Dawn's End

Drew was on his feet with blade drawn and fangs extended for battle when the door to his private chambers burst open and unannounced visitors stormed inside. He sheathed his dagger and retracted his fangs when he smelled the gentle, rich and sweet scent of humans. "You should knock before barging in," he chastised the girls.

"Sorry," Maggie mumbled. She'd committed one of the biggest no-no's in the rule book. Barging in on the Great Father. It was an unspoken, unwritten rule that you didn't go seek out the Great Father. If he wanted you, he'd find you. It was a rule that until now, she'd gratefully adhered to. She'd just been so frustrated by Megan's accusations. Angered by the girl's fear. She hadn't thought about the ramifications of brining her into the inner sanctum of the Sons till now. If Megan hadn't known too much before, she definitely did now.

The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. Chris had the ability to ease negative emotions. This room definitely needed some calm before things got any further out of hand. She released a bit of cheer into the air to neutralize the agitation and fear that swirled around the atmosphere like a mass of dark, heavy storm clouds. "I think someone's dirty," she said, patting the baby gently on her diapered butt.

Tala rose to her feet and followed Chris and Dane to the door. Chris had tried to give the baby back to her after the announcement that there was a diaper in need of changing. Laughing lightly, Tala said, "Finders keepers. You found the dirty diaper. You get to change it." Gently, she closed her husband and the two human girls in the room behind her. The door shut with a soft snick of the latch.

Drew watched his wife and his second leave the room. Dane's wife had helped to relieve some of the negative tension in the air with her uncanny ability. But, it was still present, radiating off the two girls in waves. "Megan, this is an unexpected surprise. Please, take off your coat and have a seat."

Megan wrenched the sleeve of her coat out of Maggie's fist and wound her arms tightly across her stomach. "I prefer to stand."

Drew arched a brow at the girl's defiance. She was frightened out of her wits, trembling and heart racing in terror. The scent of fear hovered around her like an acrid, inky cloud. He'd hoped to avoid this. He'd hoped she'd believe the story Mack gave the press and let the matter go. Of course, she hadn't. Humans never did. They never saw past the horror to wonder at the miracle that they were still alive after a run in with one of his kind.

As terrified as she was, he doubted the reason for her visit was a social call. Maggie had brought the girl here for a reason. Obviously, she'd tried and failed to contain the situation on her own. "You have nothing to fear here. Take your coat off. Sit. Be at ease."

If Megan thought the other vampires were scary, the one looming over her was down right terrifying. He was not as big as some of the others she'd encountered. But, the presence he commanded seemed to take up the entire room. He spoke with an air of authority that told her not many people said no to him. The bronzed skin stretched tightly over his high cheekbones and hawk like nose was lined was smooth. Laugh lines etched the corners of his mouth and broad lips. Silver strands of hair were wound though a thick black braid that ended just above his wide shoulders. He was dressed casually in faded jeans and a t-shirt. There was nothing casual about him though. His brown eyes, so dark they were almost black, told the tale of many lifetimes worth of experience that his body didn't show. He was a vampire. Even though she didn't see any fangs. Somehow she knew. She sensed that he was a leader, perhaps THE LEADER, and that he had the answers she do desperately needed.

Because she wanted to, not because he ordered her to, Megan slid out of her coat and took a seat on the buttery soft leather sofa. Despite Janine's admiration of her boots, she wished she'd worn her tennis shoes. The boots, with their high heel and pointed toe, were killing her feet. She looked down at the boots in question and focused on the rug beneath them. Breathing through her terror, she brought her eyes up to meet his face. Tears she hadn't expected welled beneath her lids. "I need the truth, please."

Drew dismissed Maggie with a nod of his head. Satisfied that at least she could take orders when she left without an argument and gently closed the door behind her. The girl's tears scented the room with the gentle fragrance of a spring rain. Her reality had been greatly altered today. She tried to still her trembling fingers by balling the coat on her lap into her fists. He crouched, resting the backs of his thighs on the heels of his boots, in front of her and slid her fists free of the coat, neatly laying fabric out on the couch beside her. If he ever had a question as to why he did what he did, fought the battles he fought, the salty tears rolling down the girl's cheek were his answer.

