A Taste of Dawn

To say that vampires rarely dreamed was an understatement. They rarely dreamed because they rarely slept. Once in a while sleep would come and dreams with it. Michael dreamed of several lifetimes worth of people and places. People and places of another time when he'd been a very different person. The turn of the twentieth century was such a time. He'd been human back then. Ordinary. Consumed with helping his family tame the land. Every part of his life then had been about the farm, his family, and the family of his own he'd someday have.

His life then, existed in the shelter of whispering pines, towering oaks, and flat planes. He knew nothing but the farm, livestock and crops. Nothing about his heritage and who he was meant to become. That he had Native American Shawnee in his blood was a whispered myth of the family. Just like his father before him, Michael's skin was light enough, his hair fair enough, and his eyes pale enough to pass for European, or at least European enough to avoid unwanted scrutiny about his lineage.

Michael dreamed of the past, traveling back to those early days when life had been hard, the nights short, and the days even shorter. He was eighteen when the Sons came for him and introduced him to the fate that awaited him. Young and impressionable, eager to learn more about his heritage, his journey into the life a warrior and a Son began.

Michael walked through fields ripe with grain. Their rigid stalks scraped against his fingertips. He stared up at a sky brilliant with sunlight and fluffy white clouds. He smelled the crisp freshness of the air. Around him was the quiet of nature, the gentle whisper of wind through the trees, the soft song of birds in flight, and the ceaseless babble of a brook.

He knew this was a dream because quiet places no longer existed. Modern life was about noise and constant movement. Nothing was quiet anymore. Nothing stood still for more than a blink of an eye. The fat heads of grain rustled with the brush of footsteps behind him. Michael was no longer alone in his own mind. He had company. "Great Father," he bowed to the patriarch in respect. Some preferred to communicate via encrypted cell phones or e-mail, but not the stoic founder of his race. Mind walking was how Drew kept tabs on his people. Michael inwardly blushed. At least the Great Father hadn't invaded a dream of a different content. A sordid, lusty content, as he was prone to have from time to time when the loneliness and self-imposed celibacy got too much to endure.

The Great Father sighed and soaked in the peaceful vision playing out in his son's mind. "This is a good place." He could remember when the flat planes hadn't been there. When the landscape of Michael's dreams had been in reality a wild and untamed wilderness. "Are you well, my son?"

Michael frowned at the question. Surely the Great Father had much more to do than poke around in his head for clues about his well-being. The threat of O'Sullivan grew thicker with each passing day that he stayed creatively off the Sons radar. "Quite." A good, standard pat answer to the question was best.

Drew, as he preferred to be called these days, knew better. The time for old names and old ways had passed into obscurity. He could sense the loneliness and frustration in Michael's mind. Michael was trying to placate him with what he thought he wanted to hear. The truth would have been better. "There are far too few of us left who remember the quiet places these days. Do you know where we are?"

"Yes. My father's homestead," Michael answered. What was the Great Father getting at with this line of questioning? Small talk wasn't really the Great Father's strong suit. He had a point to make somewhere. Impatiently, Michael wished the Great Father would get to it. Dreams were too important to waste on chitchat.

"And what is this place today?" Drew pressed. He sensed Michael's impatience acutely. Michael was direct and to the point and appreciated that in his dealings with others. Any attempt at friendliness was wasted on the man. The man knew his place and expected others to know theirs.

Michael chuckled, "I think I'm standing in the middle of Happy's drive through."

Drew joined Michael's chuckle, "Are we that old, my son? The world we know now is so much smaller than the world we knew then." He shook his head in dismay and muttered, "Progress. What will be here in another hundred years? The world changes and we stay exactly the same."

Michael didn't agree. "Not exactly. We'll change with the world. We always have."

"Yes, I suppose we have to, don't we," Drew said absently. "Sit with me," he said, lowering his body onto the bent waves of ripening grain.

Michael dropped to sit on the stalks beside his father. The landscape in his mind shifted and changed. Rugged rock and flat acres of sand replaced the supple heads of wheat beneath him. "Is this the distant past?"

Drew shrugged.

