Dawn's Path: Completed Work

Locking the doors, not that it would matter to a vampire. She slid into drive and pulled away from the curb. She had a lot of ground to cover before she considered her quest at an end. Roark had hideouts scattered across the city, hell, across the country. And she had no intention of stopping until she got what she came for. Angel slowed the car and rolled past an empty, weed infested lot.

The abandoned church that she'd sheltered in her that first morning had been demolished. According to the sign staked into the ground, the oversized letters bright and enthusiastic, a shopping mall was slated to occupy the barren space left behind in the absence of God and his Holy Saints. Commerce was the new religion. And it was to this bright, glittering Mecca the faithful would flock to worship.

Angel navigated the car away from the garish, filth lined streets of the forgotten part of town. And drove to the bright, shiny, upscale parts of the city. Urban renewal was the city's golden child. And damn, was it pretty. Shining in white light like silver too soon to tarnish. Tracking the smell of money and the glittering illusion of new wealth, she'd found her second victim here. The woman had died for no other reason than she happened to be rich and wore Angel's size.

She had wanted what the woman had in excess. Possessions. Nice things. It was all smoke and mirrors. The woman bled red, same as the bum. And she'd passed from this life into the next, just as easily. Revisiting her past wasn't as therapeutic as Angel hoped. Guilt was just another level of hell. She mashed the gas pedal, gunning the engine past the high-rise apartment complex.

Visiting the scene of that particular crime, what good would it do now? The woman was dead and her apartment rented to new tenants. But, there was someone. A life she'd almost taken and would have if she'd gotten the chance to finish the job. Other things had happened in that apartment high above the city to seal her fate. She'd made a choice, not to kill or not kill, but to pick a side. And she'd chosen the wrong one.

Angel was very good at deceiving herself. She'd wanted vengeance so badly. And Roark had promised to deliver Kayla to her. She'd believed every work spoken from his putrid lips. And she'd turned away from the only people capable of helping her in the name of vengeance.

Forgiveness truly was a gift. For if not, she would be dead. The brothers had every right to exact the full measure of their vengeance on her. She'd broken their laws. And they could have taken her life in retribution for the lives she'd taken. They hadn't. She didn't know who had convinced them or how. But, they'd spared her when deserved nothing but death.

In the end it hadn't been Kayla Angel had hated with such vehemence, but herself. If the brothers hadn't taken her in and shown her mercy, she would have continued to walk the path she'd set her feet upon. She'd be a rogue or worse, still in Roark's black clutches. There was someone else she needed to ask forgiveness of. The man she'd tortured, fed from, and would have killed. He didn't realize the depth of the debt she'd needed to repay. The brothers had worked their magic. And that night, to the man, was nothing but a bad dream. Making a U-turn she drove into the heart of the city and parked along a dark stretch of curb out of the reach of the pale streetlights.

The man was asleep on the couch. Every light in the apartment was on despite the late hour. The volume on the TV was turned up as loud as it would go. And empty cans of energy drinks lay on the sides, scattered across the glass top of the coffee table. A pot of coffee, thick as motor oil, scorched on the coffee maker's warmer. Candy wrappers littered the floor beside a half-eaten container of Chinese takeout.

The apartment was as unkempt as the man asleep on the couch. Angel crouched at the side of the couch and studied his worn features. A day's worth of stubble darkened his chin. And dark purple circles shadowed the skin beneath his eyes. He didn't sleep well, if at all. He reeked of exhaustion and stress. Killing him would have been better than the existence his nightmares had forced him to live.

The front door and broken furniture had been replaced. But, deep down inside, he knew what he'd dreamed about that night. The horror of it was real. And he lived, it in and out of his dreams, day after day. This was her fault. The hell that had become his life was on her shoulders. A loaded gun rested under the couch cushions within easy reach. He gripped his cell phone in his clenched fist. And even in sleep, his body was tense and alert. She'd tasted his blood, fucked him, tortured him, and she couldn't remember his damned name. How was that for irony? To take a small sample of someone into her body and not be able to recall his name.

