Dawn's End

"Is this solely a social call or did you have another, more dire reason for interrupting me?" O'Sullivan asked. He was unnerved by the Great Father's stare boring holes into his psyche. "I can only assume you've come to discuss my impending demise. Spare me the details. We both lived long enough to know dead is dead."

"I don't want to kill you," Drew said. His brows shot up at O'Sullivan's expression of surprise. He had expected a speech. A long line of bullshit, promises, vows, whatever words O'Sullivan thought might buy his freedom.

O'Sullivan leaned against the wall and rested his forearms on his knees. "The way I see it. This can only have only one of two possible outcomes. Of course, you know which one I'd prefer. But, I don't think the other option would fair very well for you. Your Sons rely more on reputation than on steel to maintain a fragile peace amongst the vampires. If word gets out that you let me go, you'll have more rogues on your hands than you can possibly hope to contain. Can't kill us all, can you? You're outnumbered and you know it."

"And you've maneuvered yourself into a very tight corner," Drew countered. O'Sullivan was a powerful man. He was right though. The Sons couldn't afford to let him live. Yet, at the same time, Drew dreaded Eric's death. Drew crossed his right leg over his left in a casual gesture and tapped his fingers on his knee. "Help me to understand, if you will. What was worth risking exposing us all? I lost many men and I'd like to know why."

O'Sullivan grinned. Now he understood why his execution had been delayed. There was no need for wordplay. The time for that particular course of action was long past. "Immortality."

"You've walked this earth for over a thousand years and you long for immortality?"

"We all die. You know that better than most. You have what I want, the true key to immortality. A child."

On the wings of O'Sullivan's unexpected confession, Drew left the room and the vampire confined within. Anything else that could have escaped Eric O'Sullivan's mouth, he could have believed. But, a child? Drew didn't know what to do with that. O'Sullivan had no remorse over his acts. He had no pity for his victims or the casualties of this war started by his design. By rights, the man had a death sentence on his head. By law, out of consequence for his actions, O'Sullivan had to die.

Drew walked through the subterranean compound, his shoulders heavy with the weight they bore. The need for fresh air was almost overwhelming. With a whoosh, the inches thick magnetic steel door closed behind him. Outside, the world was just beginning to awaken to a glittering dawn. Densely wooded forests laden with the smell of fresh pine and frosty essence of newly fallen snow surrounded the steep hillside that hid his home from prying eyes.

He wound through the woods, seeing the solace of the Son's holy place. Quiet and magic surrounded him as he stepped from the thickets of spindly brush and barren branches onto the bluff. It was rumored that here, the will of the Goddess was whispered on the wind, if one had the inclination to listen. He prayed that she would whisper to him now, ease the turmoil in his soul at the burden of the duty he was bound to carry forth.

Snow pack, uninterrupted by the tread of feet stretched out between the walls of jagged steely gray stone. Spindly pockets of dried yellow-brown brush brave enough to find purchase on their craggy surface rustled in the icy gusts of wind. Sheets of snow crunched beneath Drew's feet as he breeched its unmarred surface. He sank into drifts up to his calves, plodding his way thorough gracelessly to the cliff's steep, rocky edge. Winds, like an unseen hand, pushed at his back to swirl and punch him in the chest. Below, nestled deep in a valley, the town shook off its drowsy slumber and woke to greet the oncoming day.

He lifted his chin to the winds and tossed back his head. Breezy fingers tugged at his hair, freeing it from the leather thong at the base of his scalp to dance on the currents of icy wind. He was just a bit over two hundred years old and already he felt the burden of time creeping up on him. Layer by layer events built one on top of another like rings in a tree. He tried to remember what it was like to be human and couldn't. After two hundred short years, so many things had been lost to the ebb and flow of days.

O'Sullivan was over a thousand years old. So many layers. So many experiences. Drew could only guess at the things the man had seen and done in his life. Cutting that long, long life short because of an edict that was not of his making only his duty to carry forth was inconceivable. "Goddess please! Give me strength!" The angst in his voice carried over the howling winds and echoed its agony off the stone towers.

Chapter 51

Megan idly watched her mother bustle around the living room, packing Christmas back into its red plastic totes. The whirr of the vacuum cleaner was deafening and the sickening sweet scent of lemon furniture polish made her stomach roll. Her dad balanced precariously on the top rung of a rickety ladder, removing the star from the top of a gargantuan artificial tree.

