Story Title: After The Dawn

Category: Movies- Blade

Type: Action/Adventure/Romance

Warnings: Occasional OOC behavior. A Blade/OFC fiction.

Pairings: Whistler/King, Blade/OFC, Drake/Danica (referred to), Danica/King (referred to), Asher/Danica (referred to)

Rating: T (temporary assignment due to violence)

Summary: She's alone, surrounded by enemies. When she needs a rescue, he appears... But could he be destined to save her from more than just the lycans?

Author's Note: Okay, I know I have a wide diversity in my tastes, but how could you expect me to pass up the chance to have another strong, manly, sexy-as-hell character doing my wicked bidding? You didn't, did you? If you didn't, good. If you did, you obviously don't know me. LOL. Here we go.

Oh, and I borrow heavily from Laurell K. Hamilton's terminology for different were-animal groups. Pard for werecats, pack for werewolves, rodere for wererats and so on, but all generally referred to as 'lycans'. So, repeat after me, terminology and Blade do not belong to me. Only the OFC does and, well, even she doesn't obey me. Dammit. sigh

Chapter One:

Two years after the events in Blade Trinity

Savannah O'Rourke stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette on the wall with a small sound of annoyance, carefully pushing it back into it's red and white package, flipping the top down. She pushed her black Skullcandy earbuds in, cueing up her Ipod to Breaking Benjamin's 'Dance With The Devil' as she walked into the club called The Lone Pussy. The local coeds thought it was a joke, though crude, about the singles scene.

What they didn't even consider was that it was a hideout for a pard of werecats.

The Nightstalkers had used the Daystar virus on Drake, the original vampire, Dracula, The First, two years ago, destroying the vampires and the greatest vampire hunter of all time, Blade. After the vampires were gone, there were familiars to destroy, computers to hack, bank accounts to transfer to the families of dead Nightstalkers. After the dead were cared for, there were funds and properties awarded to living Nightstalkers, buildings and businesses acquired, houses and estates, titles and social ranks... So much clean up work to do. After all, vampires had existed for millenia. One of the oldest destroyed that the Nightstalkers could account for had been one of Drake's childer, some three and a half thousand years old. Idly, Savannah imagined his birthday cake even as she remembered the dozen familiars, the millions upon millions of dollars, the properties around the world, particularly a chateau in Burgandy that she'd been awarded.

What the Nightstalkers hadn't known was that the vampires controlled the lycans. The beings that could change into animals. In Savannah's opinion, destroying all of the vampires had been a very necessary mistake. Even though it had continued the existence of the Nightstalkers indefinitely. They wouldn't have existed for much longer destroying only a hundred or so of the younger vampires a year. Not when there had been tens of thousands of vampires.

Which lead back to why Savannah was at The Lone Pussy. While it was a very popular coed hang-out, it was also a werecat sanctuary. Every Tuesday night, the club was closed to the coeds, but open to other beings.

Tonight was a werecat night. Savannah was here to crash the party. She checked her guns, her bullets, her powerarch. Everything was functional and Savannah took a moment to cross herself and thank whatever god listened to her prayers and had granted the lycans the same 'allergy' to silver as the vampires. It was a blessing in that the Nightstalkers didn't really need to learn new methods and it kept their suppliers employed and well-paid. Any blow that severed the spine was fatal, thanks Be. That and a blow or shot that severed the head.

Anything else a lycan could heal and come back to bite the Nightstalker in the ass. That was a lesson that the Nightstalkers had learned the hard way. She crossed herself again at the memory of the Portland, Oregon cell.

She walked into The Lone Pussy and smiled as everything paused. "Good evening. This is your local Nightstalker. Sorry, pussies. Party's over," she stated, taking the pause that the cats took to reach for weapons or change to fire.

Only headshots were effective after a lycan changed to his or her animal form.

The brain shuts down because they can't regenerate the damaged tissue because of the traces of silver. The brain shuts down, the body dies. The body dies, I win, Savannah reminded herself, shooting the bartender and a pretty young woman in the middle of the change.

There was a black flash beside her, black skin, black leather armor. She dropped her guns and pulled out her powerarch, taking a second to fire it up as her guns fell. One werecat ran into it, thinking it was just a pretty toy. She severed his head, kicking him back, watching his head sever with no arterial flow.

Beautiful.

The man in black was tearing werecat heads from their bodies, moving with her in a killing dance. If she moved left, he moved right, an arm extending as if he had spun her and was waiting for her to return. When she moved right, he moved left and they were so close she could smell his lack of cologne, though he still smelled so masculine that she wanted to go weak at the knees.

