101 - A Perfect Sky; A Storm

7

We left the heavy weapons at home, deciding on a more approachable look for our first impression; each of us armed only with a stake and a small blade. While Moira and Faith hid their weapons, my dagger is proudly displayed on my belt—I like to think of it as a not-so-subtle warning.

When we arrive at the garden square, Faith grabs my arm to slow me down, her grip reminding me who's in charge. But she is more focused on this new Slayer, Kai, taking the lead when we get to the door and hand-signing to Moira and me to hang back. However, when Faith lifts a hand to knock, the door swings open before her knuckles touch it.

Jay doesn't seem surprised to see us, shoulders loose... and his eyes—they appear tired, even as they sharpen on Faith.

I quickly scan him for weapons, but he doesn't even have a belt on his jeans, and there is nothing hidden under the black long sleeve that clings to his torso. His toned muscles shift beneath the fabric as he braces one hand on the door frame, the other on the door, ready to slam it in our faces.

He slides his attention past Faith to me, and his posture seems to relax even more. A smirk that is almost predatory creases his lips. "Couldn't get enough of the late-night show, luv?"

It takes effort not to flinch, not to swallow, even as my heartbeat quickens.

He knew I was here.

In fact, he allowed me to leave.

He taps his tattooed finger once against the door, the look on his face readable, for a change.

Faith casts me a look over her shoulder, brown eyes sparkling suggestively. " 'Show' ?"

I give a tight shake of my head, heat creeping into my cheeks. Not embarrassed—just pissed.

Moira clears her throat beside me, stifling a laugh. I don't dare break Jay's stare to cut her my own lashing look; it's important that I keep an easy, cool demeanor, or else we will get the door slammed in our faces, so I hide my frustration behind an arrogant half-smile and shift my weight, bringing my dagger just a hair closer to my right hand.

"What do you want?" he asks, bored, raking his eyes from the hood covering my fresh braid to my jeans and boots—still tipped with dry slug residue—and then back up. The corner of his lip twitches upward.

My fingers want to curl at my sides, but I force them slack, wishing I had my gloves on so I didn't feel so exposed—but "gloves will give the impression you're expecting to get your hands dirty," Moira had argued just before we arrived. So I stuffed them in my hoodie pocket.

"Your Slayer. Is she okay?"

My question seems to snap Jay out of whatever reverie he was in; he replaces that expression of boredom as he drops his arms to his side, straightening his spine. "We've got her bleeding stopped, but she hasn't woken yet. We have someone already seeing to her. Sorry to waste your time."

He's quick to shut the door; Faith is even quicker to plant her palm against the rough oak before he can move it three inches. He doesn't fight her strength—perhaps he knows she's a Slayer, too, just like he knew I was one.

A sense he likely developed from his sister being one.

That air of superiority.

"We just want to talk," Faith says, a coy smile gracing her sensual lips. She leans into her palm, her demeanor melting into something... sultry.

A Vixen on the Prowl. Something we've both stepped into plenty of times. But she's much better at this game than I am.

With a subtle deliberateness, she pushes her chest out on her next breath, just enough to give him a nice view of her cleavage, which is framed perfectly by her low-cut top and jean jacket. Her supple, olive skin is just begging to be caressed.