101 - A Perfect Sky; A Storm

3

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

I roll my eyes, walking ahead. It puts him in my blind spot, despite it once again going against all training—Sineya spare me. But I remain vigilant, ready should he make a move. I expect him to, waiting for the sound of his steps to change.

"Say it a little louder; I don't think the whole of London heard you," I deadpan over my shoulder, my voice hushed. I adjust my hood and watch him from the corner of my eye.

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

My senses whisper faintly to stay alert, like the calm before a storm.

Expect it to thunder any moment now.

Nestled between my palm and the rifle's grip is my trusted dagger, wavy blade pointed downward, my index resting idly outside the trigger.

As if on cue, goosebumps skitter up my arms. My hair sharpens at the nape of my neck.

Assuming my senses are alerting to Jay, I narrow my eyes on him.

He has maintained his distance the entire time and perks up just as my instincts flare. Whether he sees it in my reaction or hears something himself, he's put on edge, too. I hone in on the feeling. It 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; I can't follow the stream. All I know is that it isn't coming from Jay.

Not all of it, anyway.

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 note the few that remain lit, but overall, the neighborhood is fast asleep.

Slayer-mode: each subsequent step becomes even more precise than the one before as I near the corner of the building. I move quickly, purely on instinct; there is only so much time we have before the creature scents our presence, and we'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 halt. Peering over the top of the bin, I'm met with the rank aroma of waste that was left out under the sun's relentless heat. The foul smell rises into my nostrils, burning my eyes; it'll help mask my scent while I spot my mark. I don't know what Oz's werewolf looks like, outside of a few pictures in the Watcher's Diaries, but Jay's expression of recognition makes me inclined to believe so.

The werewolf stands at an intimidating height of seven feet when reared up on his hind legs. Saliva oozes from his mouth. His dark, broad 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 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 the werewolf's shoulder. He clutches a massive, clawed hand to his bicep as he lets out a pained howl, his snout lifting into the air, nostrils flaring to find a scent.

His head turns toward me, but I've already reloaded. The second shot would've been another bullseye if he hadn't moved, and it instead lands on the side of his left flank.

With a sharp yelp that reverberates off the alley walls and echoes down the block, Oz crumbles on the spot. Neighborhood dogs hear his cry and respond, their howls shrieking through the night.

A shout resounds from inside the building. I hold my breath, stealing a cautious glance at Jay as he presses against the wall of a storefront, waiting to see if anyone will emerge to investigate. I'm already plotting a way to handle the situation if someone does, even considering loading another dart to tranq them, too.

But an encounter is unlikely—mundanes have learned that the streets are too dangerous to be curious or a Good Samaritan. Most wouldn't dare to come out at night, even if a baby were crying in the alley.

And so thankfully, no one emerges from the building to discover the tranquilized werewolf in the alley.

I blow out my breath; loose strands of my red-streaked hair mixed with onyx black flutter away from my face.

When I look over to ask Jay for the shackles, I find him with his phone pressed against his ear. He speaks in a hushed tone, significantly softer than he had when we were tracking—which only mildly irritates me.

The call is short. After he slips his phone away, he rushes to the werewolf's side and places a hand on his furry chest, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath. Jay visibly relaxes, relief cracking through his stoical expression. He gently strokes its black-brown coat, murmuring words too soft for me to discern.

While I still do not have certain evidence that this werewolf is indeed Oz, their fur matches what I've seen recorded about him at the Organization.

Within minutes, a van skids to a stop behind us. A woman springs from the driver's seat, leaving the engine rumbling. Her platinum blond hair is pulled back in a sleek, straight ponytail; any tighter and her flesh might peel from her face. It appears stiff, but it dances lightly above the nape of her neck as she bounds toward the back of the van. She disappears for only a moment before returning with a bigger set of shackles, slinging them over her shoulder.

"Oi, fancy lendin' me a hand?" she snaps, rushing past with barely a glance in my direction. Her features have an uncanny resemblance to Jay's.

Sister, I decide.

I approach the werewolf, and, curiously, Jay steps back to give us room instead of taking a limb.

Before I can see Oz's broad shoulders, the girl hooks her hands in his armpits, the paleness of her skin disappearing in the depths of his dark fur. She gives me a look—a glare, if you will—waiting for me to grab his legs.

Considering the immense size of this beast and her cockiness, I am not surprised when the woman lifts him with as much ease as I would have.

The action only confirms my hunch. "You're a—"

"Don't wreck your brain about it," she interrupts, dismissing me with another icy glare. Jay doesn't comment.

Their attitudes heat my skin, but I focus on carrying Oz to spare myself from saying something that'll bite me in the ass later. Typical slayer. I wonder if she hates Buffy and the Organization, or hates herself. Both are possible; both are common.

She moves toward the back of the van, pulling me along with her, and then leaves me to close the door once we lay him on the van floor.

"Where are you taking him?" I ask after her.

"Home," she responds without looking at me, nimbly hopping into the driver's seat.

I look to Jay for the answer, and he pauses with one foot in the passenger side, his eyes snagging mine. "Where's that?"

The van's age is telling by the engine's grumbling, while the navy-blue paint has succumbed to the corrosive hands of rust, like the one Oz is known to drive. The exhaust puffs in my face as his sister revs the engine, and I stumble backward out of the smoke.

He dips his chin as if to say, Trust us.

Why in the hell would I do that?

But I don't do anything to stop him as he slips into the van, not quite understanding why, beyond Kai's resonating Slayer essence that convinces me to defy my training, and the van peels off.