Gently, he wrapped his fingers around the girl's trembling fists. She was so tiny. So new to life, barely a woman. Her hands so small, his palms completely engulfed them. "Megan," he said softly, "do you trust me?"

"I...I don't know," Megan sniveled. His hands were softer and warmer than she expected. She'd read all the popular teenage vampire books and had a huge collection of them on the shelves in her room. Vampires were supposed to be cold and lifeless. He felt very much alive and very human. "I guess so."

"Good," Drew soothed. "Because I'm going to have to trust you." Reluctantly, she lifted her eyes to meet his stare. That was a start. She didn't scoot away when he moved to get comfortable. He sat at her feet with her hands clutched in the warmth of his and told her of the secrets history never learned.

Chapter 62

Carter stood on the ridge staring out into the deep valley below. Sundown tinted the sky in shades of purple and deep indigo. The snow, garish and white in the light of day, dimmed to a soft gray color in the fading light. The people who lived in the tiny town carved into the heart of the valley shuffled about, settling in for a long, dark, cold winter's night. He wasn't alone on the sloping ridge of the Son's most sacred place. Her footsteps were soft and light on the frozen ground. "I never thought I'd say this. After all the years of hating him and wishing him dead, I almost regret it," he confessed.

Bianca approached the edge of the high ridge. From this vantage point, she felt as if she were looking down at the very edge of the world. Carter didn't have to specify which him he was talking about. She knew. For all the hatred and disdain they shared for their maker, regret hung heavy in the space between them. There was a tie, a special bond between child and sire and that bond was about to be torn in two. "Almost."

The leather sleeve of Bianca's jacket creaked as she slid her arm through his. A sigh escaped her lips and the chill of her cheek seeped though his coat and deep into his bones. Her head was light, resting on his shoulder. They were about to become orphans, he thought to himself. He could only guess at what Eric must have thought when he made them. Did he weep tears of joy or tears of regret for the betrayal his children would someday commit?

Endless sunsets stretched before Carter. Eric had only four left. He imagined this must be how the family of a dying man must feel. The thoughts they must think as they waited for the sentence to be carried out. The sun sank behind the treetops, bathing them in one final wash of golden light before the darkness crept in. He'd miss his father. If nothing else, Eric had given him something to hate. In his absence Carter would have no one to hate but himself.

The stars gleamed dully over head, becoming brighter as the velvet black curtain of night draped across the sky. Bianca said nothing. What more was there to say? She'd dedicated her life to becoming a worthy child. And now, her father was to die. In a way, she was sorry. Regret was a harsh mistress to serve. Guilt was even harsher in her punishments. O'Sullivan deserved to die, but she'd miss the old son of a bitch when he was gone.

Carter would go on, reveling in guilt and regret like a man in his lover's arms. She'd push hers deep into the corner of her psyche and never think of them again. The three of them had done plenty in their long lives to earn the Son's wrath. Eric would suffer the ultimate punishment for all of their sins. Death it seemed was as unfair as life. "Will you come in out of the cold?"

Carter looked down at Bianca. Her words were soft as silk drawn over bare skin. Their father had chosen well when he made her. How effortlessly her beauty hid her beast. There was plenty left unsaid between them. But, what else was there to say? They both knew what was to come had to be done and there was no point in rehashing the subject. They'd had their moment as brother and sister, sheltering one another in the comfort of understanding arms, searching for absolution that they'd done plenty wrong and that their father, for all his faults, was willing to die to absolve them from their guilt. He turned back to stare into the depths of the valley down below as Bianca slid her arm free from his and slipped into the darkness of night.

Chapter 63

Cole glared down at O'Sullivan. The man didn't even have the decency to cower in the corner like the coward he was. After an hour of talking, Cole had finally coaxed Will into letting him inside the cell. It wasn't like he was going to let the bastard out or anything. Cole just wanted a few moments alone with the son of a bitch who had killed Rachael. A little bonding time before the son of a bitch's head was permanently separated from his neck. "Do you know what this is?" he asked, gripping the gold cross around his neck. "Do you even remember who it belonged to?"

