a path down her spine and back up to the tender skin on her neck, she sighed happily. His lips were soft and warm, brushing against hers, seeking out a kiss. Tala pulled back, giving him a peck on the tip of his nose.

"Mmm, Nurse Good Body. I think you need to practice your bedside manner. Just pretend I'm your patient and I need mouth to mouth resuscitation," Drew said. He tilted his chin and tightened his grip on her braid, guiding her mouth to his lips. "We should begin reviving the patient immediately," he breathed against her lips.

"Of course, Doctor." Tala bridged the distance. Sighing as their lips connected and she playfully explored his hard mouth in great detail. The play didn't last long. Clothing abandoned and bodies intertwined, they celebrated the sheer joy of being in love.

"Woman! What have you done?" The Shaman bellowed. His quarters. His private inner sanctum was clean, tidy, and organized. His papers! His work! He'd never find a damned thing amongst all this organization. He snatched the throw carefully disguising his favorite orange chair and flung it to the floor in a huff.

Barbara stared at the fully-grown man, glowering at her. Throwing a major temper tantrum in the middle of the room and making a mess of everything she'd spent the last two hours straightening. She clamped her lips tight and ground her molars in anger. He'd stuffed her in here and left her with nothing to do. She was trying to make herself useful and pass the time by cleaning up after the ungrateful slob. "What's your problem?"

"You. You are my problem," Doc stammered, pointing his index finger at her. He grunted as he sifted through an alphabetized stack of files on his desk. What had the woman done with all of his papers? Outraged, he tossed the files into the air and watched the papers flutter to the floor.

"Me?" Barbara huffed. Moving so fast that she shocked herself. Her temper made worse by her hunger, she snatched a glass jar filled to the brim with something and threw it at him, aiming for his thick skull. He ducked and in a puff of dried brown herbs, the jar shattered into a million pieces on the stone floor. "Happy? Now you have a mess. You want more?" She wrapped her fingers around another jar and threw it without taking aim. The jar broke into a thousand tiny pieces of glass against the wall. Littering the floor with glass and some kind of smelly greenish goop. "Not messy enough? Well here!" She threw jar after jar, smashing them and showering the room in glass and dried, pungent leaves.

The Shaman snatched Barbara's wrist and pulled her against his body. Holding her chest to his chest, and her arms pinned immobile against her side, she grappled to break free. "Stop it! Damn woman, hold still!" he ordered through his tightly clamped fangs. "Stop." The woman was beyond reason. Smashing jars and scattering papers everywhere. He had to do something before she completely destroyed his home.

Barbara screamed in fury. His restraining arms infuriating her further. "Let go of me!" Tears fell, hot and sticky, down her cheeks. Embarrassment and shame completed her humiliation. She wasn't behaving any better than he had. She shouldn't have touched his things. Should have sat quietly in that hideous orange chair and waited for him to return. But cleaning, such a routine act, made her feel normal again. She hadn't felt normal, ordinary, since the moment she'd met him.

"I'm sorry," Barbara sniffled. "I didn't mean any harm. I was trying to do something useful." She sobbed like a little girl. Tears falling in hot torrents down her cheeks. The tears, made her feel worse instead of better. Why not go for broke? Confess everything. He most likely thought she was crazy anyway. "I'm just so scared," she admitted between her sniffles.

"I told you I'd take care of you," Doc said softly. He hated it when women cried. Their tears dissolved the better part of his common sense. And the only thing he could think of was how to make her stop crying. Gently, he smoothed the pads of his thumbs over her cheeks, wiping away the tears. Of course she was frightened. Until a few hours ago, she hadn't even known his world existed. She'd been ready to meet her death. And now, that death would never come for her. He hadn't done a very good job of explaining things to her. He just spent so much time alone Isolated with his thoughts as his companions. He didn't know how to deal with people anymore, especially women.

"You said I was a problem," Barbara huffed between sniffles and heaving sobs. She was acting a fool. Bawling like a baby. And the more she cried, the more embarrassed she became, and in an endless cycle, the more she cried. Now that the tears had started, she wasn't certain they'd ever stop.

"A complication, not a problem," Doc admitted. And maybe, that wasn't the right thing to say. Barbara only cried harder. He had not been this close to a woman in a very long time. Human women didn't hold his interest. The age difference was too great. And conversing with them was like trying to discuss the theory of relativity with a two year old. Quite impossible. But, somehow, Barbara was different. She was smart. Cunning. A survivor. And things he hadn't felt in a long time, sparked to life. A fact that was painfully apparent when she was this close to him and her hip brushing against his groin.

"A complication?" Barbara blinked in disbelief. Doc's hands were gentle on her skin. Soft and timid in their touch. There was something about him that attracted her like a moth to a flame. An energy of some kind that sucked her in, beckoning her closer until she sizzled beneath its raw power. He made her feel. Want things for herself. A luxury she had not indulged since her son's birth. Everything, every decision, every sacrifice she'd ever made had been for Thomas. But, her little boy was a grown man and she could finally want things, decide things, and live for herself.