Dawn's End

He felt like a child, standing between two adults. John Mark had been turned young, perhaps younger than he, but for him there was never a glimmer of doubt. His dad had been through his own share of trials in life. He'd spent his entire adulthood hiding from the very thing that made him who he was. Cole respected them both for the men they were and what they'd endured along the way. He wanted to be like his dad. This wasn't the idol worship of a young boy in awe of his father. It went beyond that. He wanted to be like John Mark, so strong and always so sure. In the end, he knew he'd make his own decision, for better or for worse, and he'd stick to it.

Cole didn't want to risk Maggie. He didn't want to hear her cries of pain and know he'd been the one to cause them. Whether she'd be reborn or not, he didn't want to watch helplessly while she died for him. "I love her, dad. There isn't anything I wouldn't do to make her happy," he answered.

"Even at the risk of losing who you are in the process?" John Mark asked.

Cole ran his fingers along the cross at the hollow of his neck in thought. Only he knew where he'd come from and how far he had to go. The way had not been easy. The transformation from child to adult had been far more difficult than the change from human to vampire. "I know who I am," he answered. "And Maggie, I have faith in her that she knows who she is and what she wants."

John Mark nodded in concession. The honesty from Cole's statement rang true in his head. Cole would have his moments when his faith wavered. Everyone did. Cole would remember the moment of Maggie's birth and regret the pain he would cause her. But, doubt that he'd done the right thing, for both Maggie and himself would never cross his mind again. "Well said. When the time is right, I'll be there for you. You'll always have your brothers and sisters guarding your back. But, this decision is for you and Maggie alone. Maggie's fate is up to the goddess. If the blood finds no holding ground, none of us can intercede."

Cole nodded, "I understand." If his blood wasn't powerful enough or Maggie reacted badly to it, she'd die. No one could do anything to prevent it.

Robert clapped his son on the back in a manly gesture of affection. He was proud of his son, in this moment and all others before and to come. He didn't have the gift of insight that John Mark shared with his son or his eloquence with words. He wasn't sure of exactly how to say the things that needed said most of the time. The best he could do was to be there and offer his support from the sidelines. "That's my boy."

Cole shrugged off his father's arm with a chuckle. His dad wasn't the best at conveying emotions. Most of the time neither was he. But, he knew that his dad was there for him. "So Dad, tell me all about my new step-mom," he said, laughing at his father's embarrassed grin.

Chapter 58

By late morning the nausea had lifted like a thick fog burned away by the morning sun and Shayla felt like herself once again. Tracker was out on patrols. For someone who had never seen more than a light dusting of snow, he'd taken to the cold and ice like an Eskimo. She was tempted to give in and join him. It had been a while since she'd indulged her wolf and given her free run of the woods. She'd willingly stuck to the main house since her last run in with Carter by the barn. She was starting to get a touch of cabin fever.

Bundled within an inch of his life R.J. toddled along the narrow path shoveled through the snow. Perhaps some fresh air would do them both a world of good, Shayla mussed, pausing to give the zipper on R.J.'s winter jacket another tug. R.J. was turning into a curious little boy, venturing off the walkway, marveling at the tiny footsteps left behind in the snow by his clunky, red rubber galoshes. Evan, his older cousin, was a good influence on her son. But, she'd have to start watching R.J. more carefully. Curiosity wasn't always a good thing and as he got older, it could get him into a lot of trouble.

She chased after R.J. as he waddled awkwardly in the boots. They were hand me downs a size too big. He fell on his diapered rump into a shallow pile of snow left by the shovels. He giggled gleefully, in a high pitched little boy laugh, at his new discovery of snow and dug his mittened fingers into the chilly powder.

The day was cold and sunny. The air was clean and fresh. The sky clear and brilliant blue streaked with clouds as pristine white as the snow blanketing the ground. Winter birds chattered back and forth to one another from their nests in the trees. A flock of geese noisily honked as they flew overhead. Shayla took a deep breath and trapped it deep in her lungs as if she could inhale the peacefulness around her and keep it locked inside. If it hadn't been for her early wake up call of nausea, the morning would have been perfect.