O'Sullivan glanced up from his morbid painting. In the past few days he had become quite the artist. Hilly landscapes painted in blood in meticulous, painstaking detail. The faces of people he'd long since forgotten all etched with a fingernail on cinder block with the blood from his veins. Blood...so precious...so powerful...so sacred. Yet, he was still going to die. When the time came, he'd be too weak to fight. Four days wasn't a lot of time. To him though, those days looming ahead of him seemed to stretch out like an eternity.

He glanced up at the warrior with casual indifference. Little more than a boy, this warrior was more powerful than he, given the circumstances. The muscles in the warrior's forearm clenched tightly as he gripped the strip of leather around his neck. O'Sullivan knew he was in no position to piss off anyone chained up like this, like a dog. But, he couldn't resist. Obviously, the gold cross was an object of some significance to the boy. "Some useless bauble?" he guessed, stifling a grin at the barely contained expression of rage on the boy's face.

Cole's muscles fired in rapid sequence, crossing the narrow distance between him and O'Sullivan. The chains groaned from the strain of the sudden violence as Cole gripped the bastard by the throat and gave him a hard shake. A mere hair's breadth from face to face, he glared into cold eyes that held no regret or remorse over Rachael's death. The son of a bitch didn't remember. "A year ago on a deserted street," Cole gritted, barely able to contain his rage as he gave O'Sullivan's memory a hard jarring. "You murdered a girl. Tore out her throat and left her to bleed to death on the sidewalk. Sound familiar?"

O'Sullivan closed his eyes and drew a ragged breath. Instinctively, he scrabbled to defend himself. His fingers pulled uselessly at the thick hands that held him by the throat. The Great Father wasn't going to get a chance to execute him. The boy was going to do it for him, here and now.

Outraged by the blankness on O'Sullivan's face Cole wailed out a cry of sheer rage. The bastard had the balls to scrabble for his life. His thin fingers gripped uselessly at Cole's wrists. If he killed him before the execution, there'd be hell to pay. Damned if the thought didn't cross his mind. He'd rip off the son of a bitch's head with his bare hands and bathe in his blood.

With a scream of fury, Cole threw O'Sullivan into the wall sending a shower of concrete dust into the air. His body shook with the fury of his rage. In his head synapses fired in rapid succession. The brothers were coming. John Mark's warning was loud and clear, echoing in his mind. Fists clenched so tightly his nails pressed into his palms and drew blood. The warm trickle flowed down his fingertips. Forcing his feet to move, he withdrew to the far wall of the cell before he did something that would make him no better than the bastard cowering in the corner. O'Sullivan's death, although he'd fantasized about it for over a year, would not bring her back. "Her name was Rachael and she was eighteen years old. This," he said, clasping his fingers over the cross around his neck. "Belonged to her."

"She died because of you and you don't even remember killing her," Cole said. His fangs were out, long and sharp, aching for blood. He took in O'Sullivan's crumpled form and shook his head. O'Sullivan crouched with his back pressed to the corner, panting, arms brought defensively up to his chest, watching him. With a roar of pain and fury, Cole launched himself at O'Sullivan and landed a firm kick with his heavily booted right foot to his ribs, taking some measure of comfort in the crunching sound of breaking bone. "That was for Rachael." Storming for the door before the brothers arrived and dragged him out of the cell, Cole turned, "Do you remember any of them?"

O'Sullivan focused on breathing through the pain blossoming in his chest. Crouched into a ball in the corner he cradled his broken ribs. His breath made a terrible wheezing sound in his throat. Light from the open door flooded the cell avoiding the dark corner where he huddled. He had to try a couple of times to draw enough breath to reply. "I remember them all," he croaked as the door whispered shut.

Cole pushed his way through his brothers. No one was dying tonight. If he'd killed O'Sullivan, he would have been put in that cell in his place. He would never avenge Rachael the way he had imagined. His blade would not be the one to land the fatal blow.

Without a word, he stormed past his mentor, his best friend. They'd talk later. This he knew. John Mark let him retreat down the hallway, giving him time to cool off. Cole could feel his eyes on his back. He was in no shape to discuss anything. He would accept whatever punishment the brothers threw at him. He had almost crossed the point of no return. If he would have, would there have been any pulling him back?