There was something off about his scent. Something peculiar. He smelled, sweet, like a human should. But, there was an underlying reek of decay. She brushed her fingers across his pale cheek and studied the furrows in his brow. Cancer. He may look relatively well and healthy despite his chronic insomnia and recurrent nightmares. But, internally, the foreign cells were growing and invading his body. Most likely, he didn't have a clue about how sick he was going to become very soon. Judging by the scent, he wouldn't live to see next Christmas or any other Christmases after that.

There was something she could do though to make up for the misery and terror she'd caused him. The only way she could completely cure him was to kill him and turn him into what she was. He was human and he deserved the right to stay that way. He would die. There was nothing she could do to prevent that. And it would happen sooner than it should. He would not live to be an old man. But, he would live for a while longer than what fate had given him to start with.

Angel whispered softly to him, stroking his dark hair with her fingers. Brushing the strands back from the worry lines creasing his brow. "I can't make this go away. But, I can make it better," she whispered. Wooing him into thinking she was part of the dream, she bit her wrist and lowered it to his mouth. His lips quivered against her wrist as his tongue snaked out to capture the drops she bled for him.

The draw of his mouth against her skin, cool and clammy, tremulous and so desperate, was unpleasant. She owed him this small act of contrition. She'd taken from him. Tasted him on the tip of her tongue. And it was her turn to repay the injustice she'd committed against him. A life for a life. Blood for blood. Stroking his hair, Angel stared down at him. He looked better already. Color flooded his cheeks and the strained expression eased from his brow. The scent of the cancer was still present, mingling with the fading remnants of his cologne and the sweet smell that was unique to him. "Make a doctor's appointment in the morning," she said, whispering the suggestion into his ear.

A doctor wouldn't be any more successful than she'd been at curing his cancer. But, at least, maybe there was something that could be done to ease the inevitability of his suffering. Angel took a last glance around the starkly decorated, very messy living room. Standing in the spot Roark had stood when he offered her his hand. And she'd stupidly accepted. The man wasn't going to be fine. All she'd truly managed to do was buy him some time, a few more weeks, maybe, months. But, she'd given him something worthwhile, if he chose to make the most of it. She'd left him with more than he had when she came. And, in that, she'd earned a small measure of absolution.

She smiled as he sighed in his sleep. For once having a happy dream instead of a horrific nightmare. Her hand rested on the doorknob. She turned to glance at him from the open door. He wouldn't be aware that she'd or anybody else had been here tonight. She'd left everything except for him, exactly as she'd found them. "Enjoy your life," she whispered as she stepped through the threshold and closed the door tightly behind her.

Chapter 50

Carter spotted the woman in the alley and kept his distance. Curious about her and about why she skulked alone in such a dark, desolate, place, he watched and patiently waited for her to make her move. Her scent was a dead give away. She smelled like a Son, earthy and pure, not like a rogue. It wouldn't matter if she were a Son or not. As far as the rogues were concerned, if it smelled like a Son, it was a Son. And if someone else caught her scent before she wised up and got the hell out of the alley. There would be nasty complications. Ones he did not want involved with. In this city, curiosity could get you killed. Quickly.

He knew where to find others. The rogues had been forced into hiding out of fear. And the strays had been confined to the shadows for the very same reason. These days, there was plenty to be afraid of: the Sons, the leader that would eventually come, and of one another. Trapped in hiding as they were, both the rogues and the strays were running dangerously low on food. And that made a volatile situation even worse. The two groups who sub-existed through tolerating one another's presence would turn on each other like rabid dogs. And when that fight was over the victors would slaughter their own in a desperate ploy for control of the city.

Carter had been cleaning up after the rogues for months. The carnage never stopped. But, the rogues were growing restless and more careless in their habits. Hunger had driven them to hunt in crowded areas where they might be spotted. He had become more and more convinced that maybe having a master was the best thing for the rogues. Someone had to bring them to heel before they did something stupid and got everyone's collective vampire ass in a sling. He'd lived through the dark days of vampire hunters once and had no desire to repeat the experience.