Her parents hadn't drafted her into helping them demolish Christmas as they usually did. Everyone was careful around her. Too careful. She had another week of forced cheer and overly attentive coddling before the New Year rolled around and school finally started back in session. For once, she found herself looking forward to going back to class and hopefully, some sense of normalcy.

She wasn't much of a student. The straight C average she usually carried certainly wasn't going to get her into Princeton or Yale. Homework was hard. Yet, she'd spent most of last night, hour after hour pounding away at her PC doing just that. Her research wasn't going to up her GPA or change her teacher's perceptions of her studiousness. Insomnia and curiosity was a recipe for trouble. The Internet was a virtual treasure trove of information. Folklore mostly, maybe, a little fact hidden in the fiction, she didn't know for sure. But, what she did know was that she wasn't the only one who believed vampires were real.

During her search, clicking on website after website, scanning the contents for what she believed to be credible information, she stumbled on a site. The site was obscure, stashed away behind a series of links. But, she'd found it. There was no question as to who was featured in the fifteen- second capture of video footage or what he was. Decked out in leather and fanged, she'd almost not recognized him from the poised, polished boy who had escorted Maggie to the prom.

Maggie wasn't her favorite person. Megan was a grade behind Maggie and just now halfway though her senior year. They definitely ran in different social circles. The fact that Glenn had dumped Maggie and asked her to the prom instead definitely hadn't helped their non-friendship either. She needed answers and Maggie was her key to solving the mystery. To get the facts and sort out what she remembered from the truth everyone expected her to swallow. She was willing to put their differences aside and pay the girl a visit.

Megan pulled on her boots. The leather was stiff with the newness of them. "Mom, I'm going for a walk," she yelled over the roar of the vacuum cleaner. Pulling her coat on over a thick fleecy hoodie she headed out before her mother could issue a protest and put her to work. Maggie was in college and out of the high school drama scene completely. She hoped Maggie had forgotten about the Glenn fiasco and didn't hold grudges. She had no one else to turn to.

Chapter 52

Bianca faced off against Carter. She should have known better. No, she knew better. She just forgot the most important lesson of all, to listen to her gut instincts and forgo the meeting altogether. The clandestine secrecy of the invitation should have tipped her off. Frowning down at the mud marring the tips of her designer boots, she shivered in her equally expensive coat and remembered why and exactly how much she hated nature. She was a city girl and being surrounded by so much of God's country was certainly putting a cramp in her style. Of course, Michael was right at home in the rural setting, but she missed her city. "It's bad form to speak of the dead," she reminded Carter.

Carter glowered at Bianca. He'd chosen this place, far enough away from the compound to be free of ears that might overhear and eyes that might see. Even though immune to the legends of sunlight, few vampires ventured out into the brightness of the day. Thick copses of barren trees shielded them from view of the casual passerby. Farmland, flat and snow covered stretched for miles on all sides. "He's not dead."

"Yet," Bianca added, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. The sunlight was uncomfortable. Even behind the shielding of black lenses specifically designed to block out the rays, she felt the tinges of a headache begin to blossom at the back of her skull.

Carter's scowl deepened. They'd been out here arguing over the dispensation of their former master for over an hour and in that time, nothing had been accomplished. "And if the Great Father grants him clemency?"

Bianca shrugged casually. "He won't. Above all else, he loves his precious law. And even if by some unfathomable reason he should. I've got a backup plan. Besides, you should be grateful for my help. You put Yessette down like a rabid dog. Not that I'm not saying she didn't deserve it. Relax. Soon this problem will be out of our hair. Besides, isn't it nice to sit back and let someone else do the dirty work for a change?"

Carter towered over Bianca, staring down at her petite frame. He was at least a foot taller than she. In her designer outerwear, she looked as out of place as a raisin in a bowl of white rice in the rustic, wild surroundings. She played the harmless female role her appearance lent itself to, to the hilt. He knew better. Bianca was the epitome of the word bitch. She took fighting dirty to a whole new level. Anyone who was stupid enough to underestimate her was dead. The years hadn't softened her at all. If anything they made her harder and much, much more dangerous. "A plan?"

