101 - A Perfect Sky; A Storm

4

I ran the whole way back to the decrepit building that we've recently been calling home, my body autopiloting each turn as I tried to put the pieces together.

Witch. Watcher. Werewolf. Slayer.

It isn't far-fetched that Oz would end up here from Shancoom, but how?

And has Faith any idea?

Once a bustling hotel over a decade ago, numerous reports of hauntings have kept patrons away, making it undesirable to potential buyers. Now, the place is too neglected to be worth anyone's attention, even the city's.

I haven't seen any actual ghosties, but it makes some weird sounds from time to time.

All entrances and windows are bolted shut, and the only easy way in is through a slim window with a loose board leaning over it, which leads directly into the lobby. The double doors that once welcomed guests have been fortified with thick plywood and some two-by-fours firmly drilled into the frame to keep trespassers out. But no mundane needs further investigation. No one is stupid enough to explore an abandoned building without a couple of stakes and crosses.

Before I give way to the board, I cast a cautious glance around to ensure there are no prying eyes, then slip inside. Faith must be told of this new Slayer, and of Oz—if that is who the werewolf truly is. I'll find out soon enough, but as her Second, I must inform her of every move I make before acting on them.

Upon entering the lobby, which serves as both our training room and sleeping area, a rhythmic thudding alerts me to Faith pounding relentlessly on a punching bag before I even lay eyes on her. The lone amenity pales in comparison to the elaborate training facilities the Organization once possessed, or the one in Shancoom... or even the one in Giles's apartment, albeit it was much smaller than any of the others...

This punching bag is all we got. It hangs at the front of the lobby, while our "beds" are in a sitting area toward the back. The hotel walls, now peeling beige but white in their prime, are adorned with hastily drawn targets that we use for ranged practice. It may not be as impressive as our previous training locations, but it is all we can muster in our current circumstances.

Faith has headphones over her ears, engrossed in her own world of rock, and doesn't hear me slip in. Nor does she hear the clatter of my weapons being tossed on the ground near my mattress. I know better than to go tapping on her shoulder to let her know I've returned and instead throw something at her; I've made the mistake of startling her before, and my face paid the price.

I go for a particular purple, handmade pillow amidst the pile of blankets that serve as a makeshift bed. There's a mattress underneath it that I had hauled down from the floor above, but without the bed frame, I may as well be sleeping on the hard ground. I give it a good fluff before I chuck it at Faith's head. It lightly bounces off, barely disturbing her cascading brown waves.

Faith doesn't startle, but her shoulders visibly fall as she reaches to steady the punching bag, her olive skin glistening with sweat. She keeps her gaze forward, knowing it's me without needing a glance—and even if the pillow doesn't give it away, the warmth tingling just beneath our skin whispers in a language of its own.

She lowers the headphones to her neck as she turns over her shoulder, glowering at me with that holier-than-thou look she's mastered so well.

I flash a smile and lie on my side, running an eye down the snaking wire that leads from her headphones to the CD player tucked in the small of her back. "You play that music loud enough, anyone can just waltz in here, y'know?"

Faith's eyes are like glittering smoky quartz in the lamplight when she rolls them. She gulps down the last of her water, then sighs. Only then does she finally face me, the annoyance washed away in another breath. "What's the what, Lils?"