"The future?" Michael asked, spitting particles of dust blown by the breeze from his mouth. The barren landscape was frightening, yet wondrous in its ruggedness and beauty. This could be an image captured from an immortal past or a view, a rare sneak peek into the future, a thousand years ago or a thousand years from now, maybe a hundred thousand years. "If it's the future, we'll still be here."

Drew shrugged again and rested his chin on his drawn up knees. Staring out into the bleak nothing of sand and rock in silence. "If not us, somebody will be. Just as surely as if this is the past we see instead of the future. Somebody was here."

The scenery faded into the lush fields from his boyhood that were as familiar as a song whose lyrics one never forgot. Michael fought the urge to scratch his head in confusion at the Great Father's riddle. He wasn't in the mood to try to figure out a cryptic message tonight. He just wanted to steal a few minutes of respite from his dreams. "I don't understand."

"Tala, your queen, my bride, is with child," Drew answered.

"How?"

"The usual way," Drew answered with a chuckle. "Do you see what we fight for? What's at stake? The wolves hold the answer in their blood. O'Sullivan was right about that. Can you imagine what would happen if their gift found its way into the wrong hands? Vampire offspring fathered by a madman. We are protecting not only the living of today. We hold something much more precious in our hands. The lives of the living who will come after them. Have you discovered anything in the city?"

"Bianca tells me nothing."

Drew thought about that. Detected the reluctance in Michael's voice as he answered. "Are you sure you are clear on this mission? I sense she knows a great deal more than she's telling."

Michael lowered his eyes and plucked a stalk of grain from the fertile ground. Even in a dream, the imagined could seem so real. He rolled the stalk in between his fingers. Moisture seeped from the green blade onto his fingertips. He couldn't lie. Not if the barren landscape in his dreams was a vision of the future or the fields of grain a view of the past. Humans came up with enough destruction all on their own without any help. If O'Sullivan were behind them pulling the strings, infiltrating their most coveted positions with his offspring. There might not be a tomorrow to be had, for anybody. He'd made a personal vow to protect Bianca, but not at such a high price. "As do I."

The right woman could tie a man up into so many knots. How well he knew, Drew mussed. In those early days, his Tala had left him in much the same condition as Michael now found himself in. Women were the gentlest of curses and the most dangerous. "I know you love Bianca. But, don't let your feelings get in the way of your duty."

"I don't love her," Michael protested. Exactly how far could the Great Father see into his head, he wondered. Usually, he didn't mind sharing his thoughts. But, where Bianca was concerned, he kept his thoughts about her tightly under wraps. His thoughts, those bleak suspicions, could get her killed.

Drew chuckled under his breath, "Son, who are you lying to? Me or yourself?"

Michael woke in a cold sweat surrounded by darkness. The sheets were wadded into a mass of rough wool and smooth cotton around his waist. He fumbled for his watch and focused on the digital display. 1800 hours, six in the evening. He'd slept longer than he'd remembered ever sleeping. The dream, if he could truly call it that left him chilled and shaky. He could dismiss the dream as only a dream or take it to heart as a dire warning. He couldn't fail.

Wearily, wearier than any vampire should ever rise, he threw his feet over the bed and leaned heavily on his elbows. In the distance, echoing along empty stairwells from the floor above, he heard strands of Christmas music filtering down. Christmas music? He quickly showered and dressed. After the grim message from his dreams, he could do with a little merriment.

Bianca stretched across the luxurious leather sofa the color of good, rich crème and watched the festivities around her. She thought the humans rushed the holidays because their lives were so short and they always felt as if any moment their time might expire. Wrong. The date on the calendar was mid-November and her highrise, the secret lair of her Guardians, the most lethal force in the city, was decked out like December twenty-fifth was tomorrow. Then again, Thanksgiving was a holiday that most of her young Guardians associated with eating, and it wasn't like any of them were going to have turkey and dressing on the menu anytime soon.

The sight of some of her most lethal warriors puzzling over a malfunctioning string of Christmas lights was almost comical. These were her best and they hadn't thought to plug in the lights to test them before they covered a fifteen-foot spruce in thousands of lights that were supposed to twinkle at the flip of a switch. Embarrassing, really, really embarrassing.