A partner.

She screamed when hands grabbed her elbows, pulling the powerarch far too close to her stomach. Half as hot as the sun, she remembered, hearing Abigail Whistler-King's voice in her ear, taunting her. She felt blisters begin to immediately form, scented burning flesh.

The man in black looked at her, honey eyes mildly annoyed at the interruption. She could feel the power coming off of him in controlled waves.

"Human," he hissed. "Nightstalker."

She nodded. His eyes went feral and flicked to the man behind her.

"And who are you?" the wereleopard queried in a tone that would not have been out-of-place in the uppermost crust of society. In four perfectly formed words, there was courtesy, rudeness, dignity, decorum, and death.

"Blade," the man in black replied, flashing fangs that should not have been possible after The Battle of The Daystar.

Blade... Oh, Abby, you were right. He's definitely more than chocolate-covered strawberries. What's better than chocolate-covered strawberries? she wondered, distracting herself from the heat of the powerarch and the scent of the burning flesh of her stomach. It was a worthy distraction as it kept her from moving and moving would have been a very, very, very bad idea.

Too much movement in any direction and she could kiss losing her virginity goodbye.

Shutting down the powerarch was an option, if she didn't mind shattering three fingers on each hand because of the way she was holding the damned thing. She had been about to flip it and only her thumbs and forefingers were in the handgrip. The others were spread out inside the powerarch's frame, sitting there, stretched painfully.

Sex or vanity... sex or vanity?

When she made a decision, her eyes caught Blade's and flicked down, deliberately eyeing the off button. He blinked three times

Three letters.

Yes.

She raised an eyebrow to be certain and got an impatient stare. The kind of impatient stare that told you to do it and bloody well get it over with. Otherwise, you were to shut up and stop distracting him because if you didn't, he would not hesitate to kill your happy ass and spread your pieces over San Francisco Bay.

With only the slightest hesitation, she depowered the powerarch. The world went mercifully black as both of her pinkie fingers were broken simultaniously.

x-x-x-x-x-x-

Blade saw young, traumatized blue eyes widen in stunned pain, a half-formed scream strangle her vocal cords, rip the breath from her lungs, before her eyes closed. She crumpled in a pile of black leather, porcelian skin, and crimson hair. She looked far too young to be a Nightstalker. What had happened in the few months that he'd been gone? The time that it had taken the Cook County, Illinois, District Attorney's office to decide whether to free him, kill him, or commit him? What could have forced Whistler to start recruiting children?

She can't be more than twenty-two or -three. And a lone patrol Nightstalker. She's either powerful, lucky, stupid, or a combination of the three.

He blinked and focused his attention on the Alpha of the Timerlan Parc Pard. He had a vacant look in his eyes, staring at the girl he held awkwardly.

"Look, man, I swear I didn't do anything to her."

Blade sighed. Definitely more brawn than brains.

"She just screamed and passed out."

"Don't worry about the girl."

He deliberately studied the girl as the Alpha lowered her to the ground. For all that he was a lycan, and apparentally a dumb one, he respected his enemy, or had a high regard for women..

The study lead the Alpha to believe that Blade was distracted and the man lunged for Blade. That earned a dodge and a corrective tap from the flat of Blade's katana. A growl, another incorrect attack, and Blade's sword severed his head in a flash.

Blade cleaned the sword on the Alpha's dead body, watching the head roll idly, sheathing the blade before approaching the collapsed Nightstalker.

He felt so unbalanced, so primal. When he had awakened on that autopsy table, something vital had been missing, something he'd never before noticed, never named.

So much death, so much channelled grief that he'd never truly coped with.

Now, he had a choice. He'd never been given a choice since the one that the Old Man had given him.

Did he return to the Nightstalkers or did he go back to his solitary existance after calling for an extraction for the crimson haired warrior princess that had crushed her fingers in order to give him an opening?

He longed to have the faint scent of Whistler that Abigail couldn't hide, no matter how much perfume she soaked herself in. He had trusted Whistler with his life at fifteen after years and years of betrayal. He had trusted Abigail after Whistler's death at the hands of the F.B.I.'s inept traitors. He even (grudgingly) liked Hannibal King.

This girl-child had proven herself to them, had earned her patrol...

Against his better judgement, he lifted the unconscious woman and walked to her car. Once there, he activated the hands-free device that only dialled one number.

"Savannah! You were supposed to be back ten minutes ago!" screeched Abigail Whistler.

"She got a bit... sidetracked," he purred. "Hello, Whistler."

"Son-of-a-bitch... Blade?!"