Shayla watched her son play in the snow. Shivering beneath the thick layer of her wool coat she rubbed her gloved hands together for warmth. The cold didn't usually bother her. Today, the chill soaked through her coat and heavy sweatshirt down deep into her skin, freezing her to the bone. She gave the hand knitted scarf around her neck a quick tug, tucking it tighter to her jaw. Tracker was close, watching, invisible, from the tree line. Her wolf could sense his nearness. Instinctively, always the mother protecting her young, she inched close enough to R.J. to snatch him away from danger. Tracker wasn't a danger to her son, no matter what his form. She knew this. Tracker was a danger, only to her, more specifically her heart.

Her eyes scanned the brush and brownish black trunks of the trees for some sign of him. He was good, completely hidden, except for the weight of his wolfen stare on her back. Pretending to ignore Tracker was a sure way to flush him out of hiding. Despite his careful nature and watchful eye, he was still a male. His ego wouldn't let him be ignored for very long. A smile crept across her lips as the wolf emerged cautiously from a thick heap of winter bare brush.

His wolf was the most majestic creature she'd ever seen. The Great White Wolf was a thing of beauty and power. But, to her, Tracker had the leader of her pack beat hands down. Large and broad chested built for speed and the chase. Beneath a layer of dense fur, the brown-black and cream brindled markings on his coat, muscles bred for brute strength rippled as he stalked closer. His golden eyes shone with intelligence and determination. The sheer strength of the force of his will, echoed in their depths. Tracker's wolf was not the result of accidental genetics gone right. He was bred for the role of protector and defender-an Omega. The wolf was the culmination of over two centuries of good and carefully plotted breeding and the result was breathtaking.

R.J. cooed and toddled toward the wolf. He was just a baby and had no fear. Nervously, Shayla edged in between them. Thinking Tracker had enough control of his wolf to keep from harming her son would be a careless mistake. The wolf was a predator and R.J., as small and unaware of danger as he was, might look enough like prey to be mistaken for a mid-morning snack. "Brother wolf," she whispered softly, knowing to his sensitive hearing the sound of her whisper would be as loud as a shout. Avoiding eye contact, she focused on her son and how to best protect him.

The wolf, much like the man, conflicted her. Her instinct was to flinch and cower at the contact of his leathery, black nose as it sniffed along her body. The prickling of his power called to the wolf trapped inside of her skin. Her body stiffened and shivered from the energy of her wolf as it clawed at the edges of her mind to be freed. With her son so close, stretching his mittened fingers out to the wolf, she could not afford to lose control now.

The wolf crouched on his belly and crawled toward R.J. His long, thick, bushy tail thumped on the frozen ground stirring plumes of soft, white, snowy powder up into the air with the motion. R.J. giggled and rushed the wolf. Shayla held her breath, expecting the worst. Amazed when Tracker's wolf yipped and rolled onto his back, paws folded back on long, powerful legs for a belly rub. The breath eased from her lips at Tracker's gentleness as his wolf indulged R.J., playfully rolling in the snow with her son.

She watched the duo romp in the snow. R.J. chased the wolf, his steps awkward in the heavy rubber boots. When R.J. stumbled and fell, Tracker's wolf gently nudged him back onto his feet. Shayla was awestruck by the control- the communion of spirit-Tracker had with his wolf. She'd always been at odds with her wolf. Combating for control of the body they shared. Tracker had a casual relationship with his wolf. He accepted who and what he was with a grace Shayla knew she could never manage.

Watching Tracker's wolf play with her son tugged at her heart. Bringing back a myriad of old pains and regrets for all the things she'd wanted for herself as a child and had never gotten. Her parents hadn't been the best of teachers. They married and had children, as expected. They were at odds with each other and their marriage had been a rocky one at best. Unfortunately, they had not given Shayla or her sister a happy home life, or an ounce of affection. Shayla always felt like she was born, not out of love, but out of duty. Her parents had done what was required, produced offspring, nothing more and nothing less.

The elders and her parents hadn't given a damn about emotional compatibility of the couples they mated up. Only the planned genetic outcome of the children they'd produce. She got lucky, so lucky when, on her wedding day, she married someone she could actually love and not simply struggle to tolerate.