Pine boughs draped over the mantle of a blazing fireplace. Sickeningly sappy Christmas music droned from the speakers of her high tech sound system, automatically putting her in a foul mood. The nauseating smell of pine, vanilla, cinnamon, and good cheer clogged her sinuses.

Gaily wrapped gifts were piled high beneath a tree that would not light. Bulbs glimmered dully from branches devoid of illumination. Paper Santa Claus cut outs smiled blankly from their dark green perches on the tree. Silver strands of tinsel clung to her woolen pants from static electricity. She wanted to puke. She pasted a smile on her face and pretended to enjoy herself. Watching the men and women under her command war with the errant Christmas tree in their communal living space instead of with the bigger enemy at large on the streets.

Idly, she ran her fingers through the head full of golden curls draped over her thigh. The man had made a fine meal. Dazed and confused, he stared up from her lap with adoring, vacant eyes the color of bluebells in springtime. His skin was warm, sleek as silk, and tan, very tan. He smiled contentedly up at her. A hint of white teeth glittered behind full lips meant for pleasure. His body was lean and hard, athletic from hours spent at the gym. His skin bronzed from hours at a tanning salon. His hair, a foamy mass of silky strands with pale blond streaks woven throughout the gold, from hours in the most exclusive salon in the city. A pair of silk pajama pants, black as night graced his narrow hips. They were snug, bulging between his thighs to show her just exactly how happy he was to have his head in her lap.

She resisted the desire to pat his head and tell him he was a Good Boy like one would an obedient dog. There was a fine line between having a ready stock of fresh O negative and keeping a human as a pet. Maybe, just maybe, she'd crossed it with him. There wasn't anything this male wouldn't do for her, including bleed at her request. He'd fetch her slippers. Scratch her itch. Extend his neck. Whatever she wanted.

He really was a Good Boy and for a pet, if that's what she wanted to call him, he had a pretty easy life. Bleed a little. Look handsome for her. Fulfill her every whim. Not a bad deal, considering the lifestyle in which she indulged him. When he got to old for her or she grew bored, she'd trade him in for a new model. But, even in his old age, he'd be of use. A meal was a meal and damned hard to come by these days. He'd be just as happy with another as with her.

The tread of heavy boots clomped across the highly polished parquet inlaid floors behind her. She had a living, golden Adonis in her lap. What she really wanted was the dark, brooding vampire glaring at her from across the room. Impatiently, she shooed away her bronzed plaything with a wave of her hand and glanced over her shoulder at Michael. His glowering stare showed his apparent distaste at her choice of meals. She hadn't broken any laws. There wasn't a thing he could do to outwardly protest. With a nod of his chin to acknowledge her, he stomped into her private rooms to wait. She took her time, following behind.

He stood in front of the heavy antique desk that used to belong to Carter. Quietly, almost languidly, she closed the door behind her watching the snug fit of his black leather across the wide expanse of his shoulders. "I take it we have unfinished business?" Wasn't that the understatement of the year! Whatever business they had was unfinished because it had never really began. The only time he sought her out in her private rooms was when he had business. Her bed was draped in luxurious satins behind the closed door to her left. They could engage in a multitude of pleasures, if only he'd give just an inch. But, with him it was always, business, business, and more business.

Michael was rattled. Jealousy at the sight of that mere boy lounging in Bianca's lap, staring at her with worshipful eyes was enough to light the kindling of his jealousy to a blazing inferno. He didn't smell the scent of sex, but that didn't keep the beast from roaring in his head.

Bianca was calm and collected, almost icy. She was dressed in a wool pantsuit of winter white. The jacket was cut low enough to show more than just a hint of her ample breasts so cozily nestled in the folds of crimson lace at the deep V. The pants clung to her buttocks like a lover's hand as she walked past and took a seat casually in the leather chair behind the desk. Tendrils of sleek black curls graced the supple curve of her neck. Michael could almost feel the spill of her hair torn loose from that tight French twist she was so famous for on his fingers. Her feet were dainty in the three inch spiked heels. He could imagine how those heels would feel digging into his naked backside as he pumped into her.

Quickly he tamped down on the errant thoughts. The thoughts were as dangerous as the woman seated in front of him. He'd come here to pump her, for information, not for pleasure. "I had a dream."