"Of course." The woods echoed with the feminine lilt of her voice. "I personally think we should have a raffle to see which one of us gets the honor of finishing him off. The list of people who want him dead is long and varied. I'd think you'd be right at the top of it. You haven't had a change of heart in your regards to our maker, have you?"

Carter stiffened at Bianca's flippant attitude about ending Eric's life. His thoughts were conflicted about Eric's end. There weren't many happy times to be remembered and plenty of bad blood between the two of them. For centuries, he'd sought to end him himself. With time running short, he begrudged the twinge of loyalty that stirred in his gut. How many sins had he himself committed that were worthy of the Son's merciless blade. Too many. Yet, while he was spared, O'Sullivan would die. There were reasons, good ones, for his former master's death, but there were just as many for his own.

He'd tried to be his own executioner. Set right the scales. When the end drew near, he faltered. Cowardice and self-preservation kicked in. By design, vampires were hard to kill. Death by suicide was virtually impossible. If only it was as easy as folklore made it out to be. A quick stroll into the noonday sun and poof, no more vampire. Reality didn't work that way.

"O'Sullivan is too dangerous to leave alive," Carter begrudgingly admitted. His former master was beyond salvation or rescue. Even if Eric confessed to a change of heart, it was only a matter of time. O'Sullivan had gone too far. Put too many at risk. He'd almost revealed the reality of their existence to humans. If sin were measured in degrees, that sin alone called for his death. O'Sullivan had no remorse for his actions. No pity for anyone. He loved the game too much to stop playing it now.

"So we agree," Bianca said triumphantly. She expected more of a fight out of Carter than the thin resistance he offered up in opposition.

With a grunt of acknowledgment, Carter nodded his head. "Eric knows there's no way out. I gave him my word." He heard regret, thick and heavy in his voice. "I promised him a good death." Carter fisted his hands in the pockets of his winter jacket. "I can't change what is to come, but I will stand by my vow."

Bianca shrugged. Ah, there was the Carter she'd come to know, steely, determined, and as bound by his guilt as ever. Even if Eric's death was justified and it was, Carter would feel guilty about being the one to do the deed. His guilt might come in handy later on. "More than he deserves, but very well. One of his own sending him to the gates of Hell, poetic don't you think?"

Carter pushed back a thick strand of hair that had gotten caught in the frost laden wind to blow into his eyes. Bianca spent more time coordinating her outfit than she did pondering the demise of her maker. She was such a bitch, one hundred percent, a cold, heartless, ruthless bitch. He'd helped Eric to make her that way. "You know, if the Great Father lets Eric off, your little plan could start a war."

"Our plan," she corrected. "Don't underestimate us. The Great Father doesn't. Do you really think he'll risk peace for the sake of one life? He's far too politically minded for that. The Guardians have changed a lot since you abandoned us for the sake of love. Oh, and by the way, Carter, how's that working out for you?"

"And Michael? What does the faithful Son think of this little plan of yours?"

"Touche, my brother, touché,'" she huffed. After regaining her composure and stuffing away her doubts, she lifted her sunglasses and pushed them back onto her nose. Carter was a masochist, enduring the light of day, hiding the pain of the sunlight with a stony expression stretched across his features. How he loved his self-inflicted pain. "We're of an accord?"

"Yes," Carter answered. "O'Sullivan dies."

Chapter 53

Shayla awoke to a tooth chattering, skull pounding bout of nausea. Dizzily, she made her way to the bathroom. With a moan, head resting on the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl, she fumbled for a towel. Werewolves didn't get the flu. Nevertheless, here she was on her hands and knees desperately fighting to keep last night's supper in her stomach. Tracker sleepily shuffled toward the bathroom, wet a cloth, and pressed it to her forehead. Grateful for the sentiment and the cold dampness of the washcloth, she pressed her hand over his fingers and mumbled an embarrassed thanks.

"Better?" Tracker asked. Shayla nodded and pushed her body up off the floor. Strange, how they'd seen each other naked, yet the thought of puking in front of him mortified her. He offered a sympathetic nod and reached around her to moisten the washcloth with cool water from the tap. Resigned to the fact that she was sick, she let Tracker tuck her into bed. He fluffed her pillows, pulled the blankets to her chin, and draped the damp washcloth across her forehead with the efficiency of the world's finest nursemaid. "Tea?" he asked in a soft voice.

