101 - A Perfect Sky; A Storm

2

"Lily the Vampire Slayer," Jay declares from behind me, unconcerned as to who may be in earshot as we step out onto the street, and with a certain bravado that is meant to break the ice but instead sets my temper hissing.

With my back to him, he can't see that I roll my eyes.

Despite it once again going against all training—Powers spare me—I lead the way, letting the enemy in my blind spot. But I remain vigilant, confident in my abilities to defend myself in time should he make a move. I expect him to, waiting for the moment I hear his steps pick up pace or feel him suddenly too close.

It hasn't come yet.

"Say it a little louder; I don't think London heard you," I deadpan over my shoulder, my voice hushed. I adjust my hood and watch him from the corner of my eye. Nestled between my palm and the rifle's grip is my trusted dagger, wavy blade pointed downward, my index resting idly outside the trigger.

And he is watching me. Studying. His hood is up, covering his slices of hair so light that it's almost white, and though his eyes are shadowed, I feel his intense gaze boring into my back. But oddly, it doesn't feel threatening. Almost... curious.

Still, I'd be stupid to relax. My senses whisper faintly to stay alert, like the calm before a storm.

Expect it to thunder any moment now.

As if on cue, goosebumps skitter up my arms, and my hair sharpens at the nape of my neck. I halt, assuming my senses are alerting to Jay, and narrow my eyes onto him.

He has maintained his distance the entire time, and perks up just as my instincts flare. Whether he sees it on my face or hears something himself, he's put on edge, too. I hone in on the feeling—on him. The sense is so strong I can almost visualize it: a dark current of power swirling into an amorphous river in the direction of the threat, but it is still too dispersed that I can't follow the stream. All I know is that it isn't coming from Jay. Not all of it, anyway.

There is still something about him that is different...

But something else has raised my slayer-hackles.

I quickly survey my surroundings, eyes darting around and ears attuning to a small commotion farther ahead. The street is dotted with a few mom-and-pop shops, each with a distinct appearance that adds splashes of color to the block. Lofts are stacked above them. A pub sits on the corner, but it's currently closed and under renovation. Windows lining the buildings trail up toward the night sky. I take note of the few that remain lit, but overall, the neighborhood is fast asleep.

'll lose our advantage.

I duck behind a trash bin to get a better look at the alley, holding a gloved palm out to Jay in a silent order to command him still. Peering over the top of the bin, I'm met with the rank aroma of waste that has been left out under the sun's relentless heat. The foul smell rises into my nostrils, burning my eyes; it'll perfectly mask my scent while I spot my mark. I don't know what Oz's werewolf looks like, but Jay's expression of recognition confirms the creature is indeed him.

Oz stands at an intimidating height of seven feet when reared up on his hind legs. Saliva oozes in ounces from his mouth. His broad, dark fur-clad shoulders are curled forward, and his attention is riveted to a window of the brown brick-and-mortar building that makes up one wall of the alley. His hot breath fogs the grime-coated glass. He looks to be tracking something, like a domestic breed tracking the mailman.

Before the putrid waste makes me too teary-eyed, I shoot a tranquilizer dart. It hits perfectly where I intend: in the meat of Oz's shoulder. He clutches a massive, clawed hand to his bicep as he lets out a pained howl. His snout lifts into the air, nostrils flaring to pick up a scent.