She tried not to dwell on the unchangeable past. But, when she least expected it, the feelings she forced away from the forefront of her mind crept up on her. She'd see Ramon in the gesture of her son's hand or in an expression on his young face. Catch a scent that took her back and reminded her of him. She missed the simplicity of Ramon. The easy, uncomplicated way they had with one another. Maybe, it wasn't a bad thing to miss him, but it was a bad thing to cling to his memory and use it as an excuse to screw up every relationship she'd had since his death.

She missed him. Not as painfully as she had in the beginning, but she still missed and loved her husband. Sometimes, even though she chastised herself for the emotion. She was still angry that he'd sacrificed himself for the greater good and left her and a son he'd never even known about behind.

It wasn't easy to admit how wrong she'd been. How she'd used her husband's death to drive a wedge into her heart. She didn't want anyone to take his place. Ever. She didn't want to love with all of her heart only to lose again. She was every bit as bad as Carter. Perhaps, worse. His romance with his guilt and hers was with her undying love for her grief. That was what had drawn them to one another in the first place. They were both a FUBARed mess and misery loved company. Of course, it all made sense. She'd fallen in love with Carter. Chosen him, because she knew she was safe. He could never love her back. His love came at a price and with limits. Just like hers did. They were a perfect, twisted and dysfunctional match.

Her realization would have been laughable, if it hadn't been so damned pathetic. Naturally, she would keep Tracker at arm's length. He offered her a love without limits or boundaries. That she could accept his love and offer it in return scared the shit out of her. She didn't want to be open and vulnerable, capable of being devastated by his loss. She wanted distance from her lover, cool, detached, emotionless distance. What she NEEDED was so different from what she WANTED. She'd been a fool not to see the truth. What she needed was Tracker.

How Tracker's psyche had escaped the harsh training of his youth, she didn't know. But, he was capable of so much more than she'd ever be. Maybe it was the Omega in him that knew no fear. He gave love so freely, so confidently, completely unhampered by the possibility of loss. He was the better wolf and the better person. She couldn't fathom what he saw in her, or why he kept hanging on, patiently waiting for her to get on board with the plan.

Her breath made fluffy, white plumes of steam in the air. The wolf nudged R.J. toward her with his muzzle. She resisted the urge to reach out and stroke the fur she knew would be so warm, thick, and soft beneath her fingertips. No matter how tame he seemed. Petting a wolf that could snap off her hand at the wrist with one powerful bite wasn't a good idea. She bent and lifted R.J. into her arms. He wiggled, trying to reach his newly found playmate. Shayla could feel the wail of her son's protest building in his tiny chest. Wanting to get him halfway to the porch before he let loose with one of his famous temper tantrums, she hustled toward the path.

The wolf sat, watching her carry R.J. to the walkway carved into the snow. Tracker was almost too good. Almost so good in his quiet execution of perfection that she couldn't help the twinge of jealousy rising in her chest. He wasn't perfect she rationalized, just better at hiding his imperfections than she was.

He loved her. He loved her son. He was gentle with the both of them beyond fault. That didn't make him perfect. She knew deep down, no matter how much he loved R.J. He wanted a child of his own. She'd caught that gleam in his eye more than once after they'd made love. The glimmer of hope that this time would be the time it happened.

She stopped just outside the front door and plopped R.J. onto his feet, brushing the stray bits of snow off of his winter clothes. She wasn't ready for another baby, just yet. Her personal life was such a mess. A baby should wait until she'd gotten it all figured out. However, she wasn't taking precautions to prevent a baby. Pregnancies were so rare that she had given in to Tracker after their fight about birth control. To him, and most of the pack, preventing pregnancy, was considered shirking on one's social responsibility to further the race. She didn't really think it was possible to get pregnant anyway. R.J. was a miracle in his own right. The odds were against her. Nobody got that lucky twice. Right?

Chapter 59

Carter played chess with O'Sullivan to pass the time. O'Sullivan's time was growing precariously short day by day. It looked like Bianca and most of the compound was going to get their wish. The Great Father had passed sentence and O'Sullivan was to be executed at dawn on New Year's Day, less than a week from today. Eric took his upcoming execution gracefully, with a kind of hard, stoic determination that Carter was more known for than his maker. Carter fingered the pawn and slid it back into place. Much like in life, Eric had out maneuvered him and left him damned to lose no matter what move he made. With a chuckle and a huff, he moved a piece across the board and gave Eric the victory.