Tonight, the wounds were as raw as they were the night Rachael died. Cole thought he had let her go and she rested in peace. Maybe she did and he was the one that lingered on. Agonized by memories of her savaged body and the stain of her blood on the concrete. She was dead and he bore the burden of living and remembering. Vowing a vengeance that would do nothing to change the past. O'Sullivan's words echoed in his mind, replaying over and over again. Were they true? He never forgot?

The heat and intensity of Cole's distress flooded Maggie's mind. She'd been hanging around the compound all day, waiting for Megan to reappear from behind the thick oak door leading to the Great Father's private rooms. Truthfully, she'd been filling her day and her head with thoughts of her future. Watching the women bustle about their daily activities, taking mental notes as she scrabbled for some sense of what it would be like to be a warrior's wife and a vampire. Cole's emotional state had hit her with the force of a speeding Mack truck. Causing a throbbing in her temples in its urgency. She ran through the wide hallways in search of him, desperate to calm the emotional storm roaring in his head.

She was in the deepest part of the compound, far away from the main living quarters, down in a maze of storerooms and unfinished halls. The light was dimmer here, sparse with wide patches of darkness stretching down lengths of barren corridors. She stumbled over the uneven floor. Her hand pressed to the cold black stone of the walls to keep her balance. Down here the air was thicker, harder to breathe. The place looked like some forgotten corner of hell that the devil hadn't quite gotten around to claiming yet.

"Shit," she muttered under her breath. Nothing good was down here. In this mostly abandoned corner of the compound prisoners were kept. Most of the cells doubled as storage rooms until they were needed. Not that there was much of a need for holding cells. Justice was swift and final. But, there was one prisoner kept in this dank, foreboding subterranean hold. Pouring on speed, she jogged as quickly as she could without falling and breaking her neck through the maze.

O'Sullivan was kept down here. Spending his final days in a dark cell. She'd never met the vampire and hoped she never had the misfortune of an introduction. Cole kept his thoughts under tight lock and key regarding the man. Once in a while, she felt his rage slip through a crack in his careful shielding. A blaze of hatred, white hot, and pure seared through her mind. The emotion wasn't hers. It belonged to Cole. Cole was down here for a reason. Of that, she was certain. He meant to kill O'Sullivan. "Cole!" she shouted into the darkness. The sound of her voice reverberated off the thick stone of the walls.

As quickly as the thought began it was quickly cut off. He'd regained control of his side of the link and shut her out. Panting against the heavy air she ran faster. She had to get to Cole before he got to O'Sullivan. Down here, in the winding maze, it was easy to take a wrong turn. She'd never been this deep in the compound before. Haphazardly, taking turns, she wound through the hallways with nothing to guide her but pure gut instinct.

The tenor of deep male voices got louder as she drew closer to where her feet guided her. The lighting was more consistent in this part of the hallway. The floor was more even and the walls roughed in with patches of concrete block. There was a commotion several yards ahead of her. She could make out the black outlines of broad shoulders garbed in the heavy leather worn by the warriors. She worried she was too late. There was a parting in the sea of black leather and dark hair as Cole forced his way through his brothers. No one moved to stop him. This close to him, he couldn't keep her out of his head. A sigh of relief eased from her dry lips. He'd wanted to. She saw that. He'd wanted to kill O'Sullivan, but he hadn't. "Cole."

Maggie's presence was like a cool spring breeze on hot, parched desert sands. Cole felt her relief flow thorough his mind. John Mark stared after him. Worry tugged at the edges of his consciousness in a whirlpool of thought. He blocked his mentor and his brothers out. No matter how much they shared. Some thoughts were too private and needed to be kept to himself. The effect Maggie had on him was one of his most guarded secrets. A tenuous smile crossed her face. Her arms opened. Suddenly deflated, as if all the rage and hatred he'd been fostering simply vanished, he fell to his knees at her feet and rested his head on the softness of her stomach. "I couldn't do it."

Her hands were cool, the brush of her fingertips over his scalp soothing. He gripped her hips with his fingertips, kneading the soft flesh through the thickness of her jeans. He felt so empty at this moment without the force of his hate to drive him on. Tears escaped beneath his lashes. Man enough to cry, he buried his face in her sweatshirt and let them fall.