Bianca sighed and reclined back in her chair. Michael had interrupted her for this? To tell her he had a dream? "How entertaining. Do tell." The ends of his hair were still damp from the shower. They curled around the tight neckline of the t-shirt stretched over bulging muscles. She'd love to grasp at those damp locks of hair and pull his mouth to hers in a kiss. She stayed planted in her seat while the tension built and built around them.

"You have to tell me everything you know about O'Sullivan. Anything that might help us to capture him." Michael said in an almost pleading voice. Bianca was unfazed by the wall of muscle towering over her. He wore his usual black leather pants and his assortment of weaponry. He didn't need them here. He had the only weapon he needed against her. Morality, his precious morality.

She blinked up at him with those sapphire blue eyes of hers. Non-pulsed by the urgency of his question. If anyone knew how dangerous O'Sullivan could be it should be her. He'd almost killed her with his blades. Why was she protecting him? "Bianca, why are you protecting him? What is he to you?"

Bianca considered Michael's question. His morality could be her undoing. If she confessed her hand in his scheme, not her hand, but her reluctance to act, she'd be just as guilty as Eric and subject to the same penalties. Michael was of pure birth. Predestined in a way, for his role as a Son. Her beginnings weren't quite so humble and she had no destiny but the one she made for herself. "Do you think Carter is the only vampire Eric ever spawned? Michael, surely you've figured it out for yourself by now."

"Figured out what?" Michael asked. What connection hadn't he made between O'Sullivan and Bianca that he should have? He didn't have patience for this cryptic shit today. The Guardians were holding hands singing Christmas carols by the fireside while the city, maybe the whole world, went to hell in a hand basket. He needed to be out on the streets looking for O'Sullivan, not playing guess the dreaded dark secret with her.

Bianca chuckled bitterly. The tidbit of information she was about to divulge could explain away her subterfuge when it came to O'Sullivan. "He's my maker."

"Shit." Michael dragged his hand through his hair and blew out a breath of sheer exhaustion. O'Sullivan was no one he'd want to call father. He understood her omission of this piece of the puzzle. Bianca had more than a handful of secrets to hide. She was linked to Eric much the way he was linked to the Great Father and his brothers. Eric whispered in her head. If he were close enough, she'd feel the call of his power. If he died, the death might take her down with it. If he were found guilty, so might she.

"Indeed," Bianca said plainly.

"How did it happen?" Michael asked. He sank into the chair on the other side of the desk. He wanted to comfort her. Hold her in his arms and whisper that everything would be ok. He couldn't. Protecting her, if he could, might be the death of him.

Bianca smiled bitterly. Now he was interested in her origins. He'd never asked before. Now they mattered. "This is a long story."

"I'm listening," Michael said.

Bianca shot him a strained smile that failed to come anywhere close to reaching her eyes. "As you already know, Eric is older than most of us. Nobody knows who made him or what the circumstances were of his birth. The only thing anyone knows is that they've regretted the day he came across their paths. The same goes for me. 1608 was not a good year. It was my last year as a human."

Bianca swirled in her chair, lost to a memory of a time that no longer existed. But, in her mind, it was as real as ever. "Pairs...even then she was a wonder of the known world. I was a girl, not more than eighteen when I traveled her streets in gilded carriages." She chuckled lightly, "You couldn't begin to imagine the life my father had in store for me...me his only daughter. To say I was pampered and spoiled was mild. I had an entire entourage of servants to tend to my every whim. I was the apple of my father's eye. Nothing was denied me. My father was rich with ties to the crown. Good breeding and carefully made acquaintances ensured my position in the courts. Many a young royal sought my hand in marriage.

"I followed my father's advice to the letter. Suitors dueled for my hand only to have it denied them. I taunted and teased, dangled a most delectable fruit just out of their reach. And for what you ask? Simple. Why be the wife of a duke when I could be the wife of a king? A queen. Life at court was good. Decadent. Money flowed like wine in those days. The rich fed off the poor. No one felt guilty about it, not like in today's society. That was just the way life was.

"Gentlemen sought to capture my attentions, but it was a man, a dark man with hazel eyes and mysterious ways that finally captured me. Can you guess who he was, Michael?" Bianca didn't pause for his answer. She went on with her story.