Strange, when Roark was alive their overall hatred for the bastard bound the rogues together. But now, that Roark was dead. There was no shared common thread to unite them as one. He wouldn't call the rogues his enemies. But, they weren't exactly his friends either. There was no one, vampire, human, or otherwise who wouldn't throw somebody else under the bus to save his own skin. And he wasn't about to put his on the line to warn anybody of the new faces he'd seen in the city.

"Fuck 'em," Carter grumbled. Walking along the shabby streets he followed her taillights and her scent through the city. Most of the time the brothers traveled in pairs or in packs. For whatever reason, this one was alone. Maybe, she was stupid or had a death wish. The reason didn't matter to him. That he got her the hell out of his city before the rogues got their hands on her mattered a lot.

There was an uneasy tension in the air. The entire city vibrated with the energy of it. And the rogues were itching to take out their vengeance on somebody. She'd be just as likely a target as anybody, perhaps, more so. Given her association with the former Rogue Master, she was lucky the rogues hadn't already spotted her and torn her limb from limb. And this was one mess he would not clean up. Preventing her death was the best strategy he could come up with. And that meant seeing to her safety personally.

Carter had no loyalty to the rogues, to the brotherhood, or to the strays. He'd learned the hard way such allegiances did not pay. He was loyal to two things. Himself. And this glittering whore of a city he called home. Keeping the woman alive would prevent the wrath of the brothers from pouring down on the city. His city. And he had far worse problems than the wrath of the Sons to deal with. If what he suspected to be true was true, they all had one hell of a big, fucking problem to deal with. O'Sullivan was like a terrier with a bone. Once he decided he wanted something there would be no stopping him. And if he decided he wanted the city, not even the brothers would stand against him for long.

He had not felt such a strong surge of energy so acutely in a very long time. He hoped like hell he was wrong. He really, really wanted to be wrong. On the surface, everything seemed normal enough. But, underneath the mask of normalcy a wicked storm was brewing. And the smart thing to do would be to get out of its path. But, no one had ever accused him of being necessarily smart.

The vampire's trail led Carter to the last place he'd ever think of entering willingly. The imposing tower of glass, steel, and concrete loomed over the city, dominating the skyline. Standing in the building's oppressive shadow Carter felt something far colder than the gusts of wind tearing at his limbs. Ripples of power swirled around him, freezing his limbs where he stood. The Rogue Headquarters was supposedly abandoned. But, and he didn't need the sweet scent of rogue tainting the air to know, the place was far from empty.

He saw no signs of recent use. The lobby was dark and empty. The place locked up tight to the outside world. That was a good thing. With winter's chill still thick in the air, the homeless would flock to the building in droves in hopes of finding someplace warm to spend the night. He had a feeling that any human brave enough to traverse the threshold would be welcome to enter. But, sure as hell wouldn't be exiting, at least not in corporeal form. The only footprints leading up to the wide bank of glass doors belonged to him. Of course, it made sense that the rogues weren't exactly rolling out the welcome mat for company. The longer the rogues could keep up the guise that this building was as abandoned as it appeared to be on the outside the less danger someone else would claim the space. But, he had a sneaky suspicion the space had already been claimed and with it, perhaps, Roark's vacant position as master of the city.

Jamming his hands deep into his pockets, he crept around the building. Tracking the woman's scent and the mingling essence of rogue to a back entrance. A building of this size would have shipping docks for deliveries. And he was not surprised to see a door, its hinges sprung from forced entry, hanging ajar. Damn, he didn't like this. It wasn't the darkness that had his mouth suddenly dry and adrenaline surging through his system. He'd spent centuries in the dark. There was nothing in the darkness that didn't exist in the light. A fact he'd learned too long ago to remember.

The scent of death was thick and choking. A rotting meat and clotted blood smell dampened by the cold. And with that stink of decay gagging him, Carter began to have a new respect for Roark. The rogues were killing. Piling up bodies and storing them in the loading docks. Roark was many, many things. A bastard, first and foremost, but he'd kept his minions in line. One did not kill so close to home. And the bodies sure as hell weren't stacked like dirty dishes to be cleaned up later. The reek sickened Carter. He was far from a saint and he'd done his fair share of killing. He had no right to judge anyone. But, this level of depravity was not survival. This bordered on suicide. Not just for the rogues, but for all of them. If the human authorities stumbled upon this mess and somehow managed to figure out what was behind it. No vampire would be safe.

