101 - A Perfect Sky; A Storm

6

I meet her disappointed gaze with squared shoulders, tugging my hood down and lifting my chin high. "I needed to make sure Oz was okay."

Her rich chestnut curls sway as she shakes her head. "We dream of a laser beam shooting from the sky, with them at the base of it, and you thought it was a good idea to check them out solo? On a mission I Claimed? After I'd withheld info from Buffy?! Are you fucking concussed?!" She splays her arms wide—but I know she understands as well as I do the undeniable drum of a slayer's instinct, our stubbornness. And my need to right every mistake I make.

"I know damn well you didn't fall back asleep that fast," I counter. "You had all the time to stop me. And I was barely gone two hours." I haven't thought it a big deal, but worry darkens her already muddy glare. "The Slayer's hurt," I push on. "Here's our chance to make sure she's good." The last word has the same tone Faith had earlier, shrugging out of her jacket and offering it.

Faith snatches it away, huffing a sigh as she puts it on.

I proceed with my report, never once lowering my chin, knowing I've found something from that recon to make up for going rogue. "There's an older couple... a man and a woman that they live with. In a garden house just outside the city. They were tending to her wounds, but I don't know how severe it is. I left while she was still unconscious."

"Did you at least get a name?" Faith asks, her jaw grinding with the effort to rein in her temper.

"The van is registered under—"

"Yeah, I saw who it was registered under," she interrupts. "It's not stolen?"

I let my shoulders fall, not so much with guilt but with annoyance, then unravel my onyx locks, brushing out the crumbs of leaves hiding within them. "The Slayer's name is Kai."

Faith's throat bobs, reining in her anger because she has made the same deduction as I. "Malakai."

I nod. "They have Oz chained up in their basement, but it isn't a hostage sitch. Not with him listing that as his current residence."

Her jaw softens, but her eyes are still daggers on me—a reminder of who gives the orders. There is nothing warm in her voice as she commands, "Wake Mo. Tell her to pack supplies."

I give another tight nod, then jog up one floor to where Moira sleeps in one of the many vacant hotel rooms.

† † †

Moira Cunningham is our resident medic and demonologist—and formerly a witch—whose niche is medicine and human anatomy. She possesses extensive knowledge about the human body—and how to break it, so do not test her.

If the witch had her powers, however, perhaps she'd prove a challenge.

While the ex-witch-turned-medic is no stranger to field missions, when she lost her magick, she was instructed to stay out of the fray unless it was necessary for her to step in. It isn't that Moira can't handle herself—never; nowadays, it is too risky to have her in the middle of battle.

And as my best friend of eleven years, I can't stand the thought of anything happening to her.

At first, she resisted the order to stand by, but as many soon discovered about slayers, no one can prevail against us in either combat or argument.

Sure, our stubbornness can be aggravating, yet when it comes to making hard decisions in the face of evil, slayers have an instinctual advantage. And no one else is ever eager to make those calls.

So, when I looked Moira in her resilient grey eyes one day, after surviving a night that could have ended far worse for the redhead, and told her to back down, told her she is needed for the aftermath, to be the mender of wounds, she finally conceded. Whether she reluctantly hid in the shadows until our business was complete or waited for us at "headquarters"—whatever that looked like—she understood the reason behind my insistence.

However, I can't deny the feeling—a faint undercurrent of resentment—coming from her since that day.

As I enter her room, I find her sitting at her desk, engrossed in reading a medical journal and taking notes, utterly unaware of my presence. Her fiery orange hair is messily piled up in a bun that barely contains her ringlets. She wears a black pair of sweatpants with one leg rolled up to the middle of her calf, exposing a skeletal tail tattooed on her skin—part of a dinosaur that curls up and around her calf among the many inked on her leg—and an anime tee-shirt. Both arms are decorated with favorite media characters, fictional insignias, and other symbols that represent pieces of her; some with color, some shaded, but most of them black and simple.

Moira jots something down and then brings the pen to her mouth to nibble on while she reads. The planetary symbols tattooed across her fingers look like ink smears from where I stand at the threshold. I rap my knuckles on the door frame in a sharp code to rattle her hearing aids.

Once she looks over her shoulder, I ask, "Couldn't sleep?"

Moira rolls her tired grey-blue eyes, now favoring the former color due to exhaustion. "When can I ever?"

I chuckle. It's true; I'm usually up with her, waiting for my adrenaline from the night's patrol to subside so I can get some shuteye. "Grab your bag," I tell her. "You're needed."

The medic's jaw tightens, but she doesn't need to be told twice. She instantly gets up and gathers her supplies, throws on a hoodie, and is soon trailing me down the stairs to the lobby. Before she can ask for an update, Faith disappears out the window.

Moira exchanges a knowing look with me, fully aware of the brunette's temperament. I shrug in response and then help her out the window, handing over the supply bag before exiting the building myself.

It isn't the first time I've had to endure the winter storm that is Faith Lehane. She'll get over it.

I only hope my choices don't come back to bite me later.