101 - A Perfect Sky; A Storm

9

Though he is human, over the years of being a vampire slayer's brother, Jay has adapted and honed his sixth sense to know when a vampire lives behind an angelic face. He's honed his primal human senses enough to feel the difference between Kai's presence, versus an average human's, a witch's, a vampire's. Not only evident in the power that radiates off them, but also in the way each one carries themselves.

So, at 11:00 P.M., when the hair on Jay's arms began to tingle, like someone humming across his skin, he knew immediately that the onyx-haired Slayer was stalking up his driveway. Just like he had known last night—when he left the light on for her to be assured of Oz's wellbeing, then played the piano for the kicks of it.

He found it amusing that she'd stayed to listen until the end.

As he feels her nearing, her face flashes in his mind. He pictures her dark, uptilted eyes burning with Slayer arrogance, waiting to greet him when he opens the door.

If he opens the door.

It's sure as hell too late for any pleasant company.

But Jay is going to open that door, because he also knows too well the stubbornness of slayers. They won't stop coming around until they're satisfied that he and his family don't pose a threat.

He limps across the room and listens closer, tilting an ear to the wood. The deck creaks under two sets of footsteps: one preternaturally soft and the other a bit shifty, much less subdued.

Jay cracks the door open before Lily has a chance to knock, the chilly autumn air licking his exposed chest, and peers out from the narrow opening with icy eyes to meet the predicted one of the Slayer's peering out from under a black hoodie.

It's probably half her wardrobe.

The fact that he can't see the red strands that color the front of her hair tells him it is in its usual plait underneath the hood, the length of it ending at the middle of her back—if he gleaned it correctly before. Despite her expression always seeming to be set in stone, her head cocked just so that probably sends mundanes cowering... her high cheekbones and slender planes of her cheeks lend her an elegant sort of beauty. One that Jay doesn't doubt could bring anyone to their knees with the right look—if not for that bloody arrogance. The hood, always pulled forward to cast a shadow over most of her face, is likely an attempt to hide that Slayer-borne trait.

Her gaze dips to the bat tattooed across his chest for barely a second before she meets his stare. "Nice ink," she says in greeting. His eyes narrow into shards of aquamarine.

Beside her, Lily's witch-medic, Moira, has ditched the sweatpants and graphic sweater for an outfit more befitting of a Slayer squad as she stands over Lily's shoulder, her supply bag slung across her chest. She leaves her hood down, her delicate red curls blowing in the gentle breeze and across her face.

He immediately forces away any pain from his features, hoping that he hasn't given away too much already, keeping the door between them. If they think he needs help, they'll insist on staying—that damned stubbornness—and it has been made clear to him that Buffy's slayers aren't welcome here.

"Just checking on you," Lily continues, "I didn't think you'd get very far with that injury." The words are laced with such grating smugness that Jay's teeth clench.

And the way she's looking at him—somehow down her nose, even though he's at least half a foot taller—it takes a breath for Jay to tamp down the temper that flares at the sight of it.

Lily seems to mark that effort, her brown eyes nearly black and gleaming with amusement, before she drops them to his feet. "Guess it wasn't as bad as it looked."