Being here was dangerous. Either the female didn't care or she was incredibly stupid. Carter mussed, that he was just as dumb as she or he wouldn't be creeping around the darkness inviting trouble. He saw no evidence of the decay he smelled in the air. The back docks to this massive manmade structure were silent and cold as the grave. His light footsteps so carefully placed the only sound. There was no sneaking up on the rogue capable of renting the air with such power. He knew it. And likewise, there was no escape. The best thing to do would be to turn the fuck around and get the hell out while he still could. Find a new place, a new city as far way as possible to hang his hat and call home. It was unwise for a vampire to form an attachment to people and places. And yet, he'd done exactly that. Not necessarily to people. But, this city was home and he wasn't about to give her up without a fight.

Angel smelled the sickeningly sweet stench of rogues and the cloying, choking stink of death and blood. A sense of foreboding crept into the periphery of her awareness along with the prickling almost overwhelming sensation that she was being followed. Power rolled in a whisper against her skin. The building was still and so silent without a breath of life. Bathed in darkness and shadows the interior enveloped her in a cocoon of sheer dread. She knew every inch of this towering spectacle of glass and steel and had no need for the dull glow from the stairwell's emergency lighting to find her way.

Every bit of survival instinct she possessed clamored for her to run. To go back down the stairs and out the door, to leave this place while she still could. She wouldn't find anything here. There wasn't one shred left of her old life left. Angel thought that with Roark dead, the rogues would have found new digs to call home. But, in a way, she supposed like her, there wasn't anyplace else for them to go except back to the scene of the crime. Isn't that where the guilty always went? Back to where it had begun?

The stairwell ended on the fiftieth floor. At the dark mouth of a once posh, gilded corridor leading directly to Roark's penthouse suite. Appearances had been everything in Roark's world. He'd spared no expense when it came to acquisitions and the display of wealth and power. She stepped around the shards of priceless vases littering the floor and ducked under the bits of wiring left dangling from the gaping holes in the ceiling. Roark's antique chandeliers lay in mangled heaps of twisted metal and splintered crystal, strewn from one end of the vast hallway to the other.

Hand painted silk wallpaper hung from the walls in jagged sections. The tattered ends flapping in the slight breeze created by the heating system. Antique tapestries and priceless works of art the world would never see dangled from broken frames reduced to bits of rags and useless rubble. It was a senseless waste of finery. And yet, she could understand why the rogues had destroyed everything Roark had loved. They couldn't kill what was already dead. And laying this display of their former master's glory to ruin was the only form of revenge they had.

With her eyes open, her soul jaded, and so much wiser about the world, she saw the garish display that had been Roark's power for what it truly was. Nothing. Smoke and mirrors. Roark had been nobody, nothing but a weak, pathetic man who had used all the illusions money could buy to control his corner of the world. The heels of her boots made prints in the thick layer dust and shards of former opulence scattered across the marble floor as she walked to the grand entrance of his suite.

This place was a tomb, a shabby monument to a man who was as powerless to death's grip as anybody else. Roark was dead and gone and this place was all the reminder of it she needed. Those unfortunate enough to cross his path would never forget. But, the living died, eventually. Time wouldn't bother to remember a thing about Roark. He'd been robbed of the immortality he so desperately craved. Erased with the shattering of glass and ripping of cloth. And in that, Angel found a certain sense of satisfaction and justice served.

Sidestepping the thick walnut double doors, dangling precariously by their twisted hinges she stepped inside the suite Roark's penthouse had suffered much the same fate as the corridor. The vast living room was in a complete state of disarray. Broken furniture lay in heaps of torn upholstery, fluffy white stuffing, and splintered wood. Curtains dangled from the brass rods in tatters. Shattered glass and mirror littered the floor crackling beneath her feet.