O'Sullivan returned Carter's chuckle and claimed the board. "You never were much of a chess player," he chastised. "Too predictable." He stared at Carter. His eyes wandered over the planes of Carter's cheeks, taking in the hard line of his chiseled nose and contrasting fullness of his mouth. Blond curls, ranging in shades from platinum to spun gold, tousled in a wild tangle away from his face, hung to his jaw in a shaggy mess, softening the hard jut of a too narrow chin. "I chose well when I chose beauty over brains, it seems."

Carter rewarded Eric, tilting the corners of his mouth up in a soft, but bitter smile. "I don't think I ever forgave you for that," he said. Carter was around five hundred years old. The way he figured it, he should have been at least ten times dead by now if Eric hadn't seen him and taken an interest. Carving a life out of the stubborn Irish soil had made him strong and lean. Perhaps, at some point, he should have thanked Eric for rescuing him from a certain death by starvation. But, he'd never been exactly as thankful he should have been, given what he had gotten in exchange.

O'Sullivan's fingers were rough on his cheek. Eric was no lover of men, but Carter knew he was the exception to the rule. All Eric had ever wanted from him was love in return. Too bad Carter had been so filled by hate for his maker and self-loathing and guilt about all the things he'd done that could never be undone. That only at the end was he beginning to understand. A long life didn't necessarily make one wiser. He mussed, wincing at the twinge of guilt in his gut. The chains attached to Eric's wrists rattled softly from the disturbance, dragging Carter back into the present.

Carter forced his eyes open. O'Sullivan was as beautiful as any vampire could ever hope to be. Even in his current state, filthy and chained, his skin smeared with his dried blood, Carter could see Eric for the man he was. Eric had a hard beauty, rugged lines and sharp planes, made all the more so by his hair. The deep walnut shoulder length ponytail, held tightly from his face by a rubber band instead of his usual gold clasp. Carter reached up and held the fingers that cupped his face, so gently, with the palm of his hand. "It will be all right."

Eric smiled, so rarely was Carter this gentle with him. They'd wasted at least a dozen lifetimes trying to kill each other. Eric had forgotten how it had been in the beginning when Carter practically worshiped him as a god and as deliverer from the inevitable outcome of his existence. Those were innocent and tender days. Then, his son grew to hate him, and worse, himself. "I know."

Eric rustled in his chains as Carter stood, breaking their contact. "How many days?" Chained down in this dark hole like a rabid dog, he'd lost track of exactly how long he'd been down here. Time had little meaning when one waited for death's embrace. Still, he was curious.

Carter cleared his throat and took a deep breath. The air in this hole was stale and thick with the sweet scent of Eric's blood. He'd tried to divert his maker by providing him with crayons of every color of the rainbow and reams of drawing paper. Instead, O'Sullivan continued to work on the masterpiece, now occupying the entire corner wall of the cell, in his own blood. "Five," he said. His voice cracked under the strain of his whisper. Five days to live. Five days to wait for death.

He was surprised when Eric didn't recoil in terror at the thought of his own death. Instead, O'Sullivan shrugged his shoulders and said, "Oh." Slicing a small tear in his skin with a fingernail, he turned his attention to his morbid art, ignoring Carter's retreat from the cell.

Chapter 60

For early afternoon, the bar was hopping. Robert pushed his way to an empty stool at the far end of the counter and studied a stained, grease spattered menu. He had a sudden craving for something a little on the less than healthy side. Maybe the special of the day, a burger piled high with crispy bacon and a heaping side of fries. Sounded great. Patiently waiting for his turn, he watched Cindy handle the crowd with graceful ease. She smiled and nodded in his direction, pouring a drink with one hand as she doled out change to a customer with the other.

Robert had tried bartending once to make ends meet. At the time Jess had been hugely pregnant with Cole and without health insurance the bills were beginning to pile up. Back then his art was a long way from being trendy or anything remotely popular. As a starving artist with a wife and a baby on the way, he'd needed the money. Bartending was not as fun or as easy as Cindy made it look.

His trial run behind the bar had been a complete flop. After his first week, he'd been asked not to come back neither as a bartender or a customer. That failure had been the first of many times he'd let Jess and his son down. Maybe, he should have told her the truth back then. That he'd failed so miserably because he couldn't control his gift. He hadn't been able to keep people and their thoughts out of his head.