Shayla nodded. Nana's tea could fix anything. The stuff was terrible. Bitter and earthy tasting herbs brewed just this side of scalding. But, she was desperate enough to give it a try. From her perch of pillows and blankets she watched Tracker pull on a pair of jeans and cast a glance at her over his shoulder before he headed down the hall to the kitchen. The expression on his face was unreadable, worry and...something she couldn't identify.

Nestled in the warmth of the blankets with her stomach still quivering with nausea. Talking herself into believing that some virus had simply invaded her body's hypervigilant immune system was simple. After all, the world was filled with them. Concoctions for relief of the symptoms they caused lined every drug store shelf in America. She'd just drawn the lucky straw and come down with some twenty-four hour bug. Nothing more. Even though, she'd never suffered as much as a sniffle in her life. Still, a virus was a perfectly logical and plausible explanation. She clung to her self-diagnosis like a lifeline, refusing to contemplate any deeper meaning to her bout of the flu.

Tracker dutifully transferred a few carefully measured pinches of dried herbs from the canister on the kitchen counter top into a steeper. On the stove, the water heated in a copper teakettle. Nana watched over him and her tea with the shrewdness of a hawk protecting her young. He hadn't said a word about his suspicions or Shayla's illness. Shayla needed time to accept what he'd already realized.

Yet, Nana, wrinkled as an apple left to dry in the sun, frail as a sheet as tissue paper, oldest of their kind had already put two and two together. With a huff, she elbowed him out of the way and poured the steaming water from the kettle into the mug, dropping in the steeper. Her eyes wandered to the ceiling and the bedroom one story up and to him, back and forth. Satisfied that her special blend had steeped to perfection, she thrust the mug in Tracker's hands. Lips pursed, with a tired grunt, she ambled back into her favorite corner of the living room and picked up her crochet work.

Shayla heard Tracker's feet on the tread of the stairs. Dutifully delivering the tea to her. Her disobedient stomach did flip-flops between her ribs as she pushed up higher onto the pillows. Nobody knew what was really in the tea. What special mix of herbs blended together to make it taste so horrible or work so well to battle a wide variety of ailments. Every family shaman had a special blend handed down from generation to generation. Shayla didn't care what was in the tea as long as it sent her flu running like a dog with its tail between its legs. "You shouldn't get too close. I don't want you to catch the flu," she mumbled weakly as Tracker came into the room.

Tracker gently sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle Shayla by the movement. The mug was still steaming, faintly burning the tips of his fingers with the heat. He held the mug to her lips and prompted her to take a drink with a light smile. Inside, he was beaming, eager to announce the news to the world. Shayla was deep in denial. Soon enough, she would have to face the truth. She was about to become a mother, and he, a very, very proud papa. "I'm not worried," he said, stifling a grin as he urged her to drink.

Chapter 54

Robert could have stayed in bed all day with the angel tucked against his side. He'd never awakened so relaxed and eager to face a morning in his life. Or, if he had, it'd been way too long ago to recall. Blonde hair splayed across her bare shoulders, the ends tickling across his chest as he breathed in the scent of her so thick in the air. She smelled of good, expensive, smoky flavored, dark whisky mixed with a dash of sweet cherry wine.

He would have been content to stay exactly where he was, snuggled in the warm bed, with all that smooth bare skin tucked against his side if not for the annoying buzz of his cell phone. Brows furrowed in irritation, he stretched as far over the edge of the bed as he could to feel for the phone on the nightstand. Then he remembered. The phone was stuffed in the hip pocket of his jeans, which were still in a heap on the living room floor. After making love beneath a half demolished Christmas tree neither one of them had bothered much with modesty from that point on. They had simply kissed and pawed at each other, explored the foreignness of new flesh, and moved into the bedroom for round two, and three, and maybe a forth before collapsing into a spent and exhausted slumber.

The phone chirped and buzzed in demanding. He would have liked to ignore the nuisance of modern technology well into the afternoon. Apparently, the caller burning up his cell phone had other plans. Carefully, sliding free of the warmth of Cindy's body and the bed, he grumbled at the phone, promising the caller an earful of his most creative explicative